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!

I’ve been here about a year and a half and I still marvel at how the French are basically oblivious to anyone behind them in a line.   They have no compunction about spending hours searching through their purses for their wallets, slowly counting out the exact price to the centime (even if it means cleaning out their purse at the same time), chatting endlessly with the cashier while a line resembling the apple store on the launch day of the latest iwhatever forms behind them.  I think it’s more pronounced in the South. They have no problem lingering to chat in doorways, sidewalks, intersections.   Where ever they can block the most traffic.   I sure don’t want to be behind these people at an emergency exit!

Today 20 or so people were held up by a woman trying to count out exact change (centime by centime) from her purse with her elbows because her nails were still drying.   That was before waiting a half hour for a woman with a very full cart who waited until after everything was rung up and bagged to begin searching for her carte du fidelite.   Then she waited until after she finally paid to commence a long conversation with the cashier.   I hate her almost as much as I hate Dick Cheney.

Oddly enough, the only time the French seem to be in a hurry is when they’re on the road and looming in your rear view mirror.   Maybe they’re trying to make up for the time lost lingering in doorways and holding up the line at the grocery/drug/hardware/bakery/butcher/shoe/clothing/home decor/etc store.

Granted, in a way, it’s kind of nice…they’re taking the time to interact with one another in real time/real life, not on some social media site.  They know everyone in their neighborhoods by name.  They bring each other baked goods and tomatoes from their gardens.   They have a glass of wine together and watch the world go by.   I think it’s part of what makes this part of the world so special and drew me to it in the first place.  It probably even makes for a more civilized society.

But jeezus h. christ, I’m going to kick some French ass if they don’t get the lead out so I can get home and check my facebook feed.

Where I come from, a traditional Thanksgiving goes something like this:

The day usually begins with my mother freaking out about how long to cook a turkey.   She becomes increasingly bitter throughout the day because my dad is sitting on his ass watching football and nobody is helping her in this gargantuan task.

By the time the guests arrive for dinner, my mother is usually on the verge of tears and/or telling everyone to go fuck themselves.   Dinner is usually delicious and we gorge ourselves nauseous.  Later, my mother weeps over some event from her childhood.

Over dessert some too-drunk member of the family has a mini tantrum, and storms out blithering semi-coherently about how someone has always loved someone “better than me”(and yes, on occassion, the blithering drunk has been me).

Frankly, I was perfectly happy to let the holiday pass quietly here in France, even though I appreciate the irony of having a first Thanksgiving in “the new land.”

But then my American neighbor and (ex?) friend, William, invites me and 20 of his closest friends for Thanksgiving dinner.

I’m a little petrified.   All these people will be in their 20’s,   That’s a chasm that can be wider than any language barrier. Clearly I won’t find a boyfriend here…unless some of them have single fathers.   I’ll probably end up alone in some corner with everyone feeling weird that an old person is there.

On the other hand, it’s a cool opportunity for observation, maybe it’ll be fun, I might make new (albeit young) friends and I could use a good meal.

The first thing I do when I enter is knock over the coat rack, not an auspicious beginning.   William reacts as if I just burned down the apartment.    I assume he’s a little tense from cooking all day and wanting everything to be perfect.

I sit down  next to William’s good friend Cedric, an adorable pilot who lives in Biot (an adorable nearby village) and almost knock over the TV.  At this point William is practically apoplectic at me.  Cedric kindly moves the tv farther away from the chair so I won’t destroy William’s prize possession.

Clearly the safest place is either in the bathroom or out on the terrace where the only thing I can really break is me.   I opt for the terrace because I can smoke out there and I won’t be constantly interrupted by people who have to pee.

I join a couple of fellow smokers on the terrace and we get to talking.   More and more people join us and we’re all laughing and having a good time   Pretty soon I know their life stories (more or less).

There are people from Beijing, Moldova, Spain as well as all over France.  Li, the guy from Beijing is going to cook me a chinese dinner and Cedric the pilot can get a plane for 50 Euros an hour flight time and we’re thinking Corsica!   Floriane invites me to her housewarming party next week.      I’m not the lone hag in the corner, yay!!!!!!!   In fact, I think I’m becoming a Yoda figure for a couple of the girls.

I try to ignore the fact that every time I catch William’s eye, he’s glaring at me.

Dinner is great, despite the lack of turkey (you try to find a whole turkey in the south of France that doesn’t cost a million dollars).

I’m feeling pretty darn good about the whole thing,  This may be the smoothest least dysfunctional thanksgiving I’ve ever had (except in 2005,when I spent it alone).  I get home about 1AM and am greeted by a message from William telling me that he’s really pissed at me.

I call to find out why and he tells me it’s because his friends liked me so much they didn’t pay attention to him.   When I realize he’s not joking, I angrily blither something semi-coherently and he hangs up on me.

You gotta love tradition.

This is either sunrise, or sunset.   I can’t remember which.

 Last I counted there are about 9 million firework displays a week on the Cote d’Azur in the summer.   There are some nights where I can see three going on simultaneously from my balcony.

Do you know how hard it is to take a picture of lightening on an iPhone?   At any rate, I spent three hours snapping away until I got this shot.  My iPhone’s memory is now officially full.

Look closely…it’s actually a double rainbow.   OMG, double rainbow.   What does it mean?

]]> http://realfrance.wordpress.com/2012/09/07/late-summer-light-shows-on-the-cote-dazur/feed/ 2 swamp2 PM clouds fireworks salis beach antibes IMG_7949 rainbow antibes http://realfrance.wordpress.com/2012/07/26/heres-to-you-mrs-robinson/ http://realfrance.wordpress.com/2012/07/26/heres-to-you-mrs-robinson/#comments Thu, 26 Jul 2012 13:35:08 +0000 Lesley Stern http://realfrance.wordpress.com/?p=7468 ]]>

When I meet a cute guy under thirty, my first thought is to check him out…for my nieces.   So when an attractive, very likable 24 year old American who  just moved to Antibes asks me out for a drink I figure he just wants the company and likes my sparkling personality.   So I go.   For my nieces.

He spent the past year or so at University in Paris and now works at a big tech company in Sophia Antipolis (the Silicon Valley of France). He’s smart, funny, open, interesting, interested, ambitious, and seems pretty worldly for a 24 year old American.

He passes the niece test with the only caveat being he might be a little young for the two of dating age (if he likes younger girls, he’ll have to wait for my niece Charlotte who is currently 11).   I begin to think it might be fun to have someone my emotional age to hang out with (as long as nobody mistakes me for his mother).

Then he goes and shatters my whole scenario.   He tells me he’s thinks I’m very attractive.   I preen a little, figuring he means it in an attractive in a well-preserved antique sort of way.   Then he tells me in so many words, that he’s ready willing and able if I am.

I’m floored.  My first words in response are:   Hammena hammena hammena… you’re kidding, right?

He isn’t.   As it begins to sink in, I’m torn between terror and doing the happy dance.

We discuss it a bit, and I can certainly see he has some valid points as to why this is the greatest idea ever, but still…I’m totally unprepared in every sense of the word (meaning I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks). I honestly wasn’t expecting to have sex again in my lifetime.  But now that he mentions it…

I need some time to stew on this (probably not a good idea at my age– wrinkles).

Here are some of the thoughts I’ve had so far:

• Quick, do it NOW before his vision returns!
• Quick, do it NOW before my ass falls.
• What if I break my hip when we’re doing it?
• Is there some kind of way we can do it without him seeing or touching my body, which would probably be disgusting to a 24 year old?Note to self:  look into that whole Mormons doing it through a sheet thing.
• Hey, if he finds me attractive, maybe someone more age appropriate will.   Yeah, right.   Men my age all want 24 year olds.
• He probably just wants to use me for my air conditioning.
• What if he dumps me for an older woman?
• This must be one of those guys on the French Riviera who scams old women out of their life savings I’ve heard about.   A Riviera grifter, as my friend Al calls it.
• I could use the exercise.
• I have a rule that I won’t get involved in a man who is younger than some of my bras.   I check my underwear drawer and I’m pleased to say we’re okay on that front.
• Dude, how good must I look to have a 24 year old attracted to me?   Like Demi Moore good…only better because she’s had plastic surgery and I’m a 100% natural…okay, 98%, my hair color is fake.   More preening.
• If I do it, does that make me a terrible aunt?
• Good Lord, this is a bad Lifetime movie in the making. It would probably star Heather Locklear and Zac Efron.
• Good Lord, this is a bad Comedy Central movie in the making.    It would probably star Betty White and Zach Galifianakis and involve a road trip.
• Does this fall into the category of a sweet May-December affair or statutory rape?
• If I don’t do it will it be just like the second helping of fried chicken I declined at the first grade class picnic, which I still regret to this day?
• This seems like it could only happen in France.   (I know it’s not necessarily true, but bear with me here).   If I were not to take advantage of this unique opportunity wouldn’t I be missing out on some of the rich experience of being here?
• This is kind of the equivalent of someone offering me an Hermes bag. I certainly never thought that owning one was within the realm of possibility.   I’m not sure what I’d do with one if I had it.  But hell, it’s a damn fine bag and I’d be a fool not to take it.  Right?   In fact now that I think about it, my life will be empty and meaningless without that bag.
• What if despite our best intentions one or both of us falls in love with the other? And what if when he publically humiliates me by cheating with several younger women I fall off the deep end and wind up getting excessive plastic surgery and ODing on whippets and Red Bull?
• It’s not like I haven’t been involved with younger men.   In fact,  I’ve been involved with a 24 year old before.   When I was 30.
• I know it’s perfectly acceptable to be a cougar nowadays.   Even hot.  But it’s a fine line between being a cougar and being a dingo stealing someone’s baby.
• I mentally play a bunch of math games, with questions like “Where will we be when he’s my age?” (answer:  he’ll be running a big successful company and traveling the world. I could well be dead).

I can’t help remembering a similar storyline playing out in The Graduate (on the other hand, it could be more like American Pie, and I’m the pie).

I re-watch The Graduate, feeling mildly queasy when I inadvertently muse that the last time I saw it was probably before he was born.

I realize now that Mrs. Robinson and I have virtually nothing in common.   I feel much more like Benjamin in this scenario.   I’d never have the balls to try to seduce a man young enough to be my … nephew.   Nor am I some sexual predator brazenly luring young men into bed for my own personal satisfaction with no thought of the consequences.

But isn’t it something to aspire to?

The day I’ve been dreading has finally arrived.    I received the above invitation a few weeks ago.

Every year at this time, French people try to get to know/reconnect with their neighbors in what is called “Fete de Voisins.”   The idea is to form bonds that will counteract the isolation of city living and build stronger communities.  So this little fete will include everyone in my small apartment building.   I’m pretty sure all the tenants here are French, except one family.   I’m also pretty sure their English is no better than my French.  In most cases worse (gasp!).   Naturally, I’m terrified.

I walk s-l-o-w-l-y down the three flights to the party.   On the way I bump into my only English-as-a-first-language speaking neighbor (Denise) and her four year old son (William).   Denise is very thoughtfully locking her door, and staring at it as if trying to remember something.  Turns out, she’s trying to remember a reason she can’t go to the party.   She’s as nervous as I am.  But she’s lived here for seven years, so she clearly has an advantage.   William, who is fairly fluent in both French and English and fearless because he’s 4 and there promises to be cake, he’s ready to partay.   At least now, I have a suitable escort.

We enter the apartment together, doing the whole introduction and kissing both cheeks thing.   Damn, these people talk fast!   I still don’t know what anyone’s name is because I can’t distinguish the words from the names.

The table overflows with food like some decadent still life.   I wish I brought my camera. There are about 11 guests ages ranging from 4-75.  The host and hostess are a 70-ish couple and live on the ground floor with an amazing garden with a small koi pond.   The husband speaks a petite peux of English (not as much as he thinks).

Representing the 1st floor a 60-ish couple ( think the man was a bit older).   They both only speak french, although the husband’s rapid-fire french is punctuated with seemingly random “OH MY GODs” (in English—maybe he’s trying to make me feel at home).

From the second floor we have Denise and William.   I’m the third floor.

From the top floor brings two female college students who are renting the apartment.   Also in attendance, the attractive 40-ish man who owns the apartment.  There’s also a woman I can’t place, but for some reason I think she has something to do with the top floor.

As much as Denise and I would prefer to sit in a corner and talk to each other in English, we know it would be cowardly and we must mingle.  I watch her dive bravely into the fray.   I’m intimidated by her ability to understand questions and answer them. I feel better when she tells one of the neighbors that her son, William is 40.

In the following three hours, I learn as much as I can about my neighbors and bond with them given my limited French skills.   Here’s what I managed to pick up:

The hostess quit smoking after 52 years and she said something about cocaine and morphine in the same sentence.   I’m assuming she said it was harder to quit cigarettes than cocaine or morphine.   Either that, or she used cocaine and morphine to kick nicotine.   Will have to delve deeper into that when my French improves.   In response, I tell her that she must have started smoking when she was two.   Well, I hope that’s what I told her.   She kind of clutched her hand to her heart, in what I hope was a gesture of gratitude or pleasure.

The man on the second floor feels very strongly (OH MY GOD!) that The painter Nicolas Stahl was very something.   So was Picasso.   He also said something about Collioures, which is a small fishermens village near the Spanish border where a lot of famous painters spent time.   I’ve always wanted to go there, so I nod enthusiastically.

First floor’s son got married in Santa Barbara.   He may also live there.   It’s very beautiful there.

The students on the fourth floor are studying at some school on Jules Grec Blvd .  I know where it is, so I nod enthusiastically.   They’re majoring in either agriculture, horticulture or quantum physics.  They are originally from somewhere in the north of France.  I know where the north of France is so I nod in knowingly.

The recipe for Gateau du thon (tuna cake, think meatloaf made with tuna instead of meat):   Tuna, lemon juice, capers, egg, salt pepper and a touch of mayo with Dijon mustard.   Bake at 350 for 30 minutes.

The proprietor of “Le sex shop” (a few doors up the street) is very charming.

David and his wife, Nikki  (the couple who own the apartment I live in) are lovely, and Nikki is both smart, beautiful and a bunch of other stuff that is said in a very positive manner.   Great.   I will always be compared to her.   I bet her French is perfect, too.   Bitch.

The crowing I hear from the building next door at about 10AM every morning is actually a chicken (I figured it was a lazy rooster)   They used to have three but two of them died.   Not sure if they ate them.

William wants his bubbles (as in to blow bubbles).   Bubbles in French ar “bulles de savon”.   I initially thought they said bulles de savant (bubbles of knowledge).   It took about 15 minutes to clear this up.

The tarte is delicious.   The hostess didn’t make it, she bought it at the bakery on the Rue de Republique

The rest of the evening, I’m pretty sure they were just saying bad things about me.

I used the phrase “lentment s’il vous plait” approximately 14 times.

I guess some would say this is a pretty lame example of my French skills if this is all I got from three hours of continual conversation.

On the other hand, a year ago here’s the sum total of what I would have picked up:

Cocaine.   Morphine.   Cigarettes.  Picasso.  Collioures.   OH MY GOD!   Santa Barbara.  North of France.    Tuna cake.   Salt and pepper.   They like Nikki better than me.   Chicken.   Dead.  The Sex Shoppe.  Knowledge.   The tarte is delicious.

I’m making progress!

“Mur des amoureux” by Raymond Peynet

I’ve been wanting to visit Le Cannet for awhile now, but have put it off because it’s not directly on the train line.  It’s a small artists’ village in the hills above Cannes.   Its selling points as far as I’m concerned are the Peynet painting on the side of a building I’ve seen in pictures, a vieux ville (an old town), the Musee Bonnard and the fact that it isn’t Cannes.

It’s a simple 10 minute bus ride up the hill from the Cannes train station (#1 Le Cannet bus).  I get off at the Town Hall/Musee Bonnard stop.   It’s not the old town, but I suspect this is the closest the bus can get.

The quiet up here is a little disquieting   Nobody is brushing against me.   I don’t have to maneuver walking down the street.  It’s practically deserted.   Maybe the rapture happened on the bus ride up and all the good Christians were up here in Le Cannet.    I’m feeling positively light-headed and I don’t think it’s the altitude.   It’s probably some form of culture shock from having just been in the frenzy of Cannes 10 minutes ago.  Well, either that or I’m hungry.

Fortunately, there’s no shortage of food options.  There are several cafes and restaurants with varying degrees of expensiveness.   But before I eat, I have to scope out the village and make myself so hungry I don’t have to choose which restaurant to dine at, but rather eat at the one whose entrance  I pass out in front of.

How can nobody be here?   Granted, there’s not a preponderance of little shops.   There are some storefronts where artists show and sell their work, but I’m a little afraid of them.   I can’t imagine anything is in my price range and don’t want to insult some up and coming artist.   Or break something.   I feel the same way I used to feel about designer stores on Madison Avenue (which I got over, but it cost me dearly).   But I digress.

The village is lovely.   The Peynet “mur des amoureux” (lovers’ wall) is all I dreamed it would be.   And there’s a funky tiny ancient church restored by Theo Tobiasse with the theme life is a party (an interesting choice for a church).  The musee Bonnard is..pleasant, kind of like Bonnard’s work.   I like it, would probably put one or two on my wall, but nothing screams “genius”.

Now I’ve passed from light headed to shaky and vicious.

Fortunately, I collapse in front of a small restaurant called Arts & Assiettes which is low on the price scale with a simple menu that doesn’t muddle my little brain with options.   It’s not really a menu…it’s a plat du jour which today is a combination of daurade (some kind of fish), ratatouille, smashed blue (actually a vibrant violet that the photograph doesn’t capture) potatoes with persillade (a parsley pesto popular in these parts — the green and purple together are stunning! and a couple of cheese raviolis.   Despite the fact that something on the menu lead me to believe I was getting veal, it’s pretty damn good and the colors are beautiful — a vision in Fauve.  It’s all fresh, organic and grown locally.    I just wish the daurade wasn’t staring up at me while I devour it, but I’m going to have to get over that.   The French clearly don’t mind looking their food in the eye.

In all, I got a little culture and had a delicious typical provencal lunch in a quiet, charming medieval village overlooking the Mediterranean for a mere 12 Euro.  If I were among the masses down the hill in Cannes, I probably would have paid 40 Euro for the same lunch (sans culture).

Suckers!

It’s that time of year again.   Advertising people will soon gather in Cannes for the most prestigious, coveted award show in the whole wide world (if you win, otherwise it’s just a sucky award show judged by hacks).

Just going to Cannes proves you’re somebody in the biz or will soon be.   The croisette will be jammed with attractive people in designer eye-wear craning their necks to catch a glimpse of advertising icons and superstars (whose names escape me) while navigating the vomit=lined sidewalks in impossibly trendy shoes/flip flops.

Now, I’m not a huge Cannes fan the rest of the year, but every time I’ve been to Cannes during the advertising festival, my first reaction (and all reactions subsequent) has been to flee (to be fair, I kind of felt the same way about advertising).   Granted, if I’m in the market for a $700 pair of shoes or sequin shorts, there’s no better place in the South of France.

Say you’re one of the lucky few whose agency sent you to Cannes, but you haven’t figured out how to expense $700 shoes and you don’t have a limo and driver at your service.  Maybe you want to escape the advertising fishbowl for a little while.   Not so long that you’ll miss some career-making party, but long enough to chill a bit and get a taste of the real South of France (Cannes is NOT France, it might as well be Cabo with a French accent.)

I know the thought is scary.   If your career is anything like mine was, you may not have actually seen the light of day in ages, except from your cubicle.    Going out in the real world and dealing with non-advertising people, especially in a foreign language, is terrifying.     Which is why I’m keeping it really simple.   These are places that are less than an hour away and easily accessible by train or boat.   Getting to these places is practically idiot proof.

For the very timid

Cannes  

Suquet district

You can leave Cannes without actually leaving Cannes.   There are two morning Provencal markets every day, a small one with gorgeous produce, flowers and clothes about three blocks east of the train station a block or two north of Rue d’Antibes, at  Place Gambetta.   The Forville market in the Suquet district  is huge, but only carries food and flowers (also gorgeous).   Since you’re probably dining out in lavish restaurants, you’ll probably prefer the smaller market with the clothes.   But I recommend wandering through the Suquet district (west of the Palais), up the hill.   It’s quieter, medieval-er and feels more like a French village.   Go down the hill and head east and you’ll find free beaches and fewer people you know in case you don’t want anyone you work with to see you in a bathing suit.

15 MINUTES FROM CANNES:

The Lerin Islands  

View from St. Marguerite

Less than a mile from Cannes, but it feels like light years away.

• Ile St. Marguerite A pretty little island on which the man in the iron mask was held prisoner.   It’s very rustic and charming, with few cars, a naval museum, unspoiled beaches a couple of snack stands and two restaurants with stunning views where a lentil salad will cost you E23 (for those of you on an expense accounts).   Warning:   there are no little shops on this island, so forget about getting any cute souvenirs here.
• Ile St. Honorat A monastery and refuge.   The boat to this Island, (like everything else on the Island) is run by monks.    Again, the island is totally unspoiled, with no cars, beautiful beaches and woods and best of all, there is a little shop whereyou can buy wines and jams and other things made by monks on the island.

The boats to each island are run separately, but you can buy tickets and board in the same place, in the South Port.   They run hourly, so you won’t be stranded and miss your seminar “Facebook marketing: how to win friends and influence people” .

Boat info:   St. Marguerite,  St. Honorat

Juan les Pins  A resort town on the west side of the Cap d’Antibes.  Unlike many of the towns here, there is no old town.   Juan les Pins is a product of the early 1900′s when the region was rediscovered by luxury travelers.   It’s got nice sandy beaches, trendy shops, restaurants and night clubs.  It’s the home of the famous Antibes-Juan les Pins jazz festival and is where Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald used to get really, really drunk.   Easy 10 minute train ride.

Antibes

View of old town Antibes from ramparts

Nothing to see here, move along.

Biot

A pretty corner of Biot

A beautiful little hilltop village one train stop east of Antibes.   It’s famous for its handblown glassware.  But it’s got several boutiques, restaurants and cafes as well.   The only problem is, you have to take the bus from the train station to get to the actual village, and nobody you know has ever heard of it so they won’t be jealous when you tell them you were there, so never mind.

1/2 HOUR FROM CANNES

Nice

View of old Nice

I love Nice.   It’s totally underrated.   You can head north into the hills to the Matisse and Chagall Museums, Roman ruins, and monastary (really pretty gardens and views), head South to the old town, Castle, Promenade, Provencal Market (awesome antique market on Mondays) and the Mediterranean.   There’s amazing architecture and art all kinds of shops and stores from high end designer to funky little crafts, restaurants, cafes and ice cream flavors that will blow your mind at Fenocchio’s.   It’s got everything, but it’s not overwhelming.

Grasse

Grasse

If you’re into the whole perfume thing, this is a great place to go.   It’s a pretty big village built into the hills, with several perfume factories, a perfume museum and lots of shops and restaurants.   About 20 minute train ride from Cannes, but unless you’re a mountain goat, you’ll probably want to take the bus up to the village from the train station.

45 MINUTES FROM CANNES

Villefranche sur mer

Villefranche sur mer

A lovely little village on the sea.   Lots of little shops and restaurants.     Keith Richards has a villa here.   About a 40 minute train ride from Cannes.

Eze 

View from the exotic plant garden of Eze

A hilltop village atop cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean.   Probably the most spectacular views I’ve ever seen and the village is pretty damn sweet too (but very touristed).   The only problem is, you have to take a 10 minute, pulse pounding bus ride to get to the village from the bus stop, but it just might be worth it.

Monaco  Ugh.   It’s not really even France.   But it does have more billionaires per capita than anyplace in the world.   Sadly, many of those billionaires acquired their wealth in nefarious ways.   Who knows, you may bump into Martin Sorrell.  About a 50 minute train ride from Cannes.

Train schedule information

MISCELLANEOUS TIPS:

Do not drive.   It’s very stressful.   The only way I can deal with driving in France is if I’m very, very drunk, which isn’t a good idea.   It’s illegal here too.

Do not rent a motor scooter, unless you want to experience the French healthcare system first hand.

If you have to go to San Tropez because it sounds so glamorous, do not take a car, even if you have car service.   Traffic sucks this time of year.   Take the boat.   Go on Tuesday or Saturday which are the market days.  Boat info

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

At this very moment the exchange rate is 1.24 for 1 Euro (yesterday at the same time it was 1.25 USD to 1 Euro).    That’s a pretty huge decline.  Look at this way: if I had bought  a E200,000 house with cash when I got here it would have cost me  $294,000.   Today, the same purchase would only cost $248,000.

Some predict the exchange rate could go even lower (like crash).   Which is great for me but not so hot for the EU.

It presents a quandry.   Do I buy a ton of Euros now or hold out because they could go lower?   If it bottoms out, I could be kicking myself for buying a ton of them at $1.24.  On the other hand, the dollar could also crash any day now right along with it, so this could be the optimum time.

What it boils down to is a gamble.    Or a semi educated guess.  I have to decide who I think will be financially stupider and bet on the other.

Will I throw in my lot with the EU or the US?

Up until now, I‘ve been straddling the fence—buying euros when I need them.   I think overall it’s averaged out to a not too terrible exchange rate over the past 12 months (given that the rate was fluctuating between $1.51/E1 and $1.24/E1).

But the current state of things may require definitive action.   A commitment executed swiftly and unequivocally.   Unfortunately, the more I read, the more difficult it becomes.   I have imminent faith in both sets of governments’ability to act stupidly and decimate their economies.  They’ve been doing a fabulous job so far.

Complicating matters, I just read an article that said that when economies break down, sometimes the best currency is cigarettes for bribing officials.   Maybe I should be exchanging my dollars for cigarettes.

I wonder how corrupt officials feel about pastry.