It's Gartner IT Symposium week once again, thus I've been sparkling with exuberance for my employer, working the crowds and blogging and twittering for all I'm worth back on to the corporate web site. The majority of my time has been spent in the basement of the unlovely Palais de Expositions, a lump of '60s era concrete that does this gorgeous stretch of coast an extreme insult. Except that its vast size and great functionality means that I tend to get down here for one reason or another every year or so. And for that, I owe its brutalist architect a vote of thanks. Because every morning, before reporting for duty, there's a chance to take a brisk mile-and-a-half walk around the bay-side promenade known at the Croisette.
This part of the world has been famous for the quality of its light for centuries, but especially since the Impressionists flocked here. There is no arguing with that. In the early morning as the sun crests the horizon, everything lying beneath seems sharpened and defined, yet also softened in a pastel glow. Quite a trick. The buildings of Cannes ... subtle pink, the lightest mustard yellow, rich cream ... sparkle with the same lustre as the inside of a clam shell. The skies behind are a delicate, watercolour blue, and stretching away beneath them are green mountains punctuated by vivid white escarpments of limestone. It is remarkable, soothing, and a scene to make even the greatest philistine wish he could paint. Because no camera will ever really capture the subtlety of these colours and the calm they evoke.
Of course, subtlety ends with the fading of the morning light, and certainly does not carry through to the shops or residents of the town. This place was "bling" long before anyone thought of the term. We may be in a recession, but the shops along the waterfront still bear the names Hermes, Gucci and Prada, and carefully made up mutton dressed as lamb carry tiny dogs wearning those same brands in handbags that cost my take home pay for the month. That's the part of Cannes I find distasteful, and try to avoid as much as possible. Fortunately, the shops on the main street just one back from the beach, the Rue d'Antibes, are filled with stylish items for more normal prices. I only got one quick shopping break from the show floor, but it was a good one.
I have no great finds to report on the restaurant front. As with previous years, we've rolled into spots that were convenient and available. Food is average and prices are shocking: 23 euro for a small and unexceptional main of prawns provencal (I've had better in London) and 8 euro for a glass of wine was typical. Undoubtably, they can get away with these prices because everyone is either on expense account or too rich to care. Certainly I can't imagine anyone ever coming here on his own money.
Our best meal by far was 12 miles up the coast in Cap D'Antibes, where an Italian friend (yes, the same one who initiated last year's giddy dash to Monte Carlo for pizza) found a small Italian place run by immigrants who delivered the quality and flavours we would expect over the border. Great value, fantastic pizza and ... to the boys' delight ... TVs tuned to the Milan-Madrid football game. Next year, Enrico is considering an outing to San Tropez, so we can complete a Trifecta of pizza on this snooty coast.
Worth noting by name, however, was the Hotel Splendid. The team divided vehemently on this. We are used to staying 100 yards up the Croisette at the Majestic. Which is, granted, a testament to the gold-gilt luxury that Cannes does so well. I've had exceptional rooms here with exquisite views, and been amused to drink in the over-the-top bar, decorated like a 19th century Parisian brothel, watching prostitutes work the convention crowd who look like they've been around since Picasso took his first painting trip down here. The Splendid didn't have a prostitute in sight. No red velvet, gold gilt or oversized statues. It did have a cozy lobby, friendly staff who actually recognised you as a guest and a resident cavalier King Charles spaniel. The rooms were homey, French country blue and white, and came with a welcoming bowl of fruit and a sachet of fresh lavender sewn up in a Provencal-print bag. Breakfast came with the room rate (as opposed to the 30 euro or so we'd rack up in addition before), featured eggs as well as the standard Continental fare and could be consumed on a sunny terrace overlooking the yacht harbour.
Don't get me wrong. I like my luxury. But luxury without charm leaves me cold. This place had a warmth that the Majestic will never match, despite its four stars. The Splendid is still almost 200 euros a night, so don't expect a bargain. But if I were forced to stay in Cannes on my own money, I'd book here.
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