CANNES -- Every year I am struck by how quickly the Festival vanishes from
the face of Cannes. By noon, the day after, every single film poster on the
Croisette has been replaced by an announcement for some horse-riding
competition or an advertisment for some perfume or other. The streets are
virtually empty, and silent: the film crowd is gone, the locals haven't yet
repossessed their territory. The tea-room-for-blue-rinses furniture is back
in the Carlton Hotel lobby, the Majestic bar almost deserted, save for a few
zombies who stayed up all night to meet their deadlines. As one person
was overheard saying to another a few years back: "Let's leave, there's only
people left here."
The aftermath is actually the best time in Cannes. Time to relax, time to
renew one's friendships with the natives. We closed the "La Cave" restaurant
and with Marc and Christian, continued to party, break bread, pour salt and
do whatever one does to bottles of chilled Sancerre and Poire Williams. I
went straight from the restaurant to the airport -- can't even remember
Yep, it was that good.
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