Cannes

July 21, 2011

Today we were planning on going to St Tropez but stupidly, they only run two boats from Saint Raphael per day which is really helpful in peak tourist season. Not only was the first one full, but it didn’t come back until 6pm. Not ideal when the last village bus back to Pammy’s is at 6:15pm.

So instead, we decided to go to Cannes. Seeing as though we have paid an extortionate amount of money to the French rail system, we decided our trip Cannes could be on them, as we only had tickets from Les Arcs to Saint Raphael and Cannes is an extra stop on the train.

Now, I have to explain, I’m a massive pussy. The worst thing I did at school was leave sports day early and get a telling off for talking during choir practice. The only thing can draw me out of pussy mode is when I pay too much for public transport and I feel like a free ride is owed to me (hence me not paying for a year on the 149 bus in London and Luke did – pussy). So we hopped on with the dodgy looking men with their plastic bags and the woman slumped in the corner talking to God. All went well and we arrived in Cannes without getting caught.

Now, Cannes smells of money. It makes you feel a bit boozy and rah with the palm trees and hotel lined promenade with art deco lettering. The place definitely has a buzz but then again, that might have been the sound of the valets locking and unlocking all of the obscenely expensive cars. The beaches are mainly for the rich who can afford spending 30 Euros on a sunlounger. The plebs (us) have to pile on top of each other and scavenge for a patch of sand. On the plus side, Luke saw lots of boobs and I got to see a lot of European back hair.

On the way back, we were again on ticket inspector alert. We had just found some nice seats when we saw three inspectors come into our carriage. We got up to move to a different part of the train but were trapped like the mice in the tube going up to Richard Gere’s ass when we saw another two conductors coming up from the other side. Those clever buggers with their two pronged approach, I bet Richard didn’t think of that. While deciding what to do, we did what any seasoned free rider would do and guiltily walked up and down the same isle about three times. As they were closing in on us, I decided me going into the toilet might help. Deciding Luke looked more innocent than me, I left him outside while I stood in the toilet looking at a picture of a badly drawn cock for five minutes. When I couldn’t stand the stench for any longer, I went outside to see what had happened to Luke. He was still there. Unharmed and looking confused. We decided that we looked like dicks and decided to go and sit down. When we got into our original carriage, the inspectors we arguing with another man who had tried to beat the system. We hoped that they would continue arguing until we got to the next stop where our ticket was valid. As Luke and I were whispering what our cover story would be (we fell asleep and missed our stop this morning so decided just to stay in Cannes – err, piss weak) when the ticket inspector pounced on us from behind. “Billet”, he demanded. Luke handed our tickets over to him. I kept my head down thinking about our 70 Euro fine and praying the inspector was gay and Luke had cottoned on and winked at him or something.

We waited.

And then he stamped them, without saying a word. Anti-bloody-climax.

Advertisements