Risques et perils

Antibes always looked like a sleepy place, where, apart from the dangers of motor vehicles mixing with pedestrians, life looked pretty safe. A couple of recent events force one to admit, reluctantly, that Antibes is like anywhere else.

Last week, walking up the rue de la République with the BH, who wanted to buy me 'pantacourts', or calf length trousers (very comfortable, even for the Antibes 'older gent scene'), we witnessed a bagarre between various SDFs ('sans domicile fixe', aka homeless winos) in the Gare Routière, each armed with a defence dog. It looked like it was turning serious, so I told the BH to hasten away. Well, I now read in Nice Matin that two of the participants were sufficiently injured in the affray to require A and E attention. No mention of the canine casualties, though I suspect there must have been some. The locus was rather fitting, for those, like me, into Antipolitan archaeology. The chaps and their animals were fighting on the very spot of the ancient Roman arena.

Next morning, heading for the Marché Provençal, along the rue Sade, I noticed a lot of sand and sawdust strewn on the cobbles. When this was pointed out to the BH, she said she thought somebody must have dropped and broken a bottle of olive oil. My thoughts, I must say, from having seen similarly strewn material in Edinburgh's Fleshmarket close more than once, were more sinister. And, indeed, my hunch was right. The rue Sade and the adjoining Place Nationale had, in the early hours of the same morning, been the theatre of a major skirmish, with one of the assailants being armed with a sabre. The sand and sawdust were for the resulting, copious quantities of human ketchup spilled by the seven people who ended up in hospital, handcuffed.

Finally, on a more personal though less serious note, this morning, as I swam out of the Gravette to get a better look at a graceful three masted sailing ship, flying Dutch colours, I felt a violent jolt, half way between an electric shock and a bee sting. It was my first jellyfish sting in the Med. A cracker, with raised welts all down the inside of my thigh, and an actual incision, which bled quite profusely. Glad I wasn't skinny dipping! Returned to the beach, with some caution, we got the profuse but belated warning of the presence of jellyfish from an Italian woman, who had already destroyed quite a few in her mission to protect her little boy, a real Pierino del dottore. Next, an old man pulled out a veritable pharmacy from his beach bag, and from the various tubes, bottles and sprays, offered me a jellyfish sting remedy. Maybe we'll have to stock up, too. I'm told the welts will turn a nice shade of puce by tomorrow.

Canto italiano

Tonight was (and is) the fête de la musique. The seismic technobeat is attacking our walls like the battering rams of medieval sieges. You can actually feel the pulse through your Sitzfleisch, as pianists call the foundations of their ar(se)t.

This evening, after quite a long stroll to the Salis, to find shards of pottery to act as wedges for plantpots on our slightly sloping balcony ledges, and after a wonderful swim in a piss warm sea at the Salis beach, we attended the slightly less raucous version of the fête. First call was the magical Place des Safraniers, part of the Commune libre du Safranier, home of the great Greek novelist Kazantzakis.

In the Safranier square, we listened to Provençal songs sung by the local community association, all dressed in the 'saffron' orange of the commune. Musically very approximate but culturally all there. After their slightly long set was over, we tore ourselves away from the utterly seductive charms of the square and headed for the Lavoir, near the ramparts. There we saw some splendid spectacles: two choirs, one ethnic and one academic. The ethnic one, La Chourmo, specialised in the close links between Provençal culture and Piedmont: they sang equally well in French, Niçois, Piemontese and Italian. There was one, generously proportioned lady who had real star quality: her belting version of "Benché noi siamo donne", in the throaty Italian of the rice-fields, was fantastic and had everybody joining in, even the (male) Moroccans who have lodgings around the lavoir. I think they admired her almost Maghreban ululations as she sang "o li o li o la".

The academic choir, the "Menéstrels d'Antibes", sang mostly Monteverdi madrigals. Musically, it was an uplifting, sublime experience: as they sang like angels, the water tinkled through the lavoir and the refined voices rebounded off the stucco walls. They were attempting quite difficult pieces, but the problem was they didn't know anything about the texts. It was linguistic porridge. For somebody who understood Renaissance Italian, it was quite incomprehensible. Still, better to have Monteverdi badly pronounced than Monteverdi poorly sung.

Sweet soul music

Last night we went to a concert given by the CIV big band and the Nice University gospel choir. For a choir which was only founded six months ago, the results were really impressive. The students not only sang and swayed with aplomb, but also pronounced the words quite convincingly. The only thing which struck me, though, was that the distinctly protestant theology behind the lyrics and feelings of the songs must have passed completely over the heads of both singers and audience, predominantly catholics.

The CIV big band we had heard before. They are loud, competent and generate a lot of enthusiasm. Their alto saxophone soloist was pretty much professional standard. They played a medley of R and B and soul numbers, originally sung by the likes of Aretha Franklin and Otis Redding. The guest artist was an old soul singer called Bobby Johnson, whose snaking hips and suggestive pelvic thrusts, practiced over a well nigh half century of showmanship, seemed to excite quite a lot of the audience. Still, it felt strange to be listening to pieces originally written as ephemera, now raised to the status of reverently played classics, performed from orchestral scores, and listened to by the grandchildren of the original teenagers who had bought the records.

Oh, and by the way, they did perform Arthur Conley's "Sweet Soul Music"!

Takbîr near the Medinathèque

I had just been to the Médiathèque to pay my first library fine. The offending item was a Camilleri potboiler, La strategia del ragno. Montalbano novels are entertaining in a shallow sort of way, but no competition for their avowed model, the Pepe Carvalho books by Vasquez Montalban. In an inversion of my own direct experience, even the gastronomy in the Spanish novels knocks spots off the Sicilian cuisine flaunted by Camilleri.

On the way out, I hesitated to cross the road at the suicidal first zebra crossing and opted for a brief stroll towards the next, marginally safer one. Cars rarely stop for pedestrians, even with traffic lights against them, and this crossing had the added complication of a blind bend just before it.

As I strolled towards the second crossing, shady side of the street, a car screeched around the blind corner, almost on two wheels: good job I hadn't obeyed the green man at the first crossing. The car had been souped up, and - in addition to a throaty, megadecibel exhaust - had an impressive, body-panel warping sound-system with sub-woofers producing regular mini-earthquakes. The two guys inside, sporting mean shades and shaved sides to their heads, turned the volume up (for the public's benefit as well as theirs): it was raï music at its most nasally insistent. Actually I quite liked it.

Various old ladies, with rather too much make-up, and each towed by a decrepit, off-white poodle with crap stains only too evident, remonstrated, using terms and facial expressions familiar to those who follow the fortunes of the Front National. But the wrinklies had unwittingly and predictably played into the hands of the two young beurs, who wound down their window, pressed a button on the dashboard of their motorcar, and leered as a grotesquely amplified, deafening divine formula from the Muslim call to prayer, allahu akbar, washed over the infidel hordes, shaking their permed blue rinses to the roots. The next moment they were gone, the raï back on the sound-system, leaving the women even more convinced that Le Pen ought to be president of the republic. Mind you, the young men in the car were categorically French, but of the new France, not the old.

Opinion Polls

I was peeling spuds when the phone rang. A rare occurrence, the phone ringing (and the spud peeling, as it happens), and somewhat disturbing - you always wonder whether it is some unwelcome news from Blighty. This time, however, it was a woman from the SOFRES polling organisation. I feel sorry for these people, who, in order to earn a crust, have to ask inane questions all day long, and get insulted by irate people who feel that their privacy has been invaded. I decided to play along, partly for anthropological reasons, as I was curious to find out what people were paying good money for SOFRES to find out about me.

It turned out to be a pot pourri of questions: clearly the poor woman was a servant of two or more masters, who were saving money, but not her effort, by combining surveys. First came a series of questions on how I chose my holidays (was I influenced by books, films, newspapers, telly etc.?). Then a quick question: 'was I the chef de famille'. I told her in no uncertain terms that I did not approve of the idea. Unfortunately there wasn't a box to tick for that response, so the BH is now, willy nilly and according to SOFRES, my Chef de Famille. Then came questions on La Française des Jeux. How many of their games did I recognise? There seemed to be hundreds, including one which sounded like 'morpion', which if my hazy memory of medical French serves me right, means 'pubic louse'.

The same negative response for all of them was given, except for the Lotto. Then a tucked in question about the Post Office: had I used it recently. I said 'yesterday, actually', but what she wanted to know was had I used it in the last twelve months. I said I had already answered, and she sounded puzzled. Finally the coin dropped. You mean 'yes'?

I had decided to take part because I was sorry for her: after taking part I felt sorrier for her than before.

Parade

Yesterday, the town put on a parade for its Olympic athletes. It's a sporty place, Antibes, and it lives off its reputation for health and fitness. Even the Gendarmerie gets in on the act, owning a barracks on a delectable piece of seafront real estate, where police divers are trained. Why the crystal charms of the Mediterranean are seen as a suitable rehearsal for scouring Parisian sewers and northern canals full of shopping trolleys beats me.

The parade consisted of a 'bataille de fleurs'. Floats were decorated with thousands of locally grown flowers, mostly carnations, roses and lilies. The painstaking work of constructing and then decorating the floats was all done by amateur associations drawn from the different districts of the town, who also coughed up for the bands.

The problem is that France (except perhaps in the mining regions of the far north) hasn't really got a good band tradition. Most of the local fanfares and harmonies are at the comic end of the 'dreadful' spectrum. Jazz bands are another matter, and some of the local marching jazz bands are musically impressive as well as theatrically entertaining.

Lots of noise, passing for music, was needed, so the various organisers and their sponsors turned to Italy, which still has bands in profusion, willing to play Verdi or the theme from Ghostbusters with equal panache. Yesterday's assortment included a very large marching ensemble from Turin: musically disciplined but tame; the fabulously raucous Folkloristica band from Betolle near Siena, who had so much percussion that it had to be wheeled on carts attached to the musicians midriffs. They played their hearts out; and then a strangely polychromatic (in the colour as well as the musical sense) band from Liguria, Rumpe e Streppa, but composed of musicians with southern roots. In addition to the usual massed clarinets of Italian bands, they also had Neapolitan percussion. Some of the bandsmen appeared to be carrying salames wrapped in clingfilm. Very exotic: I'd love to know how salame parts are notated! You can see one ready to be brought into action just behind the Rumpe e Streppa banner. Their general musical accomplishment can be appreciated at the following web link:

http://the-funniest-videos.com/viewvideo.php?id=mQUhy4aBI8M

Finally, there was an ensemble of sbandieratori from Alba in Piedmont. The musicians were only a handful - two trumpeters and four drummers - but they could be heard for miles, and were a worthy accompaniment to some pretty impressive flag hurling.

All this feast to the ears was accompanied by the usual downside of French parades: inane commentary on the Tannoy and half-hearted routines from majorettes, whose skimpy parodies of military uniforms didn't prevent rivulets of sweat from creating strange, pallid interruptions in the orange glow of the fake tan applied to their sometimes generously dimensioned thighs and calves. But the piece de resistance was a gayly pink Cadillac, containing Miss Antibes and next to her the runner up Miss Antibes, identical in their barbiedoll blondness and clearly identical in their mutual antagonism for each other, accompanied by a Claude François look-alike. According to those old enough to know, poor old Claude the Crooner dropped his clogs in the bath, decades ago, apparently whilst changing a lightbulb. The look-alike had so many wrinkles around his crooner's smile, it was obvious that he had spent the years since the original's demise soaking up the master's vibes in the same bathtub, probably without a change of water.

Shoes orff

How many crewmen and women toil on the superyachts? There is serious work to be done keeping such palaces spick and span, especially in the hyper-saline Mediterranean. Some of the websites devoted to such monstrosities brag how big the ships' complements are. But there is an easier way to check this out. The ships, by and large, boast immaculate teak decking, washed down with scarce and expensive fresh water and holystoned every day. For this reason, the crew (but not the owners or their stiletto heeled floozies) remove their shoes before boarding, leaving a pile of abandoned footwear as if at the cloakroom of a mosque. I haven't counted the number of shoes here, or divided them by two (assuming that the sailors are bipeds, and not Long John Silvers), but it gives an idea of just how many people are on the payroll of a fairly medium sized yacht.

Muson River

Yesterday I took my father-in-law for a trip around Antibes on the 'petit train'. A pretty naff experience, where you hope you won't be recognised by anybody you know. These 'petits trains' are mass produced somewhere, and have a vaguely Disney-esque appearance. The carriages have charabanc seating, which is not made for the generously proportioned derrières of most of the customers. Still, everybody squeezed in, and some squeezed their neighbours.

My neighbours turned out to be Bostonians of fairly advanced years who had fled the harsh climes of Mass. and had headed down, like migratory birds, to Florida. The only trouble with Florida, apart from the Hispanics, was the climate, though, with atrocious humidity, they said. Antibes was perfection, by contrast. They asked anxiously if there were problems with foreigners. I said the Russians were very well behaved, and kept their superyachts sparkling clean. The Bostonians found it very hard to imagine that Russians now outgunned Americans in the financial stakes. It quite took the wind out of their sails.

Screwing

Took Papy to the Gravette beach. I thought I'd try the parasol and the folding chair. The chair was perfect, and I thought the parasol would be too, but I'd reckoned without French beach sand only being a few millimeters deep. The Archimedes screw which was meant to send the pole deep into the sand just turned on itself without digging a hole. I resorted to building up a mound and then planting the ruddy thing.

Once Papy was installed, I went to cool off from my exertions with a nice long swim. Meanwhile Papy, ensconced in his chair, and toting a mean pair of shades, appreciated the aesthetic pleasures of young Australian 'hostesses' from the super-yachts, as they took an hour off to suntan.

Hunks and cheesecake

Spent the day showing father-in-law around the hinterland of Antibes. First stop was the school where the BH works. Then off to Valbonne village for lunch outside in the square. Today, the restaurants shared the worn marble flagstones with an antiques and bric à brac market, so the tables were pretty close together.

I got the impression the main language of the customers was Dutch, though whether the speakers were from the Netherlands or Belgium was not clear, at least to me. Whatever they were, they looked prosperous, had serious appetites, and behaved as if they owned the place. Maybe they do... But, dear me, they could have afforded to lose a kilo or two.

As if to counterbalance, in another corner sat the beautiful people, in studied poses: the men distinguished by their blow dried, expensive rasor cut hair dos and the women by the subtle botox and lip enhancements. Both sexes had had face-liftings and frightened the life out of me when they opened their mouths wide to reveal perfect, but slightly too large teeth. The chiselled features of these narcissists are quite disturbing in the flesh: as drawings they would be handsome, but as supposedly real people, the symmetry has something unheimlich about it.

Invisible buses

Just back from a return trip by rail to Quincampoix (north of Rouen) to pick up father-in-law, who was keen to travel despite nearing his century on this planet. With my wrinklie's travel card, I was able to travel first class, a revelation in terms of leg-room and general comfort. This convenience is paradoxically only available to the leisured and pampered, whilst the single mothers and disabled, who could really do with a bit of space, have to put up with cattle class.

The journey, first to Paris by TGV, then across Paris by métro, then to Rouen by ordinary train, passed smoothly until the last stage, which was to catch a school bus from Rouen station to Quincampoix. Outside Rouen station, no sign of a bus stop. I asked the café staff, the police, even the women's lavatory attendant. All of them swore that no such bus existed. Eventually somebody told me to walk down to the bus station, down by the Seine. Once at the bus station, I climbed aboard my bus, which appeared to be real, and sat down as it took me back... to the train station and on to Quincampoix. The lesson is clear. Buses are absolutely invisible to the average Frenchman and woman, whose love affair with the car far exceeds American levels of auto-worship.

Back to square one

Back to square one, or Grasse as it is called. Two months ago I queued in the Sous Préfecture in Grasse to try and sort out the mess with my driving licence, rendered useless by the DVLA in Swansea. When my turn came, it all seemed to go smoothly, and my papers (originals of course) were duly stapled together and a temporary permit allowing me to drive in France was issued.

The permit was valid for two months, so yesterday it was a case of waiting behind the yellow taped line on the tiled floor, and listening out for my number to be called. Been there, done that, I felt.

Eventually I was summoned to the counter. After explaining what I needed, the woman looked worried and said that I would have to re-queue to see the chef de service. More anthropology, measuring up the social, racial and morphological mix that is present day France. All quite interesting and friendly really. But things got worse. Half way through my second wait I had to put up - at length - with a loud Swiss woman who, no doubt thinking I was of her same opinion, was making overtly racist comments about the human contents of the waiting room (basically recommending mass deportation of 'foreigners': but what was she? And what was I?).

Hours later, the chef de service came out of his cubby hole, clutching my dossier. It was clear that nothing had been done, and I was back to square one. Still, he renewed my temporary permit. Meanwhile, I cannot drive in the UK. Thankyou DVLA.