Invariably, those of us who attend the fest count the days back home until we depart, then about three quarters of the way through we start counting the days until can get the hell out of here. It isn’t the fault of the lovely festival, which is like a breath of fresh air every year. It is more about missing home. Maybe that’s only true for me. Maybe many people love being here, away from everything. But I have a girl who is about to turn 15 — I don’t want to miss any of it, even the sometimes sullen teen phase. Time away from her is great for a while and then I start to get antsy and homesick and I hate myself for being gone so long.
It is, as all things with life, important to be in the moment, to live it, never to take it for granted. It was with that philosophy that I decided to walk up to Le Suquet region of Cannes. It is the medieval area which has been turned into an enclave of very expensive homes, apartments and restaurants. I’d driven through it, looked at it from the outside but in four years I’d never gone into it. After the morning screening, I took a stroll on the backstreets to find a sandwich shop. My plan was to snap a few photos on the way, since it was a blindingly beautiful sunny day. I would take a small picnic up there and find a bench or something to wolf down a sandwich in front of God and everybody. I went to a little bread place I always frequent when I’m here. We return to the familiar. I bought a baguette filled with vegetables and cheese, a bottle of water and headed upwards towards the tower.
Along the way Cannes was blooming in the sunshine. After a week of rain, this is the city that I remember. Restaurants put their chairs out on the sidewalks, musicians break out their instruments and jam on the street — for some reason every time I head down Rue D’Antibes someone is singing “Don’t worry, be happy.” Street performers do their thing with a hat, collecting euros. They are preferable to the people who get a dog and a cat and make them sleep there all day so people will drop money into their hat. I once put 5 euros in there because I felt so badly for the little animals. Would the money go to food? How come they’re always sleeping?
Residents came out to play Pétanque, a game as old as the city. The sun warmed enough that women put on their bikinis and headed to the sand. No one stayed in. Everyone was outside. That’s one thing rain can really do: compel you to take advantage of the day as soon as it clears. I headed up the path that pointed to the Musee de la Castre (http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Musée_de_la_Castre). It looked like it went all the way up to the tower so I just kept climbing. At the top there was indeed a small park. All around us were ocean views and at the top of the mountain was the castle, or the tower. This would have been used in war time, I am assuming, to lookout for enemy ships.
I climbed down the stone steps to the park where some teens were busily smoking god knows what and a mother was letting her toddler play with his soccer ball. I took out my sandwich and slowly ate it while trying, still, to be in the moment, to not check Twitter or Facebook, to disengage and be in the here and now. I watched the toddler put his ball in difficult places and wait for his mother to notice and react. He would then retrieve it and kick it back and forth against the wall. When he was bored he would prop it up in another unlikely place, sometimes decorating it with leaves and rocks.
After lunch, I headed up to the museum. As I stood there, gazing out to the sea on the other side of the Palais du Festival, a pristine necklace of coastline, I heard that inevitable noise of an American talking behind me. Two, actually, and the subject was instagram. It a total buzzkill to ever hear any American in Cannes. I must annoy people continually. You don’t really like to think any other Americans are here. The museum was closed, or at least the tower was. I was instructed to come back the next day (but I never did).Le Suquet vu de la Croisette. Félix Pille, 1906. Musée de la Castre, Cannes.
There are people who come to Cannes to see as many movies as they can. I find I have to pick and choose. This, because if you watch too many of them it’s harder and harder to have proper perspective. It’s like speed dating. How can you build a relationship or fall in love with so many coming at you at once? You judge them against each other rather than on their own. But others find they thrive on seeing many films, that they never get tired of them, and certainly never fall asleep while watching one.
If you don’t watch movies, your choices are to walk around Cannes or zone out on the internet. But the truth is, it’s not supposed to be vacation. It’s supposed to be work. On days like this one, though, with the children chasing bubbles down the sidewalk, the smell of crepes cooking nearby, music distantly up the street calling out to you — don’t worry, be happy – the city seduces you away from work, continually.
Tomorrow will be my last day in Cannes. I will be seeing Alexander Payne’s Nebraska, and one called Blue is the Warmest Color, which is the only film so far I’ve heard called a “masterpiece.” Now that it’s come to an end I can begin to miss it once I’m gone from here.
For now, though, my thoughts are with a kid I raised for the last 14 years who is about to have a birthday. I will go to sleep happily, knowing I have only more day. I will wake up a sunny day, and I vow to chase the moment, to live in it, to not worry and be … happy.
