A Summer in France - Part 3 of 6

Cannes is the other large city on the Cote d'azur or French Riviera and famous for the annual Cannes film festival "Festival De Cannes". We arrived during the final week of this star studded event and found the main promenade filled with movie posters and the movie’s beautiful people being vowed by a bevy of the world's Glitter Press and paparazzi.
Most of the big stars had gone but on my way to check a gallery out, I realized the man walking in front of me who had cursingly just stepped into some dog poop, was none other than Zorro or as others know him, George Hamilton.
He gave us a disgusting look while his all too young female companion giggled awkwardly, I guess even Hollywood stars are human after all.

Cannes's main Beach area “Promenade de la Croisette”, is the place to see and be seen. Shorter than Nice's promenade it is well manicured with flowered areas, a working antique Merry-go-Round and stately palm trees. Running east to west and overlooking the harbor area, it ends at the red carpeted “Palais des Festivals et des Congrès” where the awards are handed out. Paralleled by a divided boulevard where Sir Galahad's quest it seems, is re enacted hourly by those with their Lamborghinis, Maseratis and Rolls-Royces whistling at all manners of shapely legs walking by
I wanted to capture the ambiance of this sunny and elegant place but rain clouds threatened and once things cleared I was greeted by a whole different scene which ended up making a great melancholy picture anyway.

It was my oldest daughter's birthday so we decided to go and spend a relaxing evening meal at one of the many outdoor cafes by Cannes's harbor. Huskers and Mimes meandered from table to table to earn a few coins; when my youngest daughter noticed the white faced Mime in a top hat nearing our table she panicked and probably scared them more for they never came back.
As the sunset slowly faded and night set in, all the street lights suddenly went out. This odd situation was compounded by what I took as distant music emanating from the promenade area which peaked our curiosity. Walking over to that area we notice more and more people gathering around us when suddenly the sky erupted with fireworks and the classical, now much louder sound of The Blue Danube Waltz, coming from large speakers everywhere.
Unknown to us we were experiencing one of the cigarette maker Du Maurier awesome "Sound and Fire" events staged over the water along the entire beach area. Of course we told our daughter that we had arranged it all just for her birthday LOL.

Like Monaco, Cannes is a playground for the rich but with a far more casual attitude; the beach has trucked in sand rather than pebbles like Nice and is popular for sunbathers as long as one respects the La Minimum rule of a G string which is pretty universal along the coast. Looking towards the horizon one can see a number of mega yachts, dotting the skyline which I painted along with the pier of the luxury hotel Martinez using my wife as a model, always good to earn brownie points. Before leaving for our Villa, I noticed an American Aircraft Carrier anchoring out which made the yachts look rather puny, I guess there is always a larger fish somewhere.

To keep our budget intact we alternated from cooking at our villa, eating fast food and once or twice a week pigging out at a good Bistro. We looked for a MacDonald’s but found that they weren't welcome here which I found odd for we did see a number of burger places who copied the look exactly minus the arches.
All this was before electronic banking and I used mostly travelers cheques which were sometimes difficult to cash so I befriended the manager at our closest burger joint in Cagnes-sur-Mer, who ended up becoming or sort of bank; before going on our daily excursions I would stop to cash enough cheques for our daily spending money. On a couple of occasions our Gallery host took us to one of her favorite places for a real treat.

We decided to go and check out the villages to the west of Vence and started out on the road to Grasse. Grasse has a long history making the various smells for perfume, soaps and the like. Fragonard Perfumery is one of the oldest factories offering free tours, samples and a museum collection of rare perfumes. As with all the hillside villages its streets are mostly narrow, winding through structures built centuries ago. After many dead ends and twisting turns, we finally found the facility and decided to take a tour. The first thing one notices is the constant aroma of exotic flowers particularly lavender. The main person in this whole business is the NOSE, that title is bestowed upon him or her who can tell all the fragrances apart. To the traditional minded French it is a honored title and no laughing matter.

Continuing our search for visual delights brought us to a town called Tourrettes-sur-Loup another quaint little mountain town best discovered by foot due to the impossible small roads. While exploring these streets I came upon this little gem of stone steps and a stone wall full of bougainvillea.
Before moving on to the next visual delights, we decided to have lunch at a little corner cafe. Now for those who have never heard of Tartar before, it is a French must eat delicacy consisting of almost raw ground horse meat often served with a raw egg topping and therein lies the next part of the story.
I grew up in the time of Father knows Best and Mad Men, however my wife is probably the smarter of that bunch for I vaguely recall her warning, "I wouldn't eat that stuff"

We had just left Grasse's amazing downtown flower market with the lingering aroma of or perfumery trip still teasing my olfactory senses when the pain started. At first, just a mild discomfort but by the time we where well underway on another one of those hairy mountain roads, I began to understand the words "Montezuma's Revenge" The road was about 20 ft wide (much like my driveway) with a shear drop of a 1000 ft to my left which I vaguely remember.
My strangely quiet wife and ashen faced daughters offered the only clue that this had become no ordinary ride in the woods. Between closed eyes and the kids' audible gasps when glancing quickly over the cliff, I slowly come to understand fear but now mostly from the thought of not finding a washroom soon.

We blew into St. Maxime, down the cliff, at about 100 miles an hour where the nearest gas station luckily had a washroom. St Maxime is the first stop of a large bay that ultimately ends at the jet set town of St Tropez, a once sleepy fishing village brought to fame during the 50's with movie stars like French sex symbol Bridgett Bardot who apparently still lived there with a menagerie of cats I was told.

It sports an ample size curved harbor where all manner of artists ply their wares and vie to capture quick charcoal portraits of tourists. It also has a long breakwater pier with a lighthouse at its end but my focus was on the two doors underneath at the foot of the pier sporting familiar male and female silhouettes. French washrooms are a story in themselves, a tale I got to know well over the next three days.
To be continued

Michael Swanson is a Canadian Artist who enjoys traveling to capture some of the world's great places. You can subscribe to these blogs at upper left of screen.