French Kiss

Less than 48 hours in Cannes sans walking the red carpet, and a similar amount of time in Paris sans a visit 
to the Louvre may not qualify 
as textbook travel. But when in 
France, break the rules and do it the French way — c’est la vie

It starts with a kiss. A very French kiss, right outside the quaint quarters the Cote d’Azur Airport in Nice is (so quaint and ever so fuddy-duddy that you begin to wonder, really, is this what passes as the landing strip for those posh cinema people who are then gently guided on to the red carpet in neighbouring Cannes that doesn’t have its own airport?). The strikingly attractive man has just walked out of the arrival gate, and the pretty woman with long flowing hair is, clearly, delighted to see him. So they kiss.

It’s a long, lingering one and the woman’s Golden Retriever, approving of the show of love, gambols around happily. Looks straight out of the sets of You’ve Got Mail, when Joe (Tom Hanks) and Kathleen (Meg Ryan) lock lips for the fitting finale, and Brinkley the Dog prances around the two.

It’s a good freeze-frame to keep in mind while doing the half-an-hour drive to Cannes, down the chic, rambling southern French countryside.

Soon, I am at that part of the Riviera that’s home to the world’s most-publicised film festival, the stardust generated therefore, all things designer and preferred hangout zone of the rich and the famous.

Picture-perfect Cannes has a miniscule population (mostly retired folks), can be combed through — on foot — in a couple of hours, and is usually overrun by tourists. Thanks to the last-said, it has some of the best hotels in the world, but they are not regulation five-stars. As a savvy hospitality industry insider points out: “It’s not good enough to have a great hotel — it should capture the ethos of the French Riviera [note the accent please].”

The Majestic Barriere, one of the old-timers where I am putting up, does that beautifully. The hotel — a favourite among the film fraternity and general glitterati — is in constant competition with the neighbouring Martinez and the Ritz-Carlton for one-upmanship.

So what it is about the Majestic (almost across the street from the Palais des Festivals, the Kodak Theatre of the Cannes Film Festival) that sets it apart from the organised clutter of fancy hotels on the waterfront?

Well, the La Petit Maison de Nicole for one (the restaurant is so utterly gourmet that you cannot but want to, outlandishly, rush to the branch at DIFC the moment you land back at Dubai airport). And then, in a whopping high-five to cinematic traditions, the ‘star galleries’ that dot its plush corridors. And the private auditorium that also offers the 3D effect — in case you want to view reel life in another dimension (I did).

And the cutting-edge swishy Christian Dior suite (designed with inputs from the great man himself) — where you can spend an entire day just noting how God is in the details.

I could go on, but decide to take a breather and go on a jaunt down the immaculate boulevard overhanging the waterfront. It converts into a semi-art district over weekends: artists from nearby areas display and sell their works, alongside local handicrafts and supposedly antique merchandise.

The alleys and bylanes are all cobblestoned, the houses retain their 19^th-century, old-world charm, and I amble up to the ‘rooftop’ adjoining the Castre museum and bell tower — from where you can look down on the magnificent world of Cannes below, the waves gently lapping the shore, and the tiny specks that are yachts/boats sailing on glimmering waters.

Next up on the agenda is a boat trip to the island of Saint-Marguerite that houses Fort Royal, the fortress prison of yore. Its most famous prisoner was the 17^th century ‘Man in the Iron Mask’, whose identity is still under a cloud: Voltaire wrote about him, as did Dumas, and even a film was made in the late 90s, starring Leonardo DiCaprio. The fortress is so well preserved that you almost feel a shiver go down your spine; the surroundings, completely far-removed from the nattiness prevalent across the stretch of water, take me back to a time I could have only imagined when I read The Three Musketeers.

Some more ambling down the haute alleys 
of Cannes — where all stores are boutiques, there’s nothing as commonplace as shops — gives you an indication of its brand-width. Amazingly, there is no commercialisation in evidence (other than in the back-office ledgers), only experiential gratuitousness.

Back for dinner at La Petit Maison on departure eve, a group of longhaired singers flit by, table to table, warbling songs 
on request.

Somebody in my 
group asks for Love me do… and it’s tough not to dissolve into spontaneous laughter at the thought of The Beatles in boutique paradise.

En route to Paris, my new French friend, who’s lived in the US but spent years studying (at the Sorbonne, no less) and working in Paris, asks me, “So, what do you think is the best part about Paris?”

“Er, the museums?” (There aren’t any on the itinerary, I recall dismally.)

“No way! Shopping for shoes tops that; you get the best shoes in the world here,” she rubs her hands in glee. “I want to pick up at least five pairs… Coming with me?”

“Try and stop me!”

Before the onslaught of shoes, I am hit by the Louis Vuitton flagship store on Champs Élysées, while the Arc de Triomphe, within striking distance, stands by sullenly. This is the view from my room at the very elegant-modernist Fouquet’s Barriere. There are stories about how each time a new collection is unveiled at LV, customers — many of them tourists who want the Real Thing — start forming a line in the wee hours so as to get first strike when doors are opened at 10am.

Turns out there is a museum in my itinerary after all: the Auguste Rodin one — Musée Rodin — housing notable works (The Thinker and The Gates of Hell, among an awful lot of others) of the French sculptor. Many of the works — bodies of evidence mostly — are displayed in the magnificent garden. There’s also a spread of his sketches, which are a tad too anatomist. Most of the museum is not open for viewing as it’s being redone, I am told. Maybe next time...

After a somewhat botched-up effort to imbibe culture, it’s time for the shallower retail therapy which, on Parisian turf, is almost like a pilgrimage. So it’s an afternoon at Printemps, of the unpronounceable name (what you read is definitely not what you hear), the high priestess of umbrella retail.

I am told a lot of tourists from the Middle East come here on shopping sprees, since the one-stop store stocks all the major fashion brands. Printemps is layered: there are levels differentiating haute couture, luxury and high street, and there are personal shoppers to help you resolve your spoilt-for-choice dilemmas.

My new friend is not picking up shoes as randomly as she had said she would; I do more shoe-shopping than she does, and, boy, is she right about the standards of shoes!

She tells me she is saving her purchase impulses for some “street-side shopping” the next day. Would I like to join in? But of course.

We roam the district of St Germain des Pres, down rue des Canettes and rue St Andre des Arts; “This city is so meant for walking,” emphasises my friend, who’s now buying shoes faster than I can awkwardly say “Bonjour”.

Even checking out 
the magazine and bric-a-brac stands at charming street corners is a whole lot of fun. As is popping in and out of stores, without buying a thing. It’s rare to find salespeople hustling you: they are perfectly content to let you do your thing — browse or buy. Suits me fine.

On the last leg of the shopping expedition, we indulge in a short reprieve at one of the sit-out bistros; soon, our animated vino-and-French-fries combo session is interrupted by a couple of beggars, who refuse to let go till they are given a euro each. “That’s it,” my friend says, “let’s scram before we lose all our change.”

We plunge into Metro madness, since it’s end-of-work-hours time, and 
at least half the city seems to be underground. The Paris Metro — a world apart from the spanking new Dubai one — implodes with character, and I particularly like how one gent insists on talking to his birds (he is carting them in a cage) while being seated. The stations are, alternately, grimy and colourful (lots of posters everywhere), and you can spot at least one busker each time you commute.

There is also a stopover at the Arab World Institute for vignettes of Middle Eastern history. Why would you want to visit the Arab institute in Paris when 
you live in the region 
yourself? Good question, but then, at times, you uncover cultural aspects from your part of the world when you are zoned out. The best part is the coffee shop on the terrace that has a jaw-dropping view of Paris.

This is where I have to pronounce that the most distinctive thing about Paris — perhaps not the best — is the absence of a vertical skyline… other than the Eiffel Tower.

I don’t get to be up-close and personal with the landmark Guy de Maupassant loved to hate, but I pass by it on my last evening in Paris, all brightly lit up like a neon billboard, while going to the riverside to board a dinner-cruise boat. The station is right under Eiffel’s nose and, despite my best efforts, it’s tough to get bowled over by it. I realise why Maupassant hated it so.

Then, I am on board the Le Diamant, operated by Bateaux Parisiens, gliding by, on a magical mystery tour of Paris by night. As signposts such as the Notre Dame cathedral, Le Grand Palais, the National Assembly, the State de la Liberte (the smaller Parisian version of NYC’s Statue of Liberty — which was a gift from the French to the Americans) pass by, there’s dinner and drinks being served with savoir faire.

There are hushed whispers about a head of state and his entourage being seated right behind us, but something else suddenly takes centre stage and blows away all political correctitude.

In a fashion à la the 
films (something I thought I’d left behind in Cannes), the waiter produces a 
tray with a trinket box at the table next to mine, where a young couple is seated. The man picks up the box, scoops out a ring (damn, I cannot make out if it’s a solitaire) and proceeds with the pre-planned act.

Ring in hand, he proposes; she accepts with a mini whoop of joy, and wipes away tears. I swear, on the moonlight-slicked slither that is the Seine with the theme of Paris, je t’aime swirling wondrously in my head, it would have been tough to figure out if those were crocodile ones.

Two violinists appear on cue, and play a morceau (it’s not a snatch from Edith Piaf’s La vie en rose)… As our barge traipses down the solemn river, the couple gaze dreamily into each other’s eyes.

And then they kiss. - sushmita@khaleejtimes.com

The schiphol stopover

• Air France-KLM flies daily from Dubai International Airport to Schiphol Airport Amsterdam. You can then catch a connecting flight to Nice to get to Cannes — or one straight on to Paris.
• Schiphol is the hub for Air France-KLM, and a lot of transit passengers change flights here — so it is almost like a giant hotel as well. a
• If your layover is long enough, you can opt for a Schiphol tour that takes on a round of things to do while lounging — including a couple of cool hotels. Don’t forget to check out the tulips and the Rijksmuseum annex! For more information, log on to www.schiphol.nl