We went to Cannes for lack of something better to do. I considered seeing Angela, the woman who sold me my scooter, but all she does is call and ask for ridiculous favors and to borrow money. I am irresponsible enough without her tasks and am already scrapping for cash, so I didn’t think it was a good idea.
The city itself was far less impressive than I had hoped. It is a city; people are everywhere, buzzing about on their own business, filling up streets and sidewalks. I prefer the small towns of St. Tropez and Ramatuelle, where people wave and there’s room to breathe. (That may change, however, for St. Tropez in August remains a small sized city as far as land area is concerned, but the people file in by the thousands.) It is an odd mix of old, historical art juxtaposed by new, hot trends. We ate dinner, for example, at a tiny little restaurant in an old ally and I couldn’t help but to notice the walls of the buildings surrounding where marble and elegantly carved, perfect playgrounds for the light of the many neon signs to play in.
We mostly just walked around Cannes, trying to spot someone famous. Personally, I think the only time anyone of particular import would be in Cannes would be during the film festival – after that they’re in St. Tropez basking on the warm golden beaches of the Rivera sun. Sure, Cannes has beaches. But St. Tropez’s better.
I saw three amazing things in Cannes today:
We sat on the far end of the harbor, looking over the bay, awed by how dark the afternoon appeared. A storm of immense proportions came rolling in over the sky, blacking out the sun and casting cool shadows on the land below. The ocean, surprisingly still, acted as a mirror, capturing the phenomenal beauty in an alternative universe. We watched the awesome power of the storm, amazed by the amount of rain we could see falling as far as Frejus, and we felt small. This is a big earth with enormous power and we are but children trying to survive.
The second was the blossoming of love. Sarah is an amazing girl with a free spirit and a good heart. She is beautiful in the very sensual way many French women are. It thrills me to see her with a man who is kind and funny and inspired by her. All of these people are amazing – Sarah and her boyfriend and Martine. Then there’s me, the loud, ignorant, outspoken American who thinks she knows volumes more than she does. (We played cards tonight and just by the way they fell, there were several games where it was me versus Paul, Martine and Sarah – a battle of the Atlantics, so to speak. And in all the fights of America vs. Europe, I always won. Hey, what do they say, don’t mess with Texas?)
As the sun set, Sarah’s silhouette dancing across the beach lured us into the water. It was an image of youth – carefree lust or life and an unending well of playfulness. We laid back, floating in the crisp, clear ocean, watching the lightening explode across the sky behind the city, listening to the heads of warning as the thunder rolled in. The storm drew closer, and we slowly dragged our dripping bodies out of the water. The sand stuck to our feet and the salt to our skin, until the skies opened up and blessed with a naturally fresh water of rain.
I am unreliable and irresponsible. I am headstrong and stubborn. These are the flaws I am most guilty of, the flaws most prominent in all youth, the flaws that maturity corrects. It is these flaws I came here to rid myself of, yet I can’t seem to stop them. It may just be that they are beyond my control.
I decided it would be a good idea to get a scooter and a dog, even though most told me otherwise. I know both investments can be easily passed on (by selling the scooter and sucking it up to put my poor Tequila back in a kennel), but still – what was I really thinking? I don’t have a place to sleep in less than 5 nights, I’ve passed up many very good job offers, I think I lost my set of keys. I don’t try to do these things. And somehow I can always deal with the consequences without taking much of a lesson. Why? And when does one finally grow up?
But at least I’m sleeping again… kind of. 5 hours a night is much better than less than 2.
Ok, let’s do this dreaming thing…
No comments:
Post a Comment