Welcome home, loved ones.

Typically incisive, dark-humored, spot-on post by Hunter at dKos today, on the news of Tony Snow being hired by CNN.

Hey. You. Get onna my cloud.
(Journey of Hope, Seattle-Charlotte)

I’m in Heven ("AY-vawnh")

May 9, 1998, and assorted notes

We meet at the Europcar counter at the Nice airport from our different departure points, within 15 minutes of our planned rendezvous. It’s 4:15, there are PALM TREES, the pre-dusk air is calm and dry, and we’re in a convertible. Fast-forward: parking in Cannes seems to be madness. We stop at a light while looking for the hotel. At the charcuterie to our left, two huitre vendors in red-and-white striped T-shirts turn to stare at us, smiling. What’s to laugh at? They think M may be a celeb: windblown hair, jacket, no tie, sunglasses.

The drivers are unexpectedly, almost pathologically, aggressive, the thrum of motorcycles constant. We’re checked in by a tres aimable woman named Laurence, who gives us a chatty tour of our room, down to each detail. “This is your soap, your telephone….” She has given us an upgrade, thanks to M's generosity, and behind her graciousness, apparently wouldn't mind being upgraded herself.

Barely any jet lag after about a 1-hour nap while M dives into the surf across the street. Back among the living, I shower and he orders wine, which arrives en table, with an ice bucket and a pink rose. We lounge on the balcony, taking in la mer, tout le monde.

Dinner at La Brasserie Carlton: foie gras, brandade (my favorite of the trip—mousse with grilled langostino, topped with gruyere), people-watching. Then a long walk along La Croisette and through the boutique-lined off-streets, to get our bearings and spy up close. New tents being hammered up on the beach, pre-parties, people from all countries.

It becomes an inside joke that M charges ahead toward the elevator while we both also carry ourselves as if we're in "the industry," while volumes of the hip and powerful arrive faster by the hour. On one of his elevator lunges, I feign elbowing him out of the way. This silliness keeps up throughout the trip; amusing to imagine others assuming that we’re a couple, treating each other this way in public.

Our constant refrain, at beautiful sights, small unpleasantries, and anything we don’t understand: “Il n’existe pas. N’existe pas!”

Other recurring choruses from the eyrie balcony:

“…parce que…nous sommes en vacances!”

“This is a complete nightmare.”

“WHAT a hellhole.”

What do these road signs mean? Still haven't investigated...

“Passage Pietons Successifs”

“Rappel” (M: “It’s the donc of driving”)

“Acceuil” (Access?)

And most important: chantier: “Defense de Chantier” (No singing allowed! Not.)

The daily raising and aligning of chaises longues and colored beach umbrellas, keyed to their hotels. The dawn servicers of gravel and sand, and one woman each day who rode left-to-right along La Croisette on an old blue bicycle, wearing vintage dresses. That's who I want to be, in one of my parallel lives.

The middle-of-the-night adding of movie billboards. The first night, a van marked “ART: Arab Radio and Television” stays planted on the corner below.

Town of Garmont is a good one (did we pass through it on the way to St. Tropez? Site of the nice little patisserie where we bought bread, sweets, and water, the fragrance of honeysuckle so strong that we had to stop and have lunch behind their scores of bees, on the beach. No... that came later, and it was mimosa.)

the “tranche” (?)

RONIN greets us from the end of the dock now.

May 10

We stop at a café for a cup of morning coffee and orange and citron presses. A gypsy accordioniste plays, accompanied by his small daughter.

Today to St. Tropez.

St. Tropez theme song, to the tune of "Alouette":

Riviera, gentil Riviera

Riviera, on est en vacances

***

(Et du pain/et du pain

Les piscines/les piscines

Et la plage/et la plage….)

etc.

In St. Tropez, walk along the town beach, have citron presses and jambon sandwiches at a café, sneaking bits of meat to some of the dogs lying at the feet of their owners. Visit a small stationery store to buy journal books…a stroll through the tiny streets. But the drive is the highlight, we agree.

We return to the parking lot to find that the trusty Renault Megave doesn’t move. Won’t turn on. It’s Sunday afternoon, and we have no idea how we’re going to get back to Cannes. While I brainstorm with the parking lot attendant, with no result except good humor, M thinks to read the manual. Aho…a “special starting mechanism” needs to be engaged.

Vroom.

On the way home, determined swimmers of every age and shape are tucked into each nook of the rocky coast. Flocks of motorcycles pass us two at a time on the winding 2-lane road.

SMELLS from a convertible:

Mimosa.

Diesel (to be avoided; "n’existe pas!")

Cooking smoke

----------

Stop at the tiny Cherry Beach Plage to rest in the sun and smell the mimosa, alive with bees, then carry on.

From the balcony:

Quiet pierced only by the gleeful shriek of swallows (dive bombing the roof overhead), the rush of tires, the everpresent roar of motorcycles.

The Dutch woman who just brought our wine is in hotel school—this is an internship, a requirement, in Cannes at the Carlton—she’s anxious, concerned about the increase in traffic (she’s been here since February), worried about what she hears of Wednesday, that when the festival starts traffic doesn’t even move. Asking me how busy it was between here and St. Tropez, wishing she could sit on our balcony or one like ours. I invite her to share the view. She doesn’t know how the bay is policed so that only 5 or so yachts are anchored here…

At some point, I witness from the balcony: a presumed film dignitary dressed (in 80-degree weather) in a long dark wool coat and hat. I first notice him because he walks so slowly among the lightly-dressed beautiful clipping along, like Yves Montand in disguise. Organizers approach him to shake his hand, whisper to each other about him afterward, point and watch until he ambles out of sight.

Les palmes et les pins (the tall pins whose trunks are bare, emerging into umbrellas of branches)

The tyrannosaurus spine of mountain ridge extending into the salty bay

From my log:

In room 625 of the Carlton, Cannes

in the unlocked embrace of the points of land—to the (s) west,

the dinosaur mountains, dissolving into the sea; to the east,

the mass of pines dwindling to an abrupt point*,

like the twisted ends of today’s bread

(*peut-etre Juan-les-Pins)

M’s on the phone with Theeth saying, “The nice thing about French is you get to a certain point, you just say ‘Unnnhhh…’ ‘Je voudrais—unnnhhh…’”

Godzilla-sized arrows are over our heads, the facade an advertisement viewed from the street—which puts us right between Godzilla’s arrow and the “N” in “CARLTON.”

ßHe’s longer than theà

C a r l t o n H o t e l

G O D Z I L L A

Hair washed by sea brine. Feels like the first time I’ve breathed in months... since momentous breakup, across international borders, everything changing at once, so recently.

Danced by tinny transistor radio on the balcony at near full moon (“Santiago,” “In the Summertime”), the ART van in place below, tonight with a new satellite dish, tilted strangely.

It’s just too late out. When I finish my nighttime toilette, M's asleep in his chair, listening to classical music.

The everpresent sound of surf: the surging surf of traffic, the surging surf of the sea. It’s endlessly amusing watching people try to park their cars on La Croisette.

May 11

En route to Monaco:

A search for les toilettes. We wait interminably at one, then give up. Find another; I insert my francs, the revolving door opens but doesn’t lock. One hand on the lock, the other groping for toilet paper, deep water on the floor underneath my "good" shoes, and I notice a sign saying that the door automatically opens at regular intervals. Outta here, please.

Juan-les-Pains, Hotel du Cap (Eden Roc)

ANTIBES. That’s all I have to say.

Cathedral d’Antibes, original Renaissance paintings. The sudden otherworldly sound of a medieval men’s choir.

Musee Picasso—tres beau dehors, mais ferme.

Walk along the old wall; an old man watches us, leaning out his window on his elbows. M waves. Man disappears.

Café des Chineurs (playing “I’ll Be There” and “When a Man Loves a Woman”), near Heidi’s English Books. The langorous parade of drivers trying to turn the hairpin curve of the road in front.

What’s the name of the mountain town with the sparkling bay?

Once in Monaco: surly Italian chefs, but delicious moules ringside as the racetrack is being set up for the following weekend. Baby trains filled with elderhostel visitors get between us and our route of egress. Felliniesque performances ensue; could almost hear the sped-up music track, a bit like Wicked Witch of the West meets Charlie Chaplin.

Dinner in Vence with David and Catherine Skinner and Ida Cole; happy David awaits us at the corner to point us to parking, wearing a beautiful linen shirt in Mediterranean yellow. There's something about this shirt that I'll never forget, at this time and place.

12^th-century shepherd’s house, “l’Annel”

The whole night is beautiful: artists know how to do it, my friends. :) Catherine and Ida had shopped the markets and chosen the menu:

poulet a-go-go

haricots verts with diced tomatoes

deviled eggs w/ strip of Nicoise olive on top, a cup of local olives in the center

cold artichokes with mayonnaise

du pain, bien sur

kir royale, du vin rouge

sauterne pour dessert, avec sliced green apples and pears

in the center: 1 local ash cheese, 1 wild chevre, 1 je ne sais pas lequel

a bowl of strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries with a dash of balsamic vinegar

the home and balcony of ____ Bass, where Gary Glandt was staying

We all agree, hanging over the railing looking at the sloping foothills and tiny streets, that it’s better to be in Cannes in the days before the festival than for the sure madness about to begin.

Catherine’s beautiful travel books, collaged sacs, baguettes, Matisse-style window view.

May 12

Lunch at a café on La Croisette. We notice a man wearing a red suit, accompanied by a nymphet in red spaghetti-strap tight dress. “That guy’s being a total a****,” is M's first take on it. Deep in conversation with his apparent amour, the man snaps his fingers for our shared waiter, without glancing upward. Service arrives, and still he doesn’t look up—just barks out further orders. We apologize to our waiter with sympathetic glances. We've found him kind and attentive, and feel bad about this mistreatment.

After similar scenarios repeated several times with no dishes changing hands, we realize that it’s a scene being shot by Canal-Plus... take after take. When the shooting ends, all rise—the man, the woman, the now-visible camera crew, the dressers—and the impassioned man and woman walk off in separate directions, without so much as a goodbye, she toting her red wardrobe behind her on four wheels, as if moving from one bedroom closet to another. All fold into a cab.

Cannes candy store, where M wants to buy gifts for MJ. (Beautiful and elegant store; homemade candies and cakes; gorgeous displays; and an astoundingly long wait after M makes his choices of chocolates, as they're meticulously prepared, each hand-wrapped, several created from scratch on the spot, je crois.) Two hours later... with no other customers on that morning...

ROHR

63, rue d’Antibes

Cannes 93-39-04-01

M in the savon store is shopping for soaps for MJ. He initially asks for “jabon” (“monkey”?). Shortly thereafter, while looking at a case of gourmet soaps and perfumes, intends to say that he was incorrect about something he'd just said. Meaning “Je suis fou” (“I’m crazy,” by which he meant "Sorry -- I just said something I didn't mean"), he instead says “Je m’en fous” (rough translation: “I’m f***ed,” or "F*** me," or "F*** this").

I scramble to explain to the elegant clerk that "Je suis fou" was the intent. M cuts his eyes at me. It's his exchange, not mine. I should mind my own business, thank you.

Only hours later did I explain that I wasn’t being an editor -- once we’re back at aerie balcony home-base -- but trying to save him face.

---

The quiet of the French I notice on the beach, when talking with one another, when arguing with one another, even spouses, by cellphone--what emphases Americans typically try to achieve with volume, they achieve with modulation. I can relate to this. A sombre, hushed "I'm disappointed...." goes much further than high-pitched, more easily dismissed harangues of typical American couples.

Things are ramping up on La Croisette, hour by hour. During our last swim, hordes of paparazzi are gathered to interview a woman at the end of the dock. They're led to her table in revolving groups of 10. When we wade out, we’re almost beside the object of the frenzy, but nearsightedness makes it impossible to identify anything but hair color and cut. On his way home, M picks up a newspaper in England. Front page: A smiling Emma Thompson, our beach umbrellas in the background.

When I comment on the incoming clouds Tuesday night, M says: “Hallmarks of a hellhole!”

We eat along the Croisette, not far from the hotel, outdoors. After dinner, I write:

“The food—oysters and salade­—tastes like salt water; I’M IN HEVEN. NO ‘A’ .”

Shoeless sand walk along the waterline back home from dinner.

In the hotel’s Petit Bar, almost the only customers after dinner on our last night, M audibly, unapologetically, farts. I make fun of him. He laughs…we laugh. Will we be thrown out on our last night? Beautiful people pass by and peripherally ignore us, as if we’re errant children, which adds to final-night glee.

We choose the same white boat in the distance as our favorite. Why? It’s just yar. Clear even from a great distance.

M calls the night desk to arrange early check-out.

M: “No, even earlier than that—probably about 5 or 6.”

Clerk (laughing, thickly accented): “Oh! Then you’d better go to sleep right away!”

May 13

Beautiful pre-dawn drive, a final soaring through the cold mountain air with top down, my hair squeezed down by a baseball hat. Back at Nice, the sun still hasn’t risen. A nasty mongrel meets us at the rental drop-off. Are we at the right terminal? Barely anyone around to ask; oh, yes, a shuttle should come.

Nary a soul in sight, but palm trees and lark song. We sit sadly. At last a bus emerges like a ghost from around the corner. At the terminal, we try to have my ticket changed so we can fly back together. Alas, none of the desks are open early enough to arrange it.

Au revoir, les vacances! Au revoir, espece de cauchemar! Au revoir, mon frere!