CANNES -- Yesterday, as soon as I unpacked, I went to town to check it out.
Checked out the Long Beach beach--my downtown, daytime headquarters.
Fabienne, Bruno, Jean-Pierre still there. Alex is the new kid-waiter on the
block. How do you know he's new? He takes the time to smile and chat with
every customer. Poor kid, he doesn't know what's going hit him come the day
of the locusts. He'll learn.
Everyone else has. On the Rue des Allieis, Christian is working hard on the
500 scooters and bikes he'll rent for the duration of the Festival. At the
"La Cave" restaurant, Marc is gearing up for the Siege. "La Cave" is the
best-kept secret in town. It serves typically Provencal cuisine (the kind
only Mom and Granny can whip up when they're in a great inventive mood),
it's the only restaurant in town the locals continue to go to during the
Festival, and believe you me, that's quite a sign.
Over the years, they've all become real good friends. With Marc and
Beatrice, Christian and his g.f. of the moment, we have got the ritual down
pat. We have dinner together a couple of days before the festival starts,
then vanish from each other's sight till the day after the Festival ends,
whenupon we can resume our friendship over dinner and drinks.
So off to Mougins--outside of Cannes--for our traditional pre-Festival
*repas*. There's plenty of room at the prestigious Moulin de Mougins (a
beyond-four-star restaurant favored by CEOs, COO, VPs, VIPs and other
acronyms during the Festival), we opt however for a smaller venue (always
trust the locals). Past 9 p.m. the tiny village is asleep, and, like
Monte-Carlo off-season, it looks like a set for a musical about to start.
The sun rises over the sea. Where did the night go?
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