This time, by god, I got on the train! Not as far as Grasse, alas (two words which may or may not rhyme), but I had overheard people talking about a transport strike, so I didn’t want to get stuck somewhere too far away. However, the train went to Cannes, which I am led to believe is so frightfully posh they would keep me out, if they only knew I was coming, so this I had to see.
Cannes is also a lot like Nice, believe it or not. Well, once I had found my way from the station to the beachfront, anyway. Not having any maps, or even any idea of what is good to do in Cannes, go me and my forward planning, I wandered around taking photos of palm trees and gigantic yachts, until I found a cute little Medieval suburb on a hill, which I promptly climbed, hoping to find a castle a bit less ruined than yesterday’s one. Alas, there was only a church, in a courtyard that was absolutely covered in litter. Which I picked up and put in a bin, but only after checking so carefully that nobody was watching I’m surprised I wasn’t arrested just for looking furtive.
(I would love to say, I picked up all the litter so I could get the perfect photo, but really I only did it because it needed doing, and I am a sucker for that sort of thing).
I spent the rest of the morning darting about in alleyways trying to take cutesy pictures, which just goes to show; my belief that nothing bad could possible happen in a foreign alleyway when it is sunny out may yet be my downfall.
Despite Cannes’ reputation for poshness, I was impressed by the very cheap prices on the lovely frocks that all the shopkeepers had wheeled out into the street, and if I had been only slightly less broke I would probably have come back with a bunch of ill-fitting purchases made for someone six inches taller and with entirely different skin tones. (And nothing to do with them for a year, assuming there is actually a summer in 2013). But I was spared that. Instead, I got the most intense summer experience of my life on the train back, for the air-conditioning was off and I was very nearly hallucinating by the time I reached my stop.
The Bossman took me out for a fusion French-Thai dinner in the evening, so I had frogs’ legs in coconut sauce, followed by a liqueur served in an egg-cup that, when emptied, shows a picture of a naked bloke at the bottom. The Bossman assures me this is a very common practice, but I am unconvinced.
Frogs’ legs do taste a lot like chicken, if a bit gamier; but I’m embarrassed to confess that eating the meat off the leg bones made me feel so sorry for the poor frogs – in a way I never, ever feel when eating chicken wings, terrible hypocrite that I am – that I probably won’t try them again. I just hope they were farmed.