Well, that's it then. I've taken the plunge and had my first swim of the year. For the last two weeks the water has been looking tempting, but the grimaces and hesitations of those wading out into the waves made me hesitate.
Today was different, however. For one thing, it was seriously hot. For another, I had jokingly told the better half that I might risk a dip whilst she was at work. Time ticked past, and the hour of her return from work approached. My reputation was at stake. So I headed for the Gravette with my bathing trunks already on, under my trousers.
The first couple of metres into the water are quite pebbly and painful on the feet, so I decided the only way not to look like a fool was to launch myself with a shallow dive, almost from the water's edge. I feared what the French call 'hydrocution', and the Brits might just call Brass Monkeys. In the end, it was surprisingly warm, exquisitely turquoise and transparent, and totally pleasurable. I will certainly make a habit of going every day from now on.
On the way home, I met a couple of neighbours. We stopped for a long chat about Antibes (they're Old Antibes born and bred). The conversation was extremely affable and informative, but I realised half way through that the water from my still wet cozzie was now dribbling down my groin, wetting my trousers with a wide dark stain and giving me the the authentic look of an inveterate, incontinent wino. The neighbours had the good grace not to say anything...
vendredi 29 mai 2009
jeudi 28 mai 2009
Get on your bike
One of the stranger rituals in Old Antibes is to watch the invariably blond, unfailingly healthy-sportif looking Antipodeans marching off every morning to the quai des milliardaires, where the really big yachts are moored. Each of these biologically perfect specimens, male and female, carries purposefully under their arm a brochure containing their CV, 'improved' by one of the myriad crewing agencies.
The purposeful step of the outward bound contrasts with the slouch and shuffle as the same blond gods and goddesses head home in the evening, having tried, without success, to tout their nautical prowess (or other attributes) to the yachts in the harbour. What happens to all those plasticised CVs, though?
The purposeful step of the outward bound contrasts with the slouch and shuffle as the same blond gods and goddesses head home in the evening, having tried, without success, to tout their nautical prowess (or other attributes) to the yachts in the harbour. What happens to all those plasticised CVs, though?
lundi 25 mai 2009
Old religious controversy
In Menton, yesterday, the BH pointed out a humble but curious architectural feature of the monumental church of St Michel, whose mass dominates the old town. Seen from below, it is clear that there is a toilet, replete with waste pipe, tacked high up onto the side of the building.
I'm sure that this convenience is much appreciated (even though some of the children coming out of mass yesterday, overdessed in their Sunday best and desperate for a pee, actually relieved themselves on the parvis, or esplanade in front of the church).
However, this brings to mind an ancient controversy which racked the church. Catholic dogma insists on transubstantiation, or the direct and real passage of the sacramental bread and wine, at the moment of the elevation, into the flesh and blood of the Saviour. This mystery of Real Presence is different from the belief of such Protestants who still celebrate mass, where the host is cautiously consubstantiated, both bread and flesh at the same time. In other words you are actually eating bread, but in the divine offstage flesh is simultaneously happening.
Some literal minded theologians, aware of the very real, and dogmatically crucial experience of consuming the flesh and blood of Christ, then went a stage further and said that if He was being eaten, then He had to be digested too... with all the excretory consequences that entailed. These 'fundamentalists', in both senses of the word, went by the name of Stercorians (from stercus, the Latin for crap).
Mindful of this, was the outlet pipe first flushed with holy water?
jeudi 21 mai 2009
Production artisanale
Out for a stroll this evening: weather perfect, though the air a little humid. Crowds of locals mixed with the usual foreigners, all looking for simple pleasures. The foreigners headed for the bars just inside the curtain walls. The locals, on the other hand, avoided the various chemical factories masquerading as ice cream parlours and headed straight for the 'Gelateria del porto'. This modest enterprise, tucked into a wall next to the Bibliothèque Antiboulenque, makes its own concoctions, according to what is available from the Marché Provençal. The BH chose Nougat et Miel, whilst Monsieur chose Fleur de lait (presumably the translation of fiordilatte). Needless to say, the effect on the tastebuds was worth the walk, and we consumed the delight whilst gazing across the moonlit bay of Nice. Not bad for 2,50 euros....
mercredi 20 mai 2009
Viewers are warned this report contains flash photography
The Cannes Film Festival came to us last night. When the BH came home from work, she announced there was a roadblock right in front of our house. So we went out onto the balcony to have a look. We found that it was not one roadblock but three: effectively, our wee rue des Cordiers had been completely cordoned off. By now there were the usual mock-Rambo municipal police, manning the barricades, plus plain clothes chappies wearing such 'civilian' suits that they were immediately recognisable for what they were. More security, this time expensive, private and intimidating, filled the rue des Cordiers, orchestrated by an overweight man with long greasy hair in ringlets. Radios crackled.
Why all the commotion? Well, Mamo, the chef from the restaurant next door, was in his chef's stiff-starched finest, and his trophy wife was wearing a fetching, body-hugging number which was black in front and white when seen from behind. When she pivoted round on her high heels, you had the disturbing sensation that she had been replaced by a very accurate, but differently dressed screen-double. Clearly celebs were about to turn up for a homely pizza, as they do.
Photographers lounged in the street below. One of them was making apparently friendly signs to the BH, which she took to be bonhomie. However, when she went back in for a moment, the same chap waved two twenty euro notes at me, described as "de quoi s'acheter des chaussures neuves", and signalled his desire to be on our balcony. What was more insulting? The presumption that we could be bought, the actual price they thought we were worth, or the perception of what kind of shoes we were in need of?
Then the stretch limos started arriving, to disgorge their swanky passengers at Mamo's. Most of the ostentatiously black vehicles were the size of Humvees, quite a desirable status symbol, you might think, for aspiring starlets, until you look down into the narrow depths of the rue des Cordiers and you realise that in such an exiguous street there is almost no room between the walls to open the car doors. Expensive clothing and outrageously sub-ergonomic footware were witness to entertaining anatomical contortions as the celebs squeezed and wriggled out of the cars, degrooming themselves in the process. Toyboys hovered to commiserate and straighten, with a lingering pat to pert backsides, ruffled clothing and even more ruffled amour propre.
After about an hour and a half of 'people' delivery, the flash photography started up. "Angelina", cooed the crowds. They had been waiting for Julia Roberts, but got the star of Lara Croft: Tomb Raider instead.
Why all the commotion? Well, Mamo, the chef from the restaurant next door, was in his chef's stiff-starched finest, and his trophy wife was wearing a fetching, body-hugging number which was black in front and white when seen from behind. When she pivoted round on her high heels, you had the disturbing sensation that she had been replaced by a very accurate, but differently dressed screen-double. Clearly celebs were about to turn up for a homely pizza, as they do.
Photographers lounged in the street below. One of them was making apparently friendly signs to the BH, which she took to be bonhomie. However, when she went back in for a moment, the same chap waved two twenty euro notes at me, described as "de quoi s'acheter des chaussures neuves", and signalled his desire to be on our balcony. What was more insulting? The presumption that we could be bought, the actual price they thought we were worth, or the perception of what kind of shoes we were in need of?
Then the stretch limos started arriving, to disgorge their swanky passengers at Mamo's. Most of the ostentatiously black vehicles were the size of Humvees, quite a desirable status symbol, you might think, for aspiring starlets, until you look down into the narrow depths of the rue des Cordiers and you realise that in such an exiguous street there is almost no room between the walls to open the car doors. Expensive clothing and outrageously sub-ergonomic footware were witness to entertaining anatomical contortions as the celebs squeezed and wriggled out of the cars, degrooming themselves in the process. Toyboys hovered to commiserate and straighten, with a lingering pat to pert backsides, ruffled clothing and even more ruffled amour propre.
After about an hour and a half of 'people' delivery, the flash photography started up. "Angelina", cooed the crowds. They had been waiting for Julia Roberts, but got the star of Lara Croft: Tomb Raider instead.
dimanche 17 mai 2009
Throttle control
Went for a walk along the Bacon, the coast road which heads from the plage de la Salis towards the plage de la Garoupe. Most of the way there is a pavement, even if it is frequently blocked by cars parked over the kerb. But the first three hundred meters are a frightening canyon between the walls of luxury villas, with the cars and motorbikes swishing past you within millimetres.
It was all worth it for the views, though, which are spectacular - embracing the snow-clad Alps, the hills above Nice, and the coastline from Monaco right down into the Ligurian riviera. And always in the foreground the minty blue Mediterranean and the honeyed walls of old Antibes.
On the way back, though, we had just reached the canyon when there was a roar like a Russian tank battalion ready to crush parliament. We ducked and squeezed against the wall, holding onto each other in stark terror. It was a group of fifty-year-old boy racers in Ferraris and Lamborghinis, hurtling through the gap and trying to overtake each other. The wind of their passage nearly tore our clothes off, and they were past almost as soon as we saw them. Cardiac rhythms took quite a while to return to normal.
These kind of mentalist show-offs never get apprehended by the fuzz, who secretly admire and envy them. But I have a solution which has the advantage of natural feedback. As these phallic-challenged twats get into their automobiles, a large vice-like set of serrated metal plates would lock round their tight panted goolies, linked directly to the throttle. As they accelerated, the vice would close tighter, affording them the gonadal thrill they had bought the Ferrari for in the first place. At great speed, the screams of discomfort or even emasculation would be drowned out by the deep manly roar of the turbocharged twelve cylinder engine...
It was all worth it for the views, though, which are spectacular - embracing the snow-clad Alps, the hills above Nice, and the coastline from Monaco right down into the Ligurian riviera. And always in the foreground the minty blue Mediterranean and the honeyed walls of old Antibes.
On the way back, though, we had just reached the canyon when there was a roar like a Russian tank battalion ready to crush parliament. We ducked and squeezed against the wall, holding onto each other in stark terror. It was a group of fifty-year-old boy racers in Ferraris and Lamborghinis, hurtling through the gap and trying to overtake each other. The wind of their passage nearly tore our clothes off, and they were past almost as soon as we saw them. Cardiac rhythms took quite a while to return to normal.
These kind of mentalist show-offs never get apprehended by the fuzz, who secretly admire and envy them. But I have a solution which has the advantage of natural feedback. As these phallic-challenged twats get into their automobiles, a large vice-like set of serrated metal plates would lock round their tight panted goolies, linked directly to the throttle. As they accelerated, the vice would close tighter, affording them the gonadal thrill they had bought the Ferrari for in the first place. At great speed, the screams of discomfort or even emasculation would be drowned out by the deep manly roar of the turbocharged twelve cylinder engine...
samedi 16 mai 2009
Trip
Just back from a lightning visit to Edinburgh to take part in a really stimulating conference on Lampedusa's Gattopardo at Fifty, organised with great panache by my erstwhile colleague Davide Messina and ably aided and abetted by Chris Taylor from the NLS, with the usual unstinting support of the director of the Istituto italiano di cultura per la Scozia, Luigino Zecchin.
Lampedusa's adopted son, the model for Tancredi in the book, was taking part (Luigino had pulled some strings, I suspect). Sometimes these literary guardians are a pain in the arse, living off reheated memories dished out for the umpteenth time, but Gioacchino Lanza Tomasi is quite a different animal, having been a top rank opera director as well as an academic. He was on sparkling form, and quite without pomp, a really nice person to talk to.
It was quite moving to see the manuscript of the book at the NLS, written, as far as I could see, in biro on school notebook style paper. To know also that it was written in a race against time, by someone whose motivation came late, made it even more special. Gioacchino had also brought along a small medallion portrait of the figure in Lampedusa's family who had been the model for the prince. The book is like one long, amplified, sublime ecphrasis of this otherwise banal portrait.
On the way back from Edinburgh, on an Easyjet flight, who should meekly ask whether I minded him sitting next to me but Stelios H., the founder of Easyjet. Utterly man in the street, a good, sharp conversationalist, and obviously very bright. His relations with the crew of the aeroplane were extremely cordial, and they seemed genuinely pleased to see him. The only ostentation, probably not deliberate, was his very anonymous looking bag, the kind you get as freebies in conferences. This battered example had written on it, though, World Economic Forum.
Lampedusa's adopted son, the model for Tancredi in the book, was taking part (Luigino had pulled some strings, I suspect). Sometimes these literary guardians are a pain in the arse, living off reheated memories dished out for the umpteenth time, but Gioacchino Lanza Tomasi is quite a different animal, having been a top rank opera director as well as an academic. He was on sparkling form, and quite without pomp, a really nice person to talk to.
It was quite moving to see the manuscript of the book at the NLS, written, as far as I could see, in biro on school notebook style paper. To know also that it was written in a race against time, by someone whose motivation came late, made it even more special. Gioacchino had also brought along a small medallion portrait of the figure in Lampedusa's family who had been the model for the prince. The book is like one long, amplified, sublime ecphrasis of this otherwise banal portrait.
On the way back from Edinburgh, on an Easyjet flight, who should meekly ask whether I minded him sitting next to me but Stelios H., the founder of Easyjet. Utterly man in the street, a good, sharp conversationalist, and obviously very bright. His relations with the crew of the aeroplane were extremely cordial, and they seemed genuinely pleased to see him. The only ostentation, probably not deliberate, was his very anonymous looking bag, the kind you get as freebies in conferences. This battered example had written on it, though, World Economic Forum.
Back on line
Back on line after rocambolesque problems with Orange/France Télécom. They had cut us off without warning almost as soon as we had moved, but not without first having sent an invoice for all their 'work', described in heavy engineering terms as 'constructing' our line. Or reinstating, with a flick of a switch at the exchange, a number and a line already there.
When we rang their commercial arm, they said it was a technical problem, when we rang the technical support line, they said it was a contractual issue. Both lots blamed us, mostly, and left us rudely in the lurch (as well as out of pocket, as the helplines for their incompetence are at commercial rates).
After two weeks of frustration, I finally got through to somebody who, probably pissed off with her employer, agreed with us, saw that something was wrong at their end, actually took down the details, and promised to do something about it (whilst all along blaming every lapse in service standards, Midi fashion, on Tunisians and others of a bronzed persuasion).
When we rang their commercial arm, they said it was a technical problem, when we rang the technical support line, they said it was a contractual issue. Both lots blamed us, mostly, and left us rudely in the lurch (as well as out of pocket, as the helplines for their incompetence are at commercial rates).
After two weeks of frustration, I finally got through to somebody who, probably pissed off with her employer, agreed with us, saw that something was wrong at their end, actually took down the details, and promised to do something about it (whilst all along blaming every lapse in service standards, Midi fashion, on Tunisians and others of a bronzed persuasion).
mardi 5 mai 2009
Cortège
One of the privileges, worth all the work, worry and hassle, of having decided to make our home in the old port of Antibes is the possibility of having an after dinner stroll along the quays, with the moonlit Mediterranean lapping almost oilily against the hulls of the hundreds of yachts, mega-yachts and private aircraft carriers.
Last night, we had ambled past the Octopus, replete with sinister looking, black garbed security detail on the hydraulic gangplank, and were heading towards the super-kitsch three-masted schooner (the Maltese Falcon: if you appreciate truly heroic interior kitsch, look up her website), when we saw that there were an awful lot of big Mercedes people carriers, with beady eyed, ear-wired chappies in mohair silvery suits, suspicious bulges under their armpits, and occasionally, as a touch of fantasy, the tiniest ponytail trailing over their collars.
On the gin palaces, there was a lot of glad handing and people speaking into one or more mobile phones at once. The crew, in pressed, starched uniforms, were hovering around waiting for orders.
As we turned to go, lights started up, and all the people carriers, which we now saw had CD numberplates and darkened windows, hurtled past us in a convoy. Inside each, alongside the aforementioned security gents, were rows of Yasser Arafat lookalikes. What deal, over what commodity, in which part of the world, had been done in Port Vauban, Antibes, on Tuesday, 5th May, 2009?
Last night, we had ambled past the Octopus, replete with sinister looking, black garbed security detail on the hydraulic gangplank, and were heading towards the super-kitsch three-masted schooner (the Maltese Falcon: if you appreciate truly heroic interior kitsch, look up her website), when we saw that there were an awful lot of big Mercedes people carriers, with beady eyed, ear-wired chappies in mohair silvery suits, suspicious bulges under their armpits, and occasionally, as a touch of fantasy, the tiniest ponytail trailing over their collars.
On the gin palaces, there was a lot of glad handing and people speaking into one or more mobile phones at once. The crew, in pressed, starched uniforms, were hovering around waiting for orders.
As we turned to go, lights started up, and all the people carriers, which we now saw had CD numberplates and darkened windows, hurtled past us in a convoy. Inside each, alongside the aforementioned security gents, were rows of Yasser Arafat lookalikes. What deal, over what commodity, in which part of the world, had been done in Port Vauban, Antibes, on Tuesday, 5th May, 2009?
lundi 4 mai 2009
New Neighbour
Now that the wretched marquee of the antiques dealers' fair has been taken away, we have regained our panorama of the Port Vauban. We have discovered a new neighbour, which blocks out our view of the Alps.
It is the mega-yacht Octopus: nearly ten thousand tons, equipped for three helicopters, a submarine, a basketball court and countless other necessities for the simple life. It has a crew of fifty-seven.
Note the obligatory 'bollocks' just behind the funnel. I have come to the conclusion that rich yacht owners suffer from an acute insecurity about their genital dimensions, and make up for it with Darwinian gonadic display on the upper deck of their bathtub toys.
New Address
That's it: we're finally installed in 6 rue des Cordiers. The place is still topsy-turvy, but we have the basic amenities (minus the instant boiling water in the toilet cistern). It's been a long haul, and there is still a long way to go, but setting out for the morning baguette from the new address was satisfyingly symbolic.
Still trying to get a 'carte vitale', though. The latest missive from their Nice office politely refused me cover on the grounds that I was asking for a health insurance for the 'Territoire Monégasque'. Apart from the mystery surrounding a residence I didn't know about, it is interesting to note that the French government seems to dislike the Monaco government's description of their own country as 'Principauté de Monaco'.
Olivier's sure touch with anything internet came into play last night. I couldn't get our internet radio to link to the French wifi we have installed. After his intervention, I was able to pick up Radio Cymru loud and clear, as if standing outside their studios in Lôn Meirion in Bangor.
Still trying to get a 'carte vitale', though. The latest missive from their Nice office politely refused me cover on the grounds that I was asking for a health insurance for the 'Territoire Monégasque'. Apart from the mystery surrounding a residence I didn't know about, it is interesting to note that the French government seems to dislike the Monaco government's description of their own country as 'Principauté de Monaco'.
Olivier's sure touch with anything internet came into play last night. I couldn't get our internet radio to link to the French wifi we have installed. After his intervention, I was able to pick up Radio Cymru loud and clear, as if standing outside their studios in Lôn Meirion in Bangor.
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