I’ll have you know that I’m writing this post right here in Cannes, to maintain the spontaneity, although knowing me I won’t actually put it up for another 3 weeks [make that 6. fuuuuuck. -ed]. In general, even when my posts are behind, they are based on notes and segments I wrote at the moment, in addition to my thorough but boringly Just-The-Facts-Ma’am journal, so they are always pretty timely in their own way. Back off.
So there I was on the train to Nice, the city which Lonely Planet proclaimed the perfect launching point for adventures around Cote d’Azur, the French Riviera, the eastern portion of the southern coast. When you buy your Eurail Pass at the >25 years old rate, you automatically get First Class seating on every train, and, sure, I could sit in Second Class instead if I wanted to, but comfort is important on a 6 hour train ride. Guess who from Paris buys First Class train tickets to Cote d’Azur? Old people. My car smelled like the geriatric ward of the hospital (where do old people get that smell? Is there a special cologne?), and I bolted awake at one point to an old lady screaming for help in French, and I smoothly prevented her luggage from falling on top of her and killing her. Your hero.
In addition to sleeping, I contemplated the sparse content about Cote d’Azur in the Lonely Planet guide. It occurred to me that I wasn’t looking for a “launching point”; I was heading south on a gigantic detour from an otherwise northerly route to meet 2 specific goals: swimming, which I hadn’t done since Washington DC, and using the internet, to attend to my neglected email and blog. The book said Nice didn’t have the best beach, and it named a bunch of cathedrals and museums and such that I had no intention of visiting. Hmm… so maybe not Nice.
So I stepped of my train early, into Cannes, thinking that the beach would be better and due to the Film Festival, the internet resources a bit more modern and plentiful. I was nervous about being in a town for which the book had neither a map nor many recommendations, but I’ve learned by now to go to the Tourist Office first thing and pick up their map. Map in hand, I dragged myself and my shit through the narrow sidewalks jammed with the French and their own particular body language for establishing pedestrian right-of-way on said sidewalks, to arrive at my first choice hotel from the book.
Let’s talk about travel guides. I have Europe Lonely Planet, Mary has Let’s Go Europe. From reading my Let’s Go Mexico book, I believe difference is that Let’s Go is more friendly and provides more suggestions such as “if you like hiking through the jungle to swim naked at pristine waterfalls followed by home-cooked local food back at your villa, then this is the region for you” (WHAT!?!? WHAT THE FUCK I AM DOING IN EUROPE? NEXT PLANE TO MEXICO!). Lonely Planet, by contrast, seems to be a bit more dry but more jammed with facts in the form of phone numbers, addresses, costs, hours of operation, language guides, maps, etc.. Important stuff.
Mary chose Let’s Go over Lonely Planet because the former is only 1 kg. If you’ve backpacked around, you know how important it is to count the kilograms.
There are some issues, too, with Lonely Planet, such as the fact that there hasn’t been enough normalization of the descriptive language. For example, it said nothing about the view of Paris from Montmartre, but it said the view of Cannes from Suquet was “magnificent”. Holy shit! If the Montmartre view doesn’t deserve mention, then the Suquet view must be TITS! And sure, it’s a nice view, no doubt. I think I would have called it “pretty cool!” myself, and saved “magnificent” for Montmartre or the equivalent.
Another issue is that it’s often inaccurate. I wonder how many hotels notice that they are in the list and then jack their prices. The book said my place in Cannes was 30 euro a night and run by an Irish couple, neither of which are true anymore. It was also listed before a much cheaper place that, it turns out, is basically right in the middle of everything and way closer to the beach. I could have switched, but it would have been unnecessary extra work and risk, and I like it here with my bedroom that blends into a bathroom with nothing but a tall archway to make the separation. The toilet sits directly in front of the large balconied window, and my modesty ran out after about the second time I had to draw the grandiose curtains with a dramatic flair just to take a leak. Eventually I was showering with the window open; it’s much more pleasant that way anyway, fresh breeze and whatnot.
Modesty isn’t the most important virtue in this town anyway. You hear a lot about how everyone in France goes to the beach topless, a fact that wasn’t absent from my list o’ reasons for coming down here to swim, but the truth is that female beach goers are only about 40% topless, I’d say, and there is little correlation between toplessness and such characteristics as physical beauty and weight. There is a correlation with age, however, specifically that there is a notch taken out where very few girls of the age range considered prime sexual attractiveness in the US are seen topless. Instead it’s mostly a phenomenon for the very young and the older women, which given how well the French seem to keep is hardly a bad thing. Nevertheless, on my only day of beach frolicking, I parked my towel right next to the hottest gaggle of hot and partially-naked chicks of roughly my age, after having scoured the entire 1.5 km of beach to establish that very fact. They turned out to be Germans. Cool that I’m going to be in Germany next weekend.
The thing that sucks about Cannes is that it’s Hollywood, all glitz and sparkle, where you go into an Italian restaurant because the home-made pasta dishes look cheap at 11 euro, but then they unexpectedly charge you 5 euro for your water. Everything is too expensive, money is flying out of my head faster than when you accidentally drive over a banana in MarioKart. I’ve started playing this game of looking pointedly at other cars, eyebrows raised in appreciation, whenever a Ferrari drives by. The entire port, sidewalks and all, has been closed to the public the whole time I’ve been here for what appears to be a yacht showcase. The message is clear: buy a fucking yacht or walk in the street. It’s a tourist beach town, like LA perhaps, twisty streets dense with overpriced cafes and stylish boutiques competing for all the money you’re certain to drop. Once again clad in my droopy cargo shorts, desperately in need of a haircut (and a shave wouldn’t hurt either), I don’t even pretend to fit in with these crowds, who probably don’t wash their underwear in their hotel sinks. But, hey! It’s my high-tech, quick drying, antimicrobial undies! These things are expensive, and I only need 3 total in my suitcase. Fancy, huh? I’m sure the richies would be impressed, but so far that hasn’t motivated me to lure any of them back to my hotel room to show off my corresponding drying techniques. (You wrap your underwear up in a towel like a burrito, see? Then jump up and down on it. It’s awesome! Wanna try?)
To the north, further from the beach, slathered on top of all of this glam like yellowed mayonnaise, is the wrong side of Cannes. I find the contrast appealing: the side with old ladies wielding small dogs and glittery purses versus the side with the sex shops, grocery stores, and trashy bars which are packed with drunk old men starting at about eleven am. My hotel is wedged just between these 2 layers, and I can walk to either a fancy patisserie or my internet café in less than 2 minutes. My internet café is totally sketch, but I love it. Open til 11 pm, it picks up only at night at which point it becomes the focal point of the square, bustling and brightly lit. Inside it is a constant din of locals wandering in to bullshit and colorfully clad African gentlemen yelling emphatically in their teeny phone booths, voices echoing like a comb filter (sorry). The proprietor is a mild and tired but honest-looking man in his thirties, who apparently has done nothing other than stay open late and be lenient with the patrons to establish his store as the late-night social hub of the ghetto. Internet access was crazy cheap at about 3.5 euro an hour.
Last night, hungry for the English language, I stayed up late listening to hip-hop loudly on the ‘pod, just laying on the bed and drinking wine with the lights out. I woke up to an intense thunderclap at about 4 am, dragged in my laundry, but decided to leave the window open to the fierce Mediterranean storm.
The highlight of Cannes for me was certainly the trip to Isle St Honorat, an island just off the coast inhabited by monks. This morning I woke up and wrote down a list of errands and shit I wanted to get done before leaving Cannes, but fortunately I came to my senses when I arrived on St. Honorat and realized I should just chill and have a good time and fuck the responsibility til later. I hear you cheering, so bear in mind that that’s why you’re reading this post so far after the fact. I did do the most important things, including make reservations to travel to and stay at Amsterdam, my next destination. Even when you have a Eurail pass, you have to reserve certain crowded trains, including both of the ones that I’m taking tomorrow. Just like Mary warned me, that reservation shit gets expensive… 25 euro! Fuck that noise. I bought this pass so I wouldn’t have to pay more and stand in obnoxious lines. Grumble, grumble.
Anyway, back to the island. The monastery isn’t open to the public, nor are the vineyards and olive garden that the monks maintain, but the ruins dotted around the isle are, including an amazing fortified keep type thing that was developed in a typical European fashion: added to bit by bit over the past 800 years. From the outside, it looks like a square keep, but the inside architecture makes inspiring use of the space, and the location is forlornly beautiful due to the ruins and view of the sparkling water on three sides. A strong wind was causing the Mediterranean to rage against the rocky coast and blowing my too-long hair into silly shapes. After a picnic lunch followed by some pretty blissful swimming in the warm, bright blue bay among the yachts, I returned to the dock to await the tour boat. When it arrived, a bunch of guys with luggage got out, and I gradually realized, thanks to subtle clues such as the crosses they all had around their necks, that these were monks returning from some outing, maybe vacation. They were all beautiful and earnest looking men, ranging in age from probably 18 to 35, with a few older ones in the group too. Shit, I want to live on this island, make wine and olive oil, live in stately ancient buildings among the wind-swept scenic beauty. Sign me up! Do I absolutely have to worship god, or is that optional? On the way back I thought I saw a manta ray, the fourth and final major reason for coming to Cote d’Azur, but maybe it was just some trash from one of the billion dollar celebrity boats.
So, I don’t know about Cannes. It’s pleasant and tropical, and I’m glad I got some chill out time, some swimming, some internet catch-up, and some French boobies, but the town lacks soul. I probably wouldn’t come back unless my amazingly edgy indie film were competing in the festival or unless I decide to join that monastery. If I were to return to the French Riviera at all, I’d probably do a bunch of research to find a more suitable destination.
And now, off to Amsterdam, a different country, a different language. I’ve gradually come to realize that this has been my last day in a country where I have any ability to speak the native tongue, and hearing totally unintelligible syllables over the phone when making my reservation today was alarming. Mary assures me that it’s easy enough to get by, but I’ve heard her attempts at French and her stories of grunting and pointing, and so I remain concerned. However, Amsterdam already sounds like a blast, and I’ll read more about it on the train ride tomorrow, formulating a plan of conquest. My hostel has laundry, lockers, a bar, and wi-fi, so it’s already kicking france’s ass in a couple of ways.
Ah, what is an entry, if it doesn't have tits? It's a titless wonder....
Posted by: Ponch | Monday, October 25, 2004 at 12:23 PM
let's hear about amsterdam please. i want to know if you got wicked hashed up and wandered about the narrow, cobbled streets in a stoned daze.
did people dress crazily there? i have heard, from a less than reliable source, that they do. i would like confirmation.
Posted by: theron. | Sunday, October 31, 2004 at 11:34 AM
you are NEVER going to finish! let us hear of further travels!
Posted by: theron. | Monday, February 14, 2005 at 12:20 AM