Cannes-Cannes Girl

Sourer Kraut

2007-06-19T11:26:00.000+02:00

The trauma continues for Lord Heinrich, who is still sans bagages in Cannes. On calling BA handlers in Nice for the 2,723rd time yesterday evening, he informed them that he would be claiming for refunds for the following essential purchases:

- new clothes and shoes from Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana etc (image to protect)
- new sports gear (image)
- chargers for blackberry, phone (appointments to keep, potential loss of business otherwise)
- toiletries (image)
- champagne to ease the mental stress (potential loss of business as so much time spent replacing lost possessions).

No details of the response from the (unhelpful) BA rep. Having frequently lost my luggage on BA via Heathrow (once, my case was lost for 7 days) I can sympathise. The reimbursement was for the princely sum of 50 pounds, so not sure if that will pay for a button on Lord H's shirt.

Time for Tantra

2007-06-16T23:33:00.000+02:00

Postscript:

Despite having lived here for nearly a year, I lack a little savoir-faire. When Lord Heinrich texted me to ask if I wanted to join him for a Tantra session, I didn't realise he meant drinks at a bar in Cannes. But this jetsetter was in her pyjamas at 11pm on a Saturday night - too rock and roll for words.

Sour Kraut

2007-06-16T23:14:00.000+02:00

Two months after first announcing his impending visit, German aristo Lord Heinrich has arrived on the Cote d'Azur for the international advertising schmoozefest, the Cannes Lions awards. Lord H emailed through some requests to his local PA, which included transport from the airport and a decent hotel.

Sadly, not even a frequent flyer gold card and upper class travel could prevent the inevitable happening - Lord H's luggage failed to make the connection at Heathrow. This was particularly ironic considering the good Lord had frequently mocked the lost luggage woes of others less fortunate (and more economy) than himself. His servant in France has lost cases 5 out of the last 6 trips to Heathrow.

But perhaps the ultimate stinger came when Lord H was told he had been downgraded to a smaller helicopter for the short flight from Nice to Cannes. As his Lordship had no baggage, they downgraded him. Oh the shame!

A matter of taste

2007-06-12T23:11:00.000+02:00

Spotted in the supermarket - a French food brand by the name of Gayelord.

2006-09-12T18:16:00.000+02:00

Whatever David Beckham thinks, the French invented metrosexuality. Men here have no qualms about using moisturiser and wearing tight T-shirts. They wear pink without a care in the world: in fact, when introducing her baby, dressed in pink and with a pink bow in her hair, an acquaintance was asked "what's your son's name?"

2006-08-16T16:51:00.000+02:00

The chavs have landed. I felt the wind of change at the weekend when I saw a few Burberry baseball caps in the supermarket Geant, and now it's been confirmed.
Posh & Becks are in town.

2006-08-15T13:43:00.000+02:00

Say what you like about the French drivers (and a lot has been said) - at least they have manners. If they run you off the road, they apologise, and if you let them run you off the road, they thank you.

2006-08-08T10:06:00.000+02:00

I've seen it all now: a woman carrying her rat-dog in a Burberry baby papoose.

2006-08-07T09:57:00.000+02:00

I got round to watching Superman in Cannes yesterday, in version originale (English to the uninitiated) in a truly old school cinema, with only the whirr of the projector to distract you, instead of multiphonic mobile rings, Arabs talking on the phone, kids squawking and rustling food.

The plot was an interesting one: power-hungry man decides to recreate an offshore continent to sell as prime island real estate. Reminds me of something, but can't quite think what...

2006-08-04T19:18:00.000+02:00

And back to reality: my car radio was stolen today from just outside the office. Those pesky French swine managed to pick the lock of my Noddy car and disembowel the radio without anyone seeing them. On the second trek down to the commissariat to report the crime (first visit was aborted when we were told all the police officers were out at lunch), the police showed much forward thinking in allowing me to fill in my own report.

I struggled a bit on the Star Trek Enterprise computer, with no keyboard and touch pad only, but not half as much as I struggled when it came to describe the colour of my car. The French, lovers of language speaking the langage of lovers, don't believe in keeping things straight to the point. Red was just not an option - the closest I could get was brick red or garnet red. Poetry in motion .....

2006-08-01T11:12:00.000+02:00

It's not just me that has noticed it is sheikhmobile season in Cannes - it's the talk of our office. Apparently, this season's hottest model is the Porsche Cayenne in iridescent purple. Expect to see it cruising the highways of the Gulf by September.

2006-07-31T19:08:00.000+02:00

Having been in the Riviera for just over three weeks, I've learned six important things.

1. Clothes. The French don't wear any. Queuing up for McDonald's in a bikini is perfectly acceptable, as is (to my horror) taking all your clothes off on the side of the street and changing into a baggy thong for the beach, as demonstrated by an old man last weekend. Not sure if my eyes will ever recover after my sheltered existence in the Gulf.

2. Cars. Size counts, but the smaller the better. The French seem to get an adverse pleasure out of showing their status and, well, Frenchiness, by having a teeny micro car that only looks suitable for Scalectrix. I have fitted right in by hiring a Fiat Panda, which passes a striking resemblance to Noddy's car, which struggles into fifth gear but is fab for parking in ridiculously small mountainside spaces. In fact, the only gas guzzlers I have seen have been those driven by Arabs on holiday.

3. Dogs. Truly man's best friend here. They go into supermarkets, and banks, and even offer great barking welcomes in the arrival terminal of Nice Cote d'Azur airport. And they are almost always smaller than cats, or even rats (see point 2).

4. Paperwork. Second only to wine in the national league of importance table - a whole rainforest was destroyed just for my bank account application forms. Online applications? No chance.

5. Air-conditioning. Truly a luxury and one that very few have, which makes the 36 degree heat far more unbearable than a sweltering Dubai summer.

6. French TV sucks.

2006-07-30T10:09:00.000+02:00

I tried to find the only English language (VO) showing of Superman Returns this weekend in Cannes. Having been stuck for ages in traffic, dodging vacant-gazed, St Tropez tanned (real and otherwise) rich people, and swerving to avoid gas-guzzling G wagons and Porsche Cayennes (sound familiar?). I failed to find the cinema. Apparently it's too small to warrant a) a sign b) flashing neon lights or c) a car park. Will try again next week, when I've gathered more strength.

2006-07-20T10:13:00.000+02:00

I may have travelled to another continent, but I'm still being spammed by Etisalat SMS ads. I didn't go to any of those club nights when I lived in Dubai, so why on earth would I bother now?

2006-07-11T17:40:00.000+02:00

Even for someone that has had years of Dubai's 50 degree humidity in the summer, a sweltering French summer is proving to be hard work. The mercury's hovering around 31 degrees, but there is no AC - and we are wilting. I had to resort to primary school origami by making a paper fan, so we have issued purchase instructions for an electrical variety.

Meanwhile, the flies are out in force, inspiring my colleagues to buy up the local supermarket's stock of insect killer. So now the office is adorned by hanging sticky tape traps, sprayed with chemicals and books are thrown at lingering bluebottles - a positive war zone here.

2006-07-10T22:03:00.000+02:00

What a week to move to France - the glorious last seven days of the World Cup. During the flight from Dubai, Zidane had a renaissance and started playing like the spring-heeled former World Footballer of the Year that struck fear - and goals - into the opposition.

Unfortunately, five days is a long time in football; from the horn-honking street parties following Les Bleus' semi-final win, to the eerie silence that followed Zidane's red card. I was watching the game in Monaco, where a bizarre time lapse in TV coverage meant we heard the Italian cheers before they had even taken the fifth penalty. The French press claims Zizou was hard done by, but the inexplicable head butt was a sorry note to end the competition.

Meanwhile, I switched my allegiance from the "ruggedly handsome" Zidane to Fabulous Fabio Cannavaro, having broken with my countrymen and supported Germany in the third-place play-offs.

2006-07-08T11:58:00.000+02:00

I've finally left the crane-filled Dubai for the Cote d'Azur. Dubai gave me eight good years, but it's goodbye to Seattle's Best coffee delivery and traffic jams, and hello to fresh air, European culture, mad French drivers, cobbled streets and no air-conditioning.

Spot the before and after photos.