Que de parasols sur les plages - Juan-les-Pins

Tourism statistics for the Côte d’Azur suggest that between 60,000 (low season) and 600,000 (high season) visit the area. No statistics seem to exist on the number of beach umbrellas that open and spread with the summer months.

Locals grumble about the inconvenience of the waves of visitors and pets or the increase in traffic and nightlife, but the place scintillates!

The day begins early at the beaches of Juan-les-Pins. City workers clean beaches and wash down boardwalks.

By 9 a.m., beach goers begin to arrive at this public beach near the west end of the boardwalk. By noon, the place is jammed packed with tourists.

The private beaches (owned by the city but rented out) have restaurants, dressing rooms and comfortable lounge chairs. Not to mention brightly colored umbrellas. Here, for 15 euros a day, you can bask in the luxury of having space, access to food, drink and bathrooms and avoid the crowds. This is vacation after all.

The beach restaurants (which also have the lounge chairs), with parasols, enable diners to eat lunch and dinner with feet in the sand.

The umbrellas contribute to the festive atmosphere (as does the sun). In a way, everyone hates to see it come to a close in late August.


My Note:

Probably one of the more spectacular views is from the Plage de la Salis, a public beach that overlooks the old city of Antibes. But best to arrive early. It's difficult to find a space to put your towel.

So Many Saints, so little time on the Cote d'Azur

I got caught up in a procession last July when walking to the port to look at ocean-going yachts. Barefoot sailors in white and blue shirts carried a statue of a saint and followed a group of bagpipe players.

In the festival of Saint Peter, patron saint of fishermen, a procession winds throughout the old city of Antibes and ends up near a port where a wreath is throw to sea in honor of those who have lost their lives. But I had missed a similar festival, that of Notre Dame (Our Lady) de Bon Port, in which the Virgin is taken from the Chapel of La Garoupe, known for its ex-votos and 10th-century nave, and also paraded by barefoot sailors.

The French have amped up summer festivities—patron saints, gastronomy or flowers—to appeal to tourists. I met up with my sailors later in the morning. They had deposited their saint and now were complaining about sore feet and . . . bagpipe music. I am sure we can find a patron saint to remedy these ills.

Dogs and la vie en France. . . .

“It is sometimes difficult to know who commands in a family—the husband, the wife, the mother-in-law, or the cook. But the dog is never mistaken.” --Marcel Pagnol, French writer known for his stories about Marseille.

Dogs are the sine qua non of French existence (in addition to champagne and chocolate). Some have pedigree, some are mixed breed, but all are happy, welcomed and loved. They jump to attention at a moment’s notice, show unconditional love and never complain. And the French love their dogs—the men might leave their wives in the car or at home while they stop at the café for a drink, but never their dogs.

We can’t say enough good things about our dogs, but cats are pretty cool too. What types of pets do you have?

Care Packages of sorts. . .

I took a Delta flight through many cities to get to Nice in late June. My suitcase contained three boxes of Cheez-Its (a special request), Crest whitening strips, Neosporin and coffee coolers—among the few items globalization has not brought to France—along with tango shoes and too many clothes.

It’s never a good sign to have your originating flight delayed. The two-hour time between connecting flights in Atlanta and Amsterdam ended in sprints to make boarding at the next gate. I arrived on time in Nice, but my bag arrived 24 hours later. . . .

The airline travel care package consisted of one large t-shirt and very few maintenance items. The only advantage to a delayed bag is that riding the number 250 bus to Juan-les-Pins was much easier. . . .

A Year Abroad by Jane Tolbert

In my travels to France over the years, I have seen a lot of change. American expressions have entered the vocabulary, and more American products are available—not only diet soft drinks, but Skippy peanut butter and Doritos. McDonald’s and fast foods are firmly entrenched, but the French waistlines also have expanded.

Driving no longer presents the white-knuckle experience. Many right of ways have been replaced by stop signs or traffic circles. Drivers seem more courteous, but the motorcycles and scooters swerve and weave like stuntmen from an action film. Among the worst offenders are the delivery boys for Mister Pizza. Both tiny cars and SUVs are more numerous. The dearth of parking spaces continues to force drivers to use ruse and stealth to snare a space.

Even with the emphasis on environmental protection and climate change, large development projects continue to spring up along the Mediterranean coastline, all but blocking the view, much like the condos on Florida’s beaches. Fields once filled with roses and jasmine for the perfume industries of Grasse have given way to villas and swimming pools. The inland region, with its rolling hills and olive trees, looks a lot like California.

In the post-war years, the French phone system seemed antiquated if it existed at all. But today, the telecommunications systems exceed my wildest dreams. For 30 euros a month, subscribers have a high-speed Internet connection, an excellent phone system with unlimited, free calls in France and to many foreign countries, as well as cable TV service. Healthcare is enviable. The “subscription” is based on an individual’s income rather than the flat rate charged by private health companies in the States.

More stores are open during the lunch hour. However, aside from a few cafés and North African groceries, little is open on Sunday afternoon, a time when I often ran my last-minute errands in Florida. A few rare service stations have mini-markets that carry wine, coffee, sandwiches, toilet paper and cat litter. The things that just can’t wait until Monday.

The post office and banks have maintained the traditional French schedule—mysterious operating hours, the two-hour lunch break and numerous holidays. Strikes, especially among railroad employees and university professors, continue to be prevalent. Shopping carts still do not roll in a straight line, and checkout counters in large supermarkets have the client elbowing their way through lines or diving to bag merchandise at it flies by on conveyor belts.

Singles are still welcomed by groups of friends, a much healthier social scene than the couples-only syndrome in the States. In the post-disco years, more Latin dance places have opened. And Argentine Tango is very popular. Its Tangueros look for any opportunity to dance at a variety of places—from Jack’s Blues jazz club to seaside parks.

In other ways France still maintains its uniqueness. Is it the fresh slivers of parmesan on my salad at the Café de la Plage? The hint of ground pepper in the vanilla ice cream from Fenocchio Glacier ? The tall, thin fluted glasses in which my peach kir is served at the Bamba? The way in which women dress up even for menial chores, and the interest the men show? The rows of fresh pastries that line the glass display cases? The sidewalk café terraces with dogs? The advertising with its humorous, sexual allusions?

I don’t know the answer. But fortunately in this world of change, France still retains an intangible quality of . . . Frenchness.

# # #

Recessionista on the Riviera

Recessionista on the Riviera by Jane Tolbert

I was a recessionista before the term was coined. As a graduate student, I shopped at thrift and consignment stores, limiting pricey purchases to the occasional splurge on a Hermès scarf or Prada glasses. Now with the recession in full swing, the frugal approach to fashion has replaced ostentatious consumption of the fashionista era. Many artifacts of a consumer culture are now relegated to the back corners of a closet. No one wants to look the extravaganista now.

Even on the French Riviera, the recession has brought about a shift in the geography of spending. The Americans have long been displaced as symbols of affluence. After 9-11, even more so. But now even the British and Russians have faded from the landscape. Although a British investor is transforming an early 20th-century hotel at the edge of the Cap d’Antibes into luxury apartments and hotel suites, his fellow countrymen no longer lap up properties in the Mougins area. The Russian bodyguards who drove convertible Mercedes in front of the casino in Juan-les-Pins have vanished. In September 2008, the much talked-about sale of the Villa Leopolda in Villefranche to a Russian did not materialize—the selling price was to have been a heafty 500-million euros. Although the wealthy people here still live off their rentes—those private incomes and annuities, they have shortened their international trips. The locals with day jobs are cutting back on expenditures—less money goes to food, and this past winter, they bundled up in more sweaters to avoid paying a higher heating bill. Although the summer vacation is somewhat sacred here, the news media predict more families will be staying in camping grounds rather than at hotels or large resorts.

In an area in which tourism is a major source of income, the recession has affected the hotel business. Some hotels closed during the winter; others reported a 10 percent decrease in business. Some attempted to lure in new clients with offers of bargain weekends. In response to the downturn, swank restaurants began offering affordable noon menus.

The retail businesses found little relief with the Christmas season. For a few months this winter, the Rue d’Antibes in Cannes seemed devoid of people with shopping bags. The Cap 3000 had a full parking lot, but clients made only modest purchases. Department store sales, formerly limited to twice a year—July and January--extended to entice reluctant customers.

Some signs of opulence remain. Luxury cars still abound on the Riviera—Maserati, Aston Martin, and the ever-present Ferraris and some Lamborghinis. The smaller cars—the Smart and the retros (the Fiat 500 and the Mini)--have also become popular. After all, you can fit a shopping bag in the backseat if necessary. But a true sign of a firmly entrenched recession would be chic Vespas cluttering street corners. With a Vespa, a pair of stilettos and a billowing skirt, and a shopping bag between the knees, anyone would look the true recessionista.


With predictions of the French economy shrinking by 3 percent in 2009, it has become fashionable, even on the Riviera, to be recessionista. Before I returned to the States, I planned a day of shopping at friperies and dépôts ventes (thrift and consignment), all within proximity of the palatial Cannes hotels, where I hoped to find that little soupçon of luxury. Would that gently used D & G handbag now be affordable?

The day I went to Cannes, the rain dampened my enthusiasm for shopping. I visited only one consignment store where I tried on a D & G cotton dress that carried a tag for 100 euros, likely 20 percent of the original price. I planned to return another day with more enthusiasm. But the rains continued, and instead I went to the Cap 3000 where 100 euros bought much more at the H & M. Cannes would have to wait. But perhaps when I returned another year, the recessionista would have also gone the way of the fashionista. And perhaps we would all go shopping with our Vespas.
# # #

From Istanbul to Vallauris by Jane T. Tolbert

Last August, my sister told me she was sending me a jacket she bought in Istanbul. She wanted the address of the studio I was renting in Vallauris, France, so she could mail it to me.

After a week of living to the north of the city made famous by Picasso, I received an “avis de passage” in my mailbox. I was certain this was my Istanbul jacket, although the notification did not specify the sender. It only provided the times at which the package would be available. I took the Rue Notre Dame, darted across a busy intersection and headed in the direction of the Picasso Museum, the market square with its “Homme au Mouton” statue by Picasso, and the Café Llorca. From there, I walked down a narrow street toward the Chapelle de la Miséricorde, which serves as an exposition hall for the arts. After several more blocks, I arrived at the post office.

Two long lines had formed at the counters. Each transaction seemed complex. The clerk shuffled books, opened cabinet drawers, checked information on a monitor, and made trips to a back room. Didn’t anyone want just one postage stamp? Many people still use the post office for financial transactions—for savings and checking accounts or to send money back to their families in North Africa. The lines swelled. Women with shopping caddies, others with babies in strollers. Men with large packages in plaid bags. Couples with fresh product from the market. Would I reach the front of the line before the two-hour closing for lunch?

The line inched forward. I was next. No! A buxom woman walked to the front, claiming she had a priority card for a physical infirmity. The others waiting in line rolled their eyes, but no one said anything.

I handed the clerk my notification, explaining it was probably bulky. But she returned with a small taped box, asking that I sign the receipt. This was not my jacket! It was my high-speed internet connection box.

Months passed. I received other notifications, but I did not receive my jacket. The post offices in Turkey and France are reliable. What could have happened? I moved to Juan-les-Pins, and I left the post office a forwarding address. But after nearly eight months, I assumed the jacket had been lost in transit. When my sister asked if she should mail my birthday presents to my new address, I said to wait until I returned to the States. I’d rather not risk losing another jacket.

Now after nearly a year, my sister is back in Istanbul. The other day she left me a cryptic phone message that she had great news. Then she asked if I remembered the “brick joke.” I assumed she referred to a commission for a major project. But I didn’t see the relationship to the joke. Later, she explained she had not called about a commission, but about my jacket. She was staying at her favorite hotel, the Troya. The concierge had a package for her. She had addressed the jacket to me in Vallauris, but she indicated the Hotel Troya in Istanbul as the return address. The concierge kept the package, knowing she would return one day. He would have kept it for forty years if necessary.

“Do you want me to mail it?” she asked.
“Let’s not risk it. I will get it when we both return to the States.”

As for the brick joke, best to ask my sister about that one.
# # #

Bonheur - Happiness

Quel Bonheur – The arrival of a long-awaited spring in the South of France. By Jane T. Tolbert

From mid November 2008 through mid April 2009, we had wet, cold, gray weather, typical of what I would call Northern Europe. “Unseasonal,” the natives claimed as if to justify the high prices visitors paid for the sunshine that should have been but wasn’t. “We always eat on the café terraces in January,” came the familiar refrain. “The first time in more than twenty years,” the meteorologists repeated all the while continuing their dire forecasts for the coming days. But spirits remained optimistic. “It could be worse—we could be in Paris or Brussels or London,” the locals agreed. Anything north of the mountains was viewed as the “netherland,” at least in terms of weather. But even in inclement weather, the people here remained optimistic and found happiness in the little things like walks or conversations with friends or bouquets of flowers.

In all weather conditions, a handful of bundled pedestrians appeared, often with a small shivering dog at the end of a leash. The dedicated joggers made their way up and down the boardwalk. The serious cyclists looking insect like in their large helmets and Spandex suits flew along streets and through deep puddles. But reminders of warmer weather appeared daily—the citrus and orange trees in terra cotta planters, geraniums that overflowed from balconies, and clusters of cafesitters.

On those rare sunny days that broke the monotony this winter, people and their pets, roller bladers, Africans hawking souvenirs, and candy vendors competed for space.
By Easter, anoraks, wool coats and scarves had been shed. Hopeful tourists donned light sweaters, flip flops or sneakers at the first sign of spring. Bright beach parasols popped open, and lounge chairs appeared on the private beaches that carried signs--transats et parasols demi-journée 8 euros, journée 10 euros. Dog scampered on the beach, kicking up sand. Small children raced to the edge of the water then darted back. Some people ventured into the water, oblivious to cold water. Café terraces became crammed with patrons sporting large designer sunglasses—Chanel, D & G, Roberto Cavalli, Guess. Other dogs tethered to café chairs squinted into the sun, their nozzles twitching at the scent of other canine friends.

Most boutiques and many small restaurants have been closed for a month or more during the winter. Tourists are scarce, and many locals hesitate to linger outside when the temperature drops below the 50s or rain threatens. Now with the return of spring, restaurant and store owners begin six weeks of frenzied activity to prepare for the tourist season. Crowds arrive before Easter, swell during the Cannes Film Festival in May, and streets become dense with moving throngs of color in the summer months. Although the weather remains beautiful into October, the crowds thin by late August. School or work vacations have ended, and the travelers have returned to their day jobs. By November, most have left the area, but some return at Christmas for the holiday festivities.

In late March, the beachfront restaurants, which pay an exorbitant rent I’ve been told, dig out terraces that have been buried under the sand or worse, washed away by the winter storms. The smell of paint and the sounds of saws, drills, and chink chink of masonry hammers fill the air. A large landscaping truck brimming with live palm trees blocks traffic in front of the Up Café. With a crane, it unloads the cargo to the beach of the Helios restaurant. Further down, the terraces of the Café de la Plage overlook the sea. The café, which has just gotten a face life, is in a gridiron-shaped building with a large clock on its façade. Most days its mascot, a black and white Newfoundland dog, ambles among the tables or lounges as waiters race to and from the kitchen to fill orders. This café offers an ideal vantage point from which to view the Mediterranean, the Lerin Islands, and the Esterel Mountain chain beyond Cannes. Just behind the café, the road veers off toward the park and the Cap d’Antibes. This street is bordered by small boutiques selling clothes, jewelry, and ice cream. Just beyond, an intersection is crowded with cafes—the Café Crystal and the PomPom—and restaurants and the Casino and hotel owned by the Partouche family. The annual jazz festival is held in July at the Pinède, a small park shaded by paraol pines. On the border of the sidewalk, clay tile squares carry the hand prints of jazz musicians--B.B. King, Little Richard, Ray Charles, and many others. On the sandy large area overlooking the sea and Cap d’Antibes, groups of men gather for their regular game of boules or pétanque.

Back at the Café Up (UpSideDown Café), I selected a seat facing west with a view of the sun setting over the Esterel and the Lerin Islands. I nodded a greeting to the gentleman and his dog sitting at the next table.

“What happiness!” he exclaimed.

I assumed he referred to his dog, who displayed a perpetual smile.

For two euros, I ordered a large coffee in a cup advertising Mokalito, which came with two individually wrapped sugar cookies.

“Quel bonheur,” my neighbor said again, this time motioning to the view.

The couple behind us seemed oblivious to the surroundings and instead debated the dessert menu. A waitress took orders of ice cream and drinks in tall glasses to another table.

Clouds gathered, and the rays of the sun cast hazy spotlights on the Esterel, now subdued with the fading light. On the boardwalk, parents and grandparents herded small children on tiny scooters and bicycles back to parked cars. A tan Corgi mix that makes daily rounds looked shocked and almost accusingly at an approaching car. He was in the pedestrian zone after all. I gathered my sweater and prepared to leave, somewhat euphoric at having spent more than an hour contemplating the scenery over a cup of coffee.

“The weather should be nice tomorrow,” the waiter commented. “It’s been unseasonably cold this year.”

I nodded, and agreed.
“Quel bonheur to see the return of spring!”


###

Cafesitting, the French Way

Jane T. Tolbert – Café Sitting, the French Way, an article based on more than 20 years of café sitting in various cities and villages of France.

Travelers returning to the States often find the absence of cafes noticeable if not annoying. Cafes are on every street corner in France and for centuries have been the mainstay of civilization. Writers, artists, absinthe drinkers, the illustrious, the luminaries, and the renegades have long adopted the cafesitting style of life. For the most part, clientele consists of average people and pets. The outdoor terrace has chairs and small tables, and a black board with a white inscription carrying the menu. Inside the woman behind the counter may be the girlfriend or the wife of the owner. Large dogs are often underfoot, spread comfortably across the entry, surveying the scene through half-closed eyes. These languid beasts spring into action at the whiff of a croque monsieur or even the sight of wrapped sugar cubes that accompany an espresso to the table.

Shelves behind the bar display bottles of flavored syrups--mint, strawberry or blackberry—fruit juices, or beers. Alcohols include scotch, martini vermount, and numerous brands of pastis. I am in the South of France, after all. In the middle of the counter, an elaborate chrome- plated espresso machine fizzes and hisses, and spurts alongside a pyramid of white porcelain cups.

Cafes have names like the Auberge Fleuri, le Flore, la Cupole, but most of the time, no one remembers the name. Instead the cafes are known as chez Mario or Amelie or Francois.

The wide spectrum of cafés includes those seedy-looking places in need of repair with the long-standing reputation. At the other end, the newer more luxurious parlors with their upholstered chairs and booths. In the 1970s, the worn tile floor of the Café de Flore was carpeted with cigarette butts. Chairs sagged under the weight of decades of patrons. The café had been a popular watering hole for generations. In the winter, the air was a suffocating mixture of heat and cigarette smoke while in summers, the terraces opened to the noise and exhaust fumes of the street. The poker-faced maitre d’ with the ashen complexion never forgot a face. In contast, Les Glaces had art deco wallpaper and a jukebox that played top hits. A wasp-waisted garcon raced back and forth filling orders and making change with the coins in his six-pocketed vest. His black pants lacked one half centimeter of dragging the floor.

Some cafes fill a function in addition to serving food and drink. The PMU sells lottery tickets and cigarettes as well as the local newspaper. Other cafes also act as an employment agency, matching workers with potential employers. Of course, these transactions take place under the table, and workers are generally not declared. But that’s another story.

The success of a café is not determined by its decor but by some intangible quality—that je ne sais quoi that attracts a loyal clientele. The blue collar cafes have their regular group—those men who appear several times a day—before work for an espresso, which they enjoyed with their cigarette before the laws changed, at noon for an aperitif, and again in the evenings to meet with friends. They also appear on Sunday mornings, baguette and newspaper in hand. With their ever-present berets squashed down over reddish complexions, they lean heavily on the counter an order—a little glass of white wine or something stronger. Or they order mineral water, explaining to anyone who might be listening their douleurs au foie or liver problems. Conversation is punctuated by curses like putain, acceptable in the South of France, or the more genteel zut or mince in mixed company. Talk centers on weather, the hunting season, or the plague of tourists and Parisians responsible for all ills such as traffic jams and the poor economy.

Other cafes are frequented by regulars who seem to have no schedule but have perfected the skill of café sitting. They come expressly to watch or talk, food and drink are secondary. They distract themselves in conversation or with that well-cultivated look of ennui or boredom, the French have mastered.
(Drawing by Margaret R. Tolbert)

I remember when I approached a café for the first time—an experience bordering on the traumatic. The feeling was much like that of stepping into the wrong hotel room. A hush fell, glasses and cigarettes paused, and heads craned. I settled in, ordered a large cappuccino, and studied the regulars. How did they move? A perfectly choreographed dance of clients, waiters, dogs, and shopping bags seemed to move, never colliding. With a fluid motion, the regulars unfurled their bodies at a small round table and arranged themselves in the most alarming pose. They draped their body in an S-shape loosely over a chair. They looked like disinterested spectators or they engaged in animated conversation, leaning over a table crowded with an ashtray, two coffees, and sugar cubes, somehow finding room for hands and elbows. The small table does encourage intimate conversation.
Now, years later with more than two decades of experience in this art of café sitting, I too enter an establishment with ease. I take my regular seat with the best view of the terrace. I nod to the garcon who remembers my order.

At Juan-les-Pins, my favorite café is the Crystal, just across from the casino. The dark reddish exterior bears the logo of the café—the letter Y in the name looks like a glass of sparkling champagne. The terraces are filled in winter and summer alike. Most mornings, an elderly lady arrives with her Boston bull. They both eagerly eye the basket containing their two orders of croissants that accompany their two large cappuccinos to which they will add numerous sugar cubes. On warm evenings, this café terrace offers a window to the world of luxury cars. Before 8 p.m., drinks are served with a plate of hors d’oeuves of melted cheese or olive paste on small toasts. After 8 p.m., it’s only peanuts. But the café serves clients until the wee hours of the morning.



The long rainy winter and the poor economy have kept most of us away from the café terraces. I have only recently returned. I want to perfect this skill before I return to the States where I hope to discover some new cafes.