Sizzling Beach 1: Yes, We Cannes!

I'm surrounded by postcard scenes of women without tops (young *and* old), men with movie star good looks in crisp white shirts strolling along La Croisette, ritzy shops and hotels that intimidate by name alone... What the postcards don't tell you about is the heat in summer. It is dry and the sun feels like pinpricks on your skin, but your covered parts feel like they're burning; but in the shade, especially when there is even just this tiny breeze from the Alps or the Mediterranean Sea, the trail of sweat on your back turns into tiny icicles so that whatever you're wearing -- it's wrong.

We slept at a camping lodge, trying to zone out the nattering of two German girls (one of whom looked like Michelle Williams) who attracted the attention of two Dutch boys and en ensemble their flirting made the night almost impossible to sleep through. H and I struggled to get up at 9am, made coffee and had store-bought croissants (sacrilege!), Speculoos (redemption!) and Petit Lu Thé. Breakfast picnic dream in the Riviera, check!

At around ten thirty we arrived at the port and left the car in the underground parking which felt like Doha all over again (I'm guessing it was 42°C in there, while outside it was a relatively more forgiving 34°). A stage was being set up at the exit of the parking lot fronting the beach for a nighttime electronic dance party in the sand, but just around the corner of the building was the reason why Cannes is so important to movie buffs like me:

The red carpet of the Palais des Festivals in Cannes is one of the most photographed spots in all of France. Filmmakers and actors (and the occasional celebrity with dubious credentials) pose for the paparazzi on these steps each spring for the Cannes Film Festival. I was in college when a youngish Quentin Tarantino became an overnight sensation here with his Palme d'Or win, becoming a default hero to my generation of Comm-Arts students.

The city itself is not the most charming that France has to offer. The chunky buildings that look like 70s or 80s expansion projects look so outdated now. In a place where appearances count, their most famous landmark (the Palais des Festivals) ain't so pretty either.

Even with the yachts, the trendy restaurants (La Palme D'Or, Palm Square) and beachfront hotels (the Carlton, Hotel Martinez), this town would have been any other town on the Riviera if not for the film festival.

There seems to be no soul to discover here, just Prada bags. No culture, just cocaine. In fact it is the profanity of excess that makes this the city version of a pretty starlet getting too much plastic surgery. It just feels a little artificial. The glamor feels forced.

And it seems like such a sad affair if the only thing a place has to offer by way of culture are its designer boutiques, casinos and beaches.

Or maybe it's exactly because the word "Cannes" is so synonymous with celluloid dreams that everything comes across as unreal, like styrofoam props and painted landscapes.

A little after twelve, H and I got back in the car for the former Greek port, Antibes.

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                       Sizzling Beach 2: Antibes and St. Paul de Vence