I went to Cannes last week, as the Gentleman Caller* had worked on a film that was screening there. Unfortunately, I didn't manage to take any pictures of the vintage 1960s cinema with leather seats, or the party on the beach; all white sand and shallow, palest blue sea.
I completely missed snapping the amazing/awful hangers on with signs asking for invitations. And I didn't am-pap Kirsten Dunst, who I saw in downtime denim shorts. Here are basically the only pictures I managed to take in Cannes. The Cinéma Olympia, where the screening took place.
And the view from the beach party. It made a nice difference to corporate parties in London, although I wanted to be next level, out on one of the yachts, bobbing out at sea. Spoilt!
This is the beach we stumbled upon the next day, tired and hungover, just at the point where we were getting all hot and wondering what to do next. (I wish that would happen on say, Oxford Street, after a hard day's shopping. 'Oh look! Beach!')
Oh, and in terms of fashion, I think this was the best look I saw. This dude was getting a late night chip kebab in a linen suit, black shirt, black velvet bow tie, 1980s New York-style wire-rimmed glasses, topped off with pink espadrilles. Who IS this guy?! He looks like Griffin Dunne, but way not as hot.
The next day we got the hell out of crazy Cannes and took a train up the coast to Nice. I've been craving some France time and Nice hit the spot. It's pretty and the sea is inviting (although the beach is pebbly). And it's stuffed full of nice restaurants. We stayed in a cheap hotel to make up for the excess of Cannes, and it turned out to be lovely, in a really sweet neighbourhood with a lively market, where we stocked up on fresh fruit and honey the next day.
I really enjoyed shopping at the market, it's something we just can't seem to get right in the UK, although we're getting there. We're all too lazy and shop at supermarkets. The stalls at the market I visited were competing for business, so the owners dress them up nicely. This stallholder was peeling the dirty onion skins off.
I was so jealous of the delicious looking produce, at competitive prices. I was literally going through the recipes I would make in my head. I buy my fruit and veg at a local stall in Kentish Town, but it's run-of-the-mill stuff, no pretty yellow courgette flowers or bright pink fish to be seen.
I'm going to try the Parliament Hill farmer's market on Saturday, but I'm thinking it will be really expensive. I was so jealous of shoppers poring over huge bumpy looking tomatoes, glossy cherries and huge fluffy lettuces. At good prices.
Plus in France, everyone takes home a bunch of flowers.
My favourite shop was this tiny little fresh pasta shop. It was totally no frills: a chiller cabinet, a dude serving, four pictures of his favourite football team on the wall. And an old lady behind the beaded curtain at the back, rolling out pasta. Sigh. I wish we could shop like this in London!
*I can only apologise for this ghastly AA Gill style pseudonym. It started and now I'm just running with it. I have to refer to him somehow, otherwise I wouldn't be able to explain what on earth I am up to these days. Plus, I am feeling a little bit shmoopy. Cheesy. Do apologise.