After five days being singed by intense overexposure to the bonfire of
vanities that is the Festival (I only learned today the old canard that
describes the annual descent of the elite to Cannes: "The Egos Have
Landed!"), I developed wanderlust, and a hope that the Peugeot 106 might
deliver me from this particular circle of the inferno. A series of cynical
visions populated my thoughts: that I had been transformed into a
Dermatologist, and was now being forced to attend a 10 day long
Proctologists' convention to abide by a new directive in managed health
care; or that I had been mysteriously transported, and was now being held
prisoner on the median of the FDR Drive somewhere between Houston and 15th
Street. I began to wonder whether this delirium could survive far from the
Croisette, and plotted an escape.
Following a brief neuropsychological examination conducted over the debris
of luncheon at the Long Beach seaside restaurant, I surreptitiously
mentioned my escape plans to a trusted friend, who agreed that a quest of
this type might offer the only clear path to mental hygiene. We stole
rapidly along the Croisette, dodging the paparazzi, weaving through the
hordes of on-lookers, avoiding the menacing stares of various life-forms
imitating food-stuffs. The Cabalistic rituals of yesterday had led me to
suspect the motives of all species populating the habitat within a 3 mile
radius of the Palais des Festivals, and I did not breathe easily until we
slipped the Peugeot past the Port Pierre Canto, along the coast road, East
towards Antibes. By the time we reached the Hotel du Cap, the veil of
paranoia was already starting to lift, and after parking off the cobbled
streets of Vielle Antibes, I was positively cheerful. Climbing the winding
alleys to the Chateau Grimaldi, towards the Picasso Museum, I joked
casually that there seemed something eery about our trek, that I sensed we
were still in Rosicrucian Territory. And then it happened. We turned the
corner, and looming before us was - La Cathedrale of Antibes! While none
of the other tourists appeared to be distressed, there was no escaping the
signature Radiating Pyramid of the Masonic cult in bas relief, gleaming
from the pediment, nor the characteristic granite Rosy Cross, a full 12
feet in diameter, marking the footpath entrance to this shrine of the
Knights Templar. While I struggled to remain calm during a rapid review of
the Picasso collection, I knew we had kilometers to go before we could
truly escape the Conspiracy of Cannes '96.
We continued East, through some industrial waste-lands, and finally
upwards, tunneling through the hills to Monaco. Then sliding down the
winding slopes that, in only a few days, would witness themind-numbing
screams of grand prix race cars, we found peace at last in the quiet
squares of the old city, absorbed the view over Monaco harbor from the
turrets of the Palais, and slipped discreetly into a salon for haircuts
that I hoped would help disguise our identities, and perhaps throw the
Masons off our track. Later, touring the Casino, offering a token to the
Gods of gambling and enjoying a 5-to-1 payoff from our first offering to a
one-armed bandit, it was easy to enjoy the sunset views over the
Mediterranean from the American Bar of the Hotel de Paris. And at last,
there was the long sought after Macallan single-malt whisky; which at only
26 USD per glass (and that for only the 12 year, the 18 year and 25 year
variants not available), somehow seemed a bargain.
This tranquility could not last forever, but armed with at least a few
hours of sanity, it was possible to return to Cannes with some peace of
mind, some perspective on the Festival, perhaps it was not really all sound
and fury? But emerging from the parking lot beneath the Palais des
Festivals, we were immediately assaulted by rocket fire, as the annual
fire-works turned the night to high noon, and raised the decibel level of
the Croisette to unprecedented levels. I took cover in my apartment, and
changing into more appropriate evening clothes, waited for the battle to
end before continuing my mission. Inspired by victory over the
one-armed-bandit in Monaco, I dropped in to the Carlton Casino to try my
luck, and pay regards to the Casino Girls who had rescued me from that
homicidal sheik two nights earlier. And there were Amanda (dealing black
jack) and Sandra (standing listlessly by a spinning roulette wheel) -
draped in beige satin folds that brought to mind the valances of a
mortuary. They most appropriately presided over this funereal procession,
the gentle bone-clattering of 500 FF chips being swept to their final
resting places somewhere in the crematoria of the Casino, symbols of the
final sacrament, and laying-to-rest of the one thing most important to the
denizens of Cannes - *cash*. Although the research budget did not include
a major commitment to experiments of this type, I did appropriate some some
funds that had been reserved for pilot studies, to participate in the
process, and survived the fast hands of Amanda, even Sandra's hypnotic
gyres. Touched though I was by these last rites, I stayed on the left bank
of this pecuniary River Styx, gently refusing the boat ride from Charon
(cleverly but thinly disguised as "Sharon", who stood beside Sandra and
urged a few more goes at Roulette), and returned to the cool night air for
further investigation.
The evening buzz continued along the Rue de Republique, first at the Petit
Carlton (which I have now learned is more appropriately referred to as the
"Petty Carlton"), and then Brumelles multi-level piano bar. No matter what
level was chosen for observation, the crooning of "New York, New York" by a
French chanteuse, accompanied by a talented pianist who was nevertheless
restricted to hammering out melodies over a synthetic rhythm section,
generated all the look and feel of Cannes Karaoke. This scene was
populated primarily by species already identified and classified during
prior investigations, although it must be said that the late-night dowagers
were more abundant here than in some other venues.
Sensing that my work here was unlikely to yield more important
observations, I returned to transmit these notes to you,
Your fatigable,
Reichard Flickheimer
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