what I did during my winter depression

I know what you’re thinking…how dare I be depressed in the South of France?    But honestly, winter depression is like my annual birthday stiff neck; it’s a tradition I can take with me anywhere.    Then there’s the little fact that I never got around to getting a French prescription for Prozac and have been anti-depressant-free for months, but that’s a whole other post.

The point is, while I did spend a good deal of time lying in the fetal position, weeping and watching “Real Housewives” reruns (thus exacerbating my self-loathing, but at least not to Kardashian levels) I did manage to unfurl myself on occassion, and go some places and try new things.   I just didn’t have the energy to write much about them.   The fog of woe dimmed both my experiences and consequently, my memories of them.

Now that I’m starting to feel better, I’ve gone back over my photos, my research and the scant notes I scribbled at the time to reconstruct the experiences in order to provide the following brief travelogue.

AIGUES-MORTES

Facts:   An ancient fortified village on the coastal salt marches in the Languedoc-Roussillon region of France.  The foundation of Aigues-Mortes was said be built in 102BC, but the first known mention of the place was in the 10th century AD.   Was a safe haven to protestants in the 1600′s.   Today it’s a charming walled village with boutique hotels, shops and many cafes and restaurants.

My notes:   This place would be really romantic if I was with somebody who loved me.   Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.

PONT DU GARD

Facts:  A Roman Aqueduct in the Languedoc Roussillon region.   Built approximately 2000 years ago to transport water to the Roman city of Nimes from a lake about 25 kilometers north.  The UNESCO World Heritage Foundation calls it a feat of engineering and artistic genius.

My notes:  Okay..so this thing is thousands of years older than me and it looks sooooo much better than I do.

UZES

Facts:  Uzes was what they call an admistrative village back when the Pont du Gard was being built.  10 minutes from the Pont du Gard, it’s charming with tiny medieval streets and a beautiful square.   As an added attraction, the Haribo factory and museum is nearby.

My notes:   See that homeless person by the bakery?   That’ll be me in a couple of years.

VIENNA

Vienna is a beautiful city in Austria, filled with amazing art, architecture, history, palaces and pastry.   I went for the Christmas markets.   Nobody does Christmas markets better than people with harsh Germanic accents.

My notes:   This wurst is probably the closest thing to sex I’ll have for the rest of my life.

CAMARGUE

Facts:  The Camargue is basically a huge wetlands in the South of France between Marseille and Montpelier.   It’s preserved, untamed and a little like the wild, wild west.    Due to the location, climate and salt deposits,  It’s home to a lot of rare species like white horses, a certain breed of black bull (Taurau, which is also a dining staple) and flamant rose (pink flamingos).

My notes:    Even the flamingos hate me.

ARLES

Facts:   Technically Arles is a part of Provence, but it’s also considered the capital of the Camargue.   It served as a Roman Center and port for centuries, but is perhaps best known as the city where Van Gogh lived from 1888 – 1889.   In Arles he created over 300 works of art.   This is also where he cut off his ear and sent it to the prostitute he was in love with (as some legends have it).

My notes:  Nobody will ever love me enough to cut off their ear for me.

AVIGNON

Facts:   Built on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Rhone, Avignon is a walled city in the Vaucluse department of Provence.   Its main claim to fame is its history as the home of the papacy during the short time in the 1300′s when they weren’t in Rome (the Palais des Papes).   Avignon is combination of medieval spendor, Provencal charm and all the modern ammenities a spoiled American could want.

My notes:   I’m pretty sure that bridge is a metaphor for my life.

LES BAUX AND ST REMY

Facts:  Two charming villages in Les Alpilles, a small but dramatic Provencal mountain range.  Les Baux is perched atop a rocky spur and signs of habitation from 6,000BC have been unearthed here!   St. Remy lies on the flatlands just north of the Alpilles and was both Van Gogh’s home when he was institutionalized in 1889, as well as the birthplace of Nostradamus.

My notes:   GODDAMNSONOFABITCH I FORGOT TO BRING MY RECHARGER!.   FUCK ME!

VENICE

Facts:  Arguably one of the most romantic cities in the world.   A gulag of 118 islands separated by canals and connected by bridges and boats.   It’s like stepping back into the middle ages with remarkable architecture palaces many with a hint of eastern influence.   Venice was once a major trading port, but now it’s mostly a tourist trap.   A beautiful, picturesque tourist trap.

My notes:   I’ll probably catch some hideous pigeon related disease, die a slow wasting death and nobody will care.

GOURDON

Facts:  A tiny inland feudal village perched above the cliffs overlooking the Cote d’Azur.   Named one of the most beautiful villages in France.

My notes: If I were to drive off the edge of a cliff on my way back and die a fiery death mangled in that ravine, nobody would give a shit.  Except the car rental company.

VALBONNE

Facts:   A village just a few kilometers inland from Antibes.   I guess you could say it’s an ancient suburb of France’s Silicon Valley, Sophia Antiopolis, which despite its antique moniker, is a tech center in France

My notes:   I’m archaic and uselss in the modern world.   I’m going to die alone and forgotten.

TOURETTES SUR LOUP

Facts:   Another ancient hilltop village a few kilometers North of the Cote d’Azur.   Home to lots of small artisan shops and is often preferred to nearby, more heavily touristed St. Paul de Vence.

My notes:   Another place I can scratch off my bucket list.   I guess that means I took a significant step towards death today.

AN OSTEOPATH

Facts:  An osteopath is a medical professional that deals with issues of alignment, musculature and joints.   Sadly, as I learned when I got there, osteopaths do not prescribe.

My notes:   These needles in my back are probably the closest thing I’ll have to sex for the rest of my life.

That’s about it.    Looking back, I’ve gotta say, this has been one of the best winter depressions I’ve ever had!

lonely planet, I have a bone to pick with you

According to Lonely Planet, with the exception of Renoir’s house/museum, Cagnes sur mer is “nothing to write home about.”   This is exactly why I hate travel guides– If  a tourist went by Lonely Planet, they’d go to the Renoir Museum, find that it’s closed for renovations head off to St. Paul de Vence, or Monaco or wherever and miss the perfectly lovely, untouristed old village on the hill.

I’ve got to question whether the writers of this particular volume have spent any time in the South of France and if they did, were they blindfolded.  Any sighted person  passing Cagnes sur mer on the train or driving on the A8 can see there’s a tumble of ancient stone houses on a hill leading up to an ancient castle.   The first time I saw it, I assumed it was St. Paul de Vence, since that’s the main hilltop village I’d heard mentioned ad nauseum in the guidebooks.

It didn’t take much time or research to realize that St. Paul de Vence is actually about 20 minutes further inland and the cool hilltop village I’d been eyeing is called Haut de Cagnes, part of the larger town of Cagnes sur mer.   The castle is one of the many Grimaldi chateaux (now I understand why Princess Grace married into the family).

It’s a quick 15 minute train ride from Antibes.  When I first get off at the Cagnes sur mer train station and walk out onto the rue, I wonder where the hell is it?   There’s supposed to be a bus that takes you up there, but I don’t know where the stop is and I want to get going.   From what I’ve seen, it doesn’t look like a terrible climb…once I find the damn hill.

I follow the signs into Cagnes proper (not Cros de Cagnes which is closer to the mer) and there’ still no sign of it..   Fortunately, the “Bourg medieval” sign points me in the right direction and soon, I see signs of medieval-ness.   I wonder how the hell a bus can get up here (answer:   tiny buses).

It’s pretty much a straight shot up the hill, but it’s steep.   When I get tired, I turn around and look at the view, which gets more spectacular the higher I go.   The “main drag” and side streets also become cuter.

Finally, I see the  church and chateau.   Past that, a really nice square overlooking the hills. There’s a boules court and several restaurants where you can dine on the square.

The Chateau houses a pretty cool little museum (which is incidentally where you’ll find the contents of the Renoir museum while it’s being restored).   On display are a lot of paintings of Haut de Cagnes by famous and semi famous artists over the years (sometimes centuries), still totally recognizable.

My favorite exhibit is a room full of paintings of a woman I’ve never heard of, Suzy Solidor. I’m sure I would have hated the woman in real life (narcissistic bitch who was probably a total slut).  She had been a model, singer and muse here in the early to mid 1900s and donated the collection to the town in 1973.   They’re all done by different artists, including Raoul Dufy and Jean Cocteau and it’s fun to see them all in one place.

There’s also a stairway to the roof of the chateau (more climbing) with amazing 360 views over the Mediteranean and Var Valley.

The village has a couple of nice artisan shops, one tabac shop that also sells postcards beverages and snacks type things, a souvenir store (not your average tourist crap, though) and a couple of shady squares with lovely outlooks to enjoy an ice cream cone and watch the local kids and cats play.

What it doesn’t have:    Chain stores, tour buses or the cachet of St. Paul de Vence (where I counted 9 tour buses in a 2 hour period).     Thank goodness.

The truth is, after I visited Haut de Cagnes, I did write home about it.   Which makes me wonder.   Is Lonely Planet inept?   Or are they just trying to keep the place for themselves?

More pictures of Haut de Cagnes

eating for two

Today I’m eating for me of course, but I’m also eating for Wayne.   Wayne is…was my often partner at the San Francisco company where I do a lot of freelance remotely.   His last day is Friday.  Since I just can’t bring myself to fly 6000 miles to attend his going away lunch,  Wayne and I decide I’ll eat a bunch of French stuff for him over here and chronicle the deliciousness.  So I take a stroll through the Antibes Marche Provencal to find some goodies.

I start by raising a mojito macaron to Wayne’s new job.   It’s surprisingly good–tart but sweet with a subtle whoosh of mint.   Damn, I’ll have another.   Oh, make that four.   It’s for Wayne.

Wayne is experiencing a bit of a sugar rush so I race past all the gorgeous fruit and vegetables (you can get them anywhere) towards the Socca oven that’s up and burning at the other end of the Marche.   Yes, Wayne must have a socca.   It’s distinctly from this part of the world!   Socca is basically a crepe made from chickpea flour, water, olive oil and salt and it’s much better than it has a right to be, especially with a healthy shot of black pepper.   It’s a specialty of Southeast France and the Ligurian Coast of Italy.   It’s like a tidy falafel.    It’s a particularly good choice if Wayne happens to be on a gluten-free diet.

Next up, the Grande Aioli lunch.   Very South of France.   Very traditional.   It’s basically boiled cod and vegetables with an aoili dipping sauce.     It would be very healthy if Wayne didn’t insist on slathering it with the aioli.

Now I figure Wayne could go for something sweet, so I pick up a pack of the nougat that is popular here and in Provence.   I get the multi-flavored assortment to try all the nougaty essences.   It’s sort of a sophisticated version of Turkish taffy.    While there’s a similarity, it’s not as sweet and much more, as the package says, “tendre”.   Also, the flavors are more subtle and natural tasting.   The roasted almonds are a nice touch.   I get another pack for Wayne to enjoy later.

As I make my way out of the marche, all the people selling cheeses, olives and tapenades invite me to sample their wares.   I’m kind of full, but it’s a good opportunity for Wayne to try a lot of delicious Provencal products for free.  He particularly enjoys the the sundried tomato,caper, anchovies, basil, garlic tapenade and the brebis cheese.

As I stagger food-drunk through the old town, I make my customary stop at the window of the bakery and ogle the michettes.  Only today, I go inside and order an assortment.   For Wayne.   They’re yeasty little rolls filled with all kinds of savory things.   Onions, saucisses, chorizo, tuna, spinach, ratatouille, several varieties of cheese, etc, etc.   You could definitely make a well-balanced meal out of them.   The chorizo and chevre ones are particularly good.

I’m not sure if it’s me or Wayne, but one of us is starting to feel a little sick and needs to lie down.    On the way home, I can’t help noticing a beautiful little cake in the window of another bakery.

I start thinking that we really haven’t had any fruit and this cake is full of fresh strawberries.    On the other hand, it’s a little pricey, I’m pretty stuffed, and I think I’ve fulfilled my going away lunch commitment.   But it looks so delicious.

Then it hits me.    I think Wayne’s birthday is coming up.   So I buy it.   Anything for Wayne.

the french love me! french mosquitoes, that is.

French mosquitoes clearly find me delicious which is strange because American mosquitoes just never seemed that interested in me.

When I was in Arles being eaten alive while my beautiful friend Christina remained untouched, I was a little thrilled.   At least the mosquitoes find me more attractive than Christina (nyah, nyah, nyah).

Inevitably,  I began to tire of their excessive attention and stimulated the French economy by buying every anti-moustique product I could find, from herbal to ones jam packed with horrifying chemicals.   I’m still not sure which ones work, since out of desperation, I use them all at once.   Hell, I’d wear a Shell No-Pest Strip too if they still had ‘em.  I know at least one of them does the trick, I’m just not sure which one(s).   Like a depressed person who goes off their meds when the drugs work and they’re no longer depressed, I stop spraying, igniting, turning on and plugging in when the little suckers stop biting.  The next thing you know, I’m up at 3AM swatting the air with one hand, feverishly scratching like a dog with the other while searching my mind for someone to blame.

I don’t know, maybe after all the gorgeous Provencal food they get, they’re craving something a little less…fresh and healthy?   Perhaps they prefer American food?  I’m like a burger, fries and a coke to them.

Apparently, mosquitoes are a problem down here in the South of France.  There’s even some African dengue fever carrying mosquito which has moved up here seeking a better life.   Some people blame it on a law that prohibits using really dangerous pesticides to eradicate them.   They’re afraid of endangering the people and wildlife, apparently.   Silly, silly French people.   I’ll worry about being slowly poisoned by pesticides later, but now do something about this infernal itching!   I can imagine being slowly driven crazy by the constant sound of a mosquito buzzing around my ear.

Fortunately, about.com has provided hundreds of pages of advice from readers around the globe on how to stop the itching.   I’ve tried the most popular and have added my comments.

1)   Any kind of alcohol.   Yes, it works.   At least when applied in copious amounts internally.

2)  Etching an “x” into the bite with your fingernail.   I find this works if you do it repeatedly for hours on end.

3)   Salt and citrus.   They work very well when used in conjunction with #1.

4) Clear nail polish.  In theory this works.   I tried doing it with Opi Bogota Blackberry since I don’t have clear nail polish and the itching seems less.   Unfortunately, I look like I have some horrible contagious skin disease now.

5) Banana peel.   I’ll try this as soon as I can buy a banana.   But first I have to find my nail polish remover so I can get the Bogota Blackberry off my mosquito bites and go out in public again.

the scent of grasse

I’ve always wanted to go to Grasse.  It’s the perfume capital of if not the world, France for sure.    I envisioned a charming village perched on a mountainside surrounded by fields of flowers, the air scented with lavender, orange blossom or jasmine depending on the month.

So here’s the scoop.   No fields of flowers.  The village is sort of charming, in an ancient tiny cobbled street sort of way.  But it’s not charming in a quaint, festooned with flowers way.   The views are lovely, despite the lack of flowers.   There are several famous perfume factories here –  Fragonard, Molinard and Galimard — the oldest dating back to 1752.   There are also museums of perfume and places where you can create your own proprietary blend.  Most of the shops sell things that are scented in some way shape or form.   You can even get candied flower petals, although I’m not sure where they get the flowers.

As I stroll through the old town, I intermittently smell bread baking, garbage, garlic sauteeing and the faint smell of pee in spots.  Not exactly what I expected.

Suddenly something mists forth from holes in what I had assumed were electrical cords strung overhead.  My first thought is that Grasse is an odd choice for a terrorist attack (I assume they’re spraying the town with ricin, smallpox or other frightening fatal agents I can’t spell).   But when I realize I’m not dead, I wonder if it’s just a way to mist the flowers that were once here.   Or just a friendly effort to keep tourists cool and moisturized.   Or maybe the whole infrastructure of Grasse is collapsing and these are mini leaks (kind of like hundreds of tiny steam pipe explosions).

As I mull the possibilities over, a pleasant waft of orange blossom surrounds me.    Ahh, that’s either what ricin smells like or…. oh my god, they’re squirting fragrance into the air!   Suddenly, I feel like I walked into the ground floor of Bloomingdales.

Turns out, Grasse smells exactly like Fragonard’s newest fragrance “la fleur d’oranger”.

the village where donkeys fly

After spending a day in Cannes, it only seems appropriate that I visit a place known as “the village where donkeys fly”.

The name of the village is Gonfaron.  It’s a stop on the local TER rail line.    I’ve seen it on the train ride between Vidauban and Toulon — a pile of houses piled atop a hill with a small pink chapel at the top and a sprawling church on the bottom.  It’s two train stops from Vidauban (15 minutes).   The village spreads out from the hill, fanning out a around the church at the bottom of the hill, melting into vineyards, hills and green, green countryside.

After countless times passing the village and wondering about it, I finally Googled it.   The population of Gonfaron is around 4,000.  It’s been a village for at least, 1100 years.    It’s nestled at the foot of the Maures mountain range (you know, the mountain range where Johnny Depp lives).   Its main “industry” is cork (probably not a great business now with wine in boxes and screw tops and technology replacing bulletin boards).    It has the world’s only reserve for the endangered Herman Tortoise but also houses other tortoises as well.    Its patron saint is St. Quinis, who as far as I can tell didn’t do anything amazing, except he was a really nice guy and took a special interest in children (which these days sounds like grounds for imprisonment rather than Sainthood, but maybe that’s just me.)   The pink Chapel at the top of the hill is named after him.     But what really makes me want to finally get off the train in Gonfaron and pay the village a visit is the town legend.As lore has it, back in 1645 the community was instructed to clean up their yards for the annual Gonfaron festival to honor St. Quinis, .   One lazy, ill-tempered Gonfaronnois refused.   Years later, St. Quinis exacted his revenge.   The Gonfaronnois of “mauvais caractiere” was out riding his donkey and the donkey (l’ane) stumbled.   The donkey “glissant” (slid) down the hill with the errant Gonfaronois tumbling after.   That’s it.   It seems pretty vague.   Did they survive?   That’s a pretty long tumble.

It might be my translation, but it sounds like the donkey didn’t fly as much as it fell.   And you can read the legend several different ways.   Maybe the flying/falling donkey (ass) they’re referring to is  the Gonfaronnois who didn’t clean his yard for the festival?   Maybe the legend is really “the village where asses fall”?   Of course there are two interpretations for that too.  It could mean where human asses (I’m thinking Donald Trump here, but chose your own ass) inevitably plunge to a humiliating and painful destruction. Or maybe it’s more literal…it’s a village where my ass will actually fall…sag, drop, whatever (good, now I can blame it on the village).   Whatever, I like the flying donkey version, because it’s magical and gives me the feeling that anything is possible.

I get off at the train station and the first thing I see is a cave cooperative — a big old shed where they they sell local wines, preserves, products.    I decide not to go in because I’m saving myself for the little shops that will surely be in the village.   I walk through the “suburbs” of Gonfaron, towards the village (a two minute walk).

Downtown Gonfaron consists of an astonishingly beautiful square.   It’s huge for such a little town, with the Church at one end.    The trees make a perfect ceiling over the entire square.   It’s blistering hot today, which makes the leafy canopy that much more appealing (and the square that much more difficult to photograph).

There are really no shops to speak of…a bakery that’s closed.   A butcher that’s closed.   There’s a tiny grocery store that’s closed.   A tiny real estate office that’s closed.   Sure, there are three cafes, but woman doesn’t live on food alone.     I check the train schedule for the next train back to Vidauban.   Three and a half hours.   How on earth will I pass the time?    Dear Lord, I’m trapped in a village with no shops!   Maybe if I climb to the top to the hill and bray like a donkey, I can fly home?

I tour the village, which is lovely.   I climb to St. Quinis to admire the view, which is also really lovely.  Which leaves me another 3 hours and 27 minutes to kill.   I’ll definitely have lunch in the square, but that’s good for 2 hours tops, and only if I drink waaaaay too much coffee.

I decide to visit the tortoises and follow the signs that lead me out of the village and into the aforementioned vineyards and green rolling hills.   Have I mentioned it’s hot?   Or that I don’t have a hat?   J’ai besoin de chapeau.   Without one, I’ll dehydrate and die.   And get a headache!   In order to preserve my health, I turn back to the village, wishing desperately a little shop will have opened in the village where I can buy a hat.   And some macarons.   And maybe a nice pair of shoes.No such luck.   But I do manage to kill a half hour trying to decide between the three cafes.   One looks a little sandwichy.   One has a curry special, which doesn’t seem very french or cafe-like.   So I pick the other one and spend another half hour anguishing over what to order.   I decide on the grilled entrecote (pas trop rouge s’il vous plait) fries and a salad.   It’s pretty damn good.

I linger over a cafe creme and watch the people having lunch here.   I’m the only English speaking person here, so I make up what they’re saying and little stories about their relationships.   A very young French couple have brought their dog, who is clearly a substitute for the baby they’re unable to conceive.  He eats a bowl of kibble by their table while they dine.   She practically burps him when he’s finished (the dog, not her significant other).   A German family is trying to reconnect, but the teenaged daughter is having none of it.    A pack of bike riders all decked out in spandex and helmets, thankfully decide to lunch elsewhere.   I spend a good 15 minutes hating them from across the square.

As I’m paying the bill and noting I have another hour until the train arrives, I hear the clattering of steel shutter doors..   It’s the tiny grocery store opening!!!!   I practically skip across the square.   I spend the next 45 minutes really studying the different kind of cookies that are available in France.  Even in a tiny grocery store like this, you get a good representative sample.    I’ll save my conclusions for another blog.

All in all, I’ve had a lovely afternoon even without the benefit of one shop (tiny grocery stores don’t count and I didn’t even buy the Bon Maman Citron Tartes I wanted).   There were no miraculous donkey flights, nothing amazing happened.

When I get to the train station at the correct time and the little monitor tells me “train retarde 20 minutes” I don’t even get mad.   Not even when it’s retarde another 15 minutes after that.  While you may not consider that a miracle on the order of a donkey taking flight, I’d say it’s pretty darn close.

goody bags from cannes

I’ve been to Cannes once many years ago and frankly, I wasn’t all that impressed.   So even though I’m only about 50 minutes away, I haven’t been compelled to pay a second visit.   But it’s the Cannes film festival and I’d have to be some sort of full fledged agoraphobic (as opposed to the partial agoraphobic I am) to not go check it out.

The train ride is lovely.  After 15 minutes of riding through rolling hills , medieval villages perched on hills and vineyards, the train gets to the ocean, which is a deep teal blue, offset by coves and rocky outcroppings (slate/green and terracotta colors) and medieval villages clustered in coves along the shore.

There are armed police and military officers, all over the Gare de Cannes,  but other than that everything looks pretty normal.

The streets near the station are pleasant and almost Provencal, except for an occasional person with the tell-tale identity tag hanging around their neck rushing  by, cellphone clutched in white knuckled hand.  I figure they’re crew members, bloggers or actually working the festival or they’d be in limos or staying in a lavish hotel on the Croisette.

Once you hit the Rue d’Antibes, you’re in the Cannes zone.  From then on, it’s a bunch of fancy stores and restaurants that cater to “les trou du culs’ as one shop person put it. Up until now, I haven’t seen ONE Sephora in France, even in Paris.   In Cannes, there are two.   I know that says something deep and significant about the people who come to Cannes, but how can I concentrate when…ooooh, look!   Shiny!I watch an American woman drool to her significant other over a 350 Euro pair of flip flops in a window that look just like my $2.00 party flip flops I got at Old Navy except they have a Hugo Boss logo on them. which makes them worth 348.59 Euros more (approximately $495 US  as of today), apparently.   I’m starting to feel a little self conscious about my ON (Old Navy sounds classier as an acronym, don’t you think?) flip flops.

It appears that men over 5’7″ are not allowed in Cannes… (unless they’re locals on their way to their jobs serving men who are all 5’7″ or shorter).   They’re usually accompanied by woman teetering down the streets in their designer clown stilts preceded by their lips, boobs and an unpleasant whiff of eau de trying too hard.   It looks like a convention of Real Housewives here.

I know I’m getting near the Croisette by the shiny black cars lined up, security guards standing at attention, photographers and peasants lined up to look at anything that happens to be behind a barricade (especially if a red carpet is back there somewhere).Here, everyone is either speaking English or Italian, car horns are honking, photographers are everywhere.

I stand with the crowd, curious as to who might emerge from those guarded doors Then it hits me;  I’m in arguably one of the most beautiful strips of land in the world, and I’m looking at someone’s head who’s looking at someone else’s head who’s looking at someone else’s head who’s trying to get a glimpse of someone else’s head.

An hour or so later, I pry myself away from the still waiting crowd and cross the street.  Looking back several in case Johnny, Brangelina or whoever aren’t finally making their entrance.

But when I get to the beach side of the street, I only get glimpses of the water, sand or even the view because of all the tents, posters and crap blocking the view.  It kind of reminds me of Waikiki.  Or Waikiki Disney.   I wonder if Cannes gets this crazy when hosting a Dental Convention?   Do they plaster the Carlton Hotel (which is actually a very cool old building) with pictures of famous dentists?

Do poseur dentists wander the streets of this Americanized version of a quaint Mediterranean town and buy ridiculous stuff they can get anywhere at a higher price here just so they can say they got it in Cannes?

I find a nice stretch of blocked off road and stroll up the Croisette towards the castle, past the Palais des Festivals to get a look at the coast, which is stunning. Some photographers are snapping pictures of somebody launching a yacht for somewhere.   Pigs!   My iphone can’t get a clear picture of whoever it is from this distance.

I retreat to the quieter backstreets and find lunch for under 15 Euro (I’m splurging, it’s Cannes, forgodsakes).    I order aile de raie with lemon, butter and capers because I’ll eat anything with lemon, butter and capers.   It’s not the best aile de raie I’ve ever had, but it’s not bad with the lemon, capers and butter, and not at any point during the meal do I consider the possibility that the chef may be trying to poison me–always a plus.

After lunch, I stumble upon a macaron store.  Not a patisserie with a few macaron flavors, a macaron store.   This is the biggest assortment of macarons I’ve ever seen outside of Paris.     It even has ridiculous fois gras flavors (I’m sorry, that’s just wrong!!!).   And some of them have some kind of shiny almost glittery substance in the meringue portion of the cookie which in my opinion is gilding the lily.   But who cares?    They have the coveted beurre de sale (salted caramel), a flavor that has thus far has eluded me everywhere except Paris.   You know that feeling when you’re falling in love and you’re having this perfect moment that you never want to end?  Eating a properly made beurre de sale macaron is like that.   I also get a chocolate one, which is my “go to” flavor.   These two little gems will be my rewards when I get home.

Ooooh, they also have my favorite tea.   It’s ridiculously expensive, but it’ll really top off the macarons.

On my way back to the train station I find Maison du Chocolate tucked away in a quiet little spot off Rue d’Antibes and discover some of the biggest chocolate covered orange peels I’ve ever seen.  Not grotesque big, mind you.   That would be…well, grotesque.   Instead of twigs these are about 1/6 an orange peel each.

One of the many beauties of chocolate covered orange rinds is you can tell yourself they’re healthy.   Did you know the rind is where most of the nutrients are in an orange?  It’s the ultimate in being environmentally friendly by reducing waste, since what else was anyone on going to do with those orange peels?   They would have just become landfill.    So I pick up a couple of those in the name of sustainability.    Now I really can’t wait to get home.

The return trip is a little tense only because I have to be careful not to crush my delicate treasures.

So here I am, back in Vidauban.   I’m sipping my freshly brewed Mariage Freres Yuzu Temple tea with my Maison du Chocolate orange rind and Jean Luc Pele macarons, I ponder Cannes and the shallow, label loving, acquisitive, pleasure seeking hedonists who seem to gravitate to it.   I really don’t like the place at all.

I bite into the beurre de sale macaron and my eyes roll back in pure bliss.

I wonder if I’ll have time go back to Cannes later this week.

the “oh my god” moment

When I moved to NYC from the west coast at age 19 without a job, money or clue, I had my first omg moment walking down Park Avenue towards the Pan Am building (which became the Met Life building and is now probably the Bank of China building).  It’s the moment you realize “oh my god, I’m here, now what am I gonna do?” and you get this crazy burst of adrenaline and your pulse starts pounding in your ears.

site of my first omg moment

site of my most recent omg moment

I’m walking down the street in Vidauban  and that same feeling hits me.  Back when I was 19, it felt empowering and exciting.   Now I feel like I have to go home and lie down.   I stagger up the hill.

When I get back to the apartment and collapse on the couch, I think:   “oh my god, what the hell am I doing here?   How will I survive?   What the hell was I thinking?   I’m too old for this shit.”

And then another revelation hits me upside the head, “oh my god, I’m old.”

My heart starts pounding, I sweat and suddenly my stomach doesn’t feel so good.   And I’m woozy.   I believe these are the symptoms for a heart attack that my mom sent me just the other day.

Oh my god, I’m having a heart attack.   Alone.   In France.   Where’s my cellphone?   Who do I call?  I don’t want to bother anyone.   Wouldn’t it just be easier to die quietly on the couch?

Ahhh, the irony.   I finally get back to France and promptly die because I didn’t know who to call when having a heart attack.  (note to self:  if not dead by tomorrow, remember to compile a list of emergency phone numbers.)

As I try to drape myself into an attractive death pose, I look out at the sun setting over Vidauban and the Provencal countryside (how symbolic).   My cat purrs on my stomach (or is that my stomach growling…or worse, the throws of death?).   I’m pretty sure my vision is blurred.   Am I fading like that willful but heroic Bette Davis character in Dark Victory, who goes blind right before she dies?   Is darkness setting in?    This is so tragic.   On the bright side, at least I died in Provence.

After about a half hour, it occurs to me that maybe it’s not a heart attack.   Maybe it’s some hideous “dove” related disease I picked up yesterday from venturing too close to the flock’s home.   But I kind of feel better.

Maybe it’s a faux heart attack like the one my dad had on his first trip to France, which turned out to some digestive problem from eating too much fois gras.   I have been eating a lot of cheese.

Or a stroke.   I feel my face and try to move it.    I’m a little disappointed to find iit’s still active (I was hoping for paralysis of the forehead and crows feet area around the eyes).

Maybe it’s just your run of the mill anxiety attack.

I test my theory by slowly sitting up (at least I think I’m sitting up, I could be imagining it in my delirium.)

Everything seems fine.   All body parts work.   My glasses are filthy, which could explain  the blurry vision.

It appears I’m not dying.  Oh my god, what am I going to do now?

the flock next door

I’ve mentioned the birds that swoop and circle the sky around here in some sort of formation, like the Blue Angels only not as loud or fossil fuel-consuming.

When they fly overhead, the sound is a soft fluttery, almost purring sound that practically engulfs you — you can feel it.   It’s soothing.   So soothing, I even forget to worry that they might poop on me.   These birds have  fascinated and frustrated me for weeks now (have you ever tried to get a flock of birds to pose for the camera?).

So, I’m waiting for them to perform their daily show and mention them to Gilli (my landlord) who is gardening nearby.

Turns out they’re some sort of wood doves who belong to a neighbor with a “dove court.”   Every day these doves go out and fly around the neighborhood, catching flies in the air (to me, that doesn’t sound like an optimum fly catching plan, but who am I to argue with a wood dove?).   When it starts to get dark, they all fly back to this house across the ravine that’s about 100 meters away from my terrace (as the dove flies). I don’t know why, but this is the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.

Gilli directs me to the dove’s house and I’m off with my video camera to investigate.

I climb the hill and inspect a few houses that seem dove-free.   But then I hear a low humming sound which I realize is a bunch of birds cooing.   I follow the sound.   Please join me…

Very cool.   Now the only problem is convincing myself that “dove” isn’t just a glorified name for “pigeon”.

french zen

This afternoon I found myself stressing out because I forgot to pick up croissants at the market.   Just as I was considering the many reasons that this was the most devastating state of affairs that could possibly befall me, I snorted derisively and said to myself “eh, what the hell, it’s not like after today, there aren’t going to be any more croissants.”.

Then I went back to stressing about everything else.