8. Cannes: The Beach!

Sunday 1 September.  Mass nearby.  Called home.  Went to the pool and the beach.

Monday 2 September.  Beach all day.

Tuesday 3 September.  Laundromat and mass.  The priest looks like Jerry Tarkanian.  Robert, Mara and Jeffrey spend the day at the pool (with lifeguard).  Cathy, Thomas and I take the bus into the town of Cannes, a couple of miles northeast of Cannes la Bocca. Lunch at the Plage Royale.  Roast chicken for dinner.

Wednesday 4 September.  Jogging.  Beach from 11 to 7.  Miranda's for dinner at 9:15.  Mara has picked up a friend, named Charlotte.  (Mara follows girls her age on the beach to hear if they speak English!)  Charlotte's father, Brian, tells me they had their car broken into while parked on the main road at night.  All their luggage was inside and stolen.  Brian says rugby is the English sport for upper middles, definitely not football (soccer).

Thursday 5 September.  Beach from noon on.  The water is a little warmer than Georgia, not as warm as PCB.  There is not much tide.  Thomas makes lots of friends by saying, "Bonjour, merci!"  Italian restaurant for dinner (all of us).

Friday 6 September.  Beach from noon on.  Walked around our area and discovered supermarket.  Chinois for dinner.

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Monday, 2 September. Cannes. 

I'm sitting on the balcony outside our apartment on the French Riviera.  It is day three of our beach vacation.  We left Pau in darkness (the sun does not come up until seven o'clock) and arrived here eight hours later.  There was a lot of traffic heading north, away from the beach, bumper to bumper traffic near the beaches for several miles. August vacations are over. 

Saturday was sunny and breezy.  The humidity of Bordeaux and Pau is gone completely, the wind is dry.  Yesterday it sprinkled in the morning, lightened up in the afternoon, then grew quite cloudy and windy in the early evening.  Today the sky is bleu, and, as I look out on the bay, I see it is much calmer than it was yesterday when I saw many white caps.

Our flat is very European, or at least not the kind of beach apartment I have ever come across in California.  The entire width is 10 to 12 feet, within which, proceeding back to front, are: the balcony, the living/kitchen/dining area with two couches (beds); a hall off of which are separate doors for a shower/bath and sink and a toilet (closets, essentially); then an open area for the bunk bed, placed sideways along the hall.  Our master bedroom is across from the bunk, in a room just large enough for the double bed and a little room to walk around.  I have placed my suitcases on the side of the bed and it is easier for me to just get into bed from its foot, near the door, than walk around to the side.  The floors are tile and, as we spend much time at the beach, sandy.  I wipe my feet on the spread at night to keep the sand out of the sheets.

From our balcony we look across the pool area to the train tracks, the beach frontage boulevard and, finally, the beach.  It is a ten minute walk to our spot on the beach.  The trains are loud, but do not bother me.  There is a construction site to the rear of our building, perhaps a twin to our eight story building (the color of which is an orangey beige -- Mediterranean beige, I suppose).  Over the weekend the site was quiet, deserted; this morning the noise from construction activities woke us up sometime in the 700 hour.

Noon at the beach:  The children are playing in the sand beyond my view.  Mara returns.  People are packing up to leave.  Lunch time?  It's a lovely day.  Two weeks into this trip I am finally learning to relax and not let the language bother me.  It's out of my control.  Front desk personnel usually speak passable English.  The International Herald Tribune keeps me up to date on events here and elsewhere.  Most importantly, I suppose, I have surrendered to the idea that I cannot know what everyone is saying and have learned to live with just a little comprehension.

The water is that pretty Mediterranean blue I remember: light and dark, depending on the depth.  It is also clear.  Robert told me that it was clearer than PCB, Florida.  Impressions: skimpy men suits, tan bodies, naked bodies, blue water.  To our right (west) mountains to the water.  At the eastern edge of the bay, our left, is a big ship anchored in the bay.  Is it a cruise ship or a millionaire's yacht?  Old people, young people, middle aged people, handsome fathers and mothers and handsome children.  Fathers who play in the sand with their children.  I don't think at home there are this many tan old people at the beach.  This is not like Del Mar, with its constant parade of people at the water's edge.  The parade is on the sidewalk behind us, above the beach.  Short and tight skirts.  Sailboats out in the harbor, hundreds of masts in front of city center.  Red tile roofs against beige houses and buildings.  Off to the right, in the hills is where I imagine the characters in Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night, which I am reading, lived.

The way people are leaving, lunch time here is serious!  Reminds me of being at the pharmacie at Bordeaux at 1:30.  They were closing, no time for a looker.  Ferme!

In the morning I do not feel an urge to get up as I do at home.  I feel sleepy.  Is it the relaxing sea air or am I still recovering from the four sweaty nights at the Mercure Hotel rooms in Bordeaux and Pau?  Perhaps it is simply the sunshine all day that surreptitiously saps the strength.

 The direction of the cruise ship must be an indication of the tide.  The ship's stern was pointed out to sea this morning when we arrived at 10:45; now at 12:30 or so, the stern has swung towards the shore, an indication that the tide is now beginning to come back in.

 Tuesday, 3 September

 At the laundromat.  Wondering, as I wait for my big load to finish washing, will I make the 9 a.m. mass next door, even as the bell now tolls.

 Another sunny day, lovely.

 Have never seen as many female breasts as I saw yesterday.  There is a tremendous difference in cultural attitudes between the French and American approaches to breasts!

 Watching the people go by the window: so many diesel cars and so many people smoking!  It's like I'm back in the 60's.  People walking by with baguettes.  I noticed in church the other day so many blond women.  Perhaps the same is true in the U.S., definitely not, however, in England.

 The thing about travelling: so many things are the same: the sky, the air, the ocean, the look of European people, the landscapes and shrubbery (even oleander here).  You get fooled into thinking you are back home, but no!

 Wednesday, 4 September, 8:15.  Cannes.

 On the balcony.  Another beautiful day begins.  I realized yesterday that we have only three days left here, since we must leave early Saturday. I went into town yesterday with Cathy and had lunch on the private beach in the center of town off La Croisette (Plage Royale).  Took the bus with Cathy, but walked home with Thomas, stopping at Hermes, where I spent a fortune (hopefully I am cured of shopping by the episode) on the most expensive beach towel in the world.  Now, however, I am determined not to miss any beach time, for there will be plenty of shopping back in England (home), but no beach quite like this!

 The water is calm this morning, as it has been every day but Sunday.  There is a small boat out in front of our view, dead center and left of the swimming dock, anchored 100 feet or so off of the shore.  In the morning and in the evening many of the balconies around us echo with the sounds of cooking.  In light of the modest kitchen facilities, Cathy is amazed that the people next to us seem to be able to spend several hours at the table in the evening.   

  The large load at the laundromat yesterday was 55 FF and the small one 24, roughly $10 and $4 per load!  As I sat waiting for the laundry, I prayed the rosary.  It was still a little early in the morning and I was not quite awake; that, and the combination of the posters in the women's underwear shop in front of me made praying difficult.  Oh, the weakness of the flesh!

 I recognized some of the same people at the beach yesterday.  I was reminded of Del Mar and the weekly change of faces on the beach as the rental periods end. 

 12:15 at the beach.  Sunny, but windy.

 Air raid sirens go off at noon, short blows followed by long sounds 15 minutes later.  No one seems too worried and the fact that the siren went off at noon seems to indicate that it's the usual practice test.

 Later, that same day . . . on the Hermes towel.  Noticed a fellow with shaved sides of his head and a red plume, with a black braided pony tail.  Lots of tattoos.  Made the remark to Cathy that he must be English; the French don't seem to go in for tattoos and brightly colored (red, green, pink) hair.  Cathy attributes it to repression and lack of changes in the UK, whereas things are very up to date in France.

 We had a conversation the other night about France and the U.S.  So many fun things are French: cooking, fashion, wine, etc.  We compared the U.S. in the early 20th century.  In the novel Main Street as small town people try to better themselves morally and improve themselves, they become snobs.  At the same time in France was Impressionism!

Robert Making Breakfast

Our Beach "Spot"

The Flat, Looking in and Out from the Balcony

The Beach

More Beach

 The beach is very crowded now.  In the morning old people, the crowds grow till noon, then people go home for lunch (I suppose).  The beach slowly fills back up again in the afternoon until five or six, when people start to leave again.