Cannes Day 3

Registration Day. Ryan is under the impression that having travelled several thousand miles to the Cannes Advertising Festival (sorry, the "Festival of Creativity"), I might want to actually attend some of the events. Seven years of marriage, two kids and sometimes it’s like we just met. Anyway Reiko, still unable to shake me off, and I wandered up to the registration booth in the Palais de Festivals to get our passes. These large plastic cards are basically photo id that you wear around your neck, prominently displaying your passport photo to anyone you meet. I assume it’s part of the entertainment.

There was a bit of a hitch with Reiko’s pass. Apparently another Reiko had registered, also from Japan. So you can see the confusion. Wonder what happened when they got their fifth Michael from the U.S. It’s the Festival of Creativity after all, not the Festival of Very Efficient Organisation.

Having sorted out this issue, with the help of about six Festival volunteers, we picked up our goody bags. There were no lollies inside, only leaflets. Basically it is a bag of spam. And a couple of magazines. And a t-shirt. And a bottle of water. Except the lady at the counter looked at my pass and said, rather rudely I thought, that I wasn’t entitled to water. There’s a shortage I guess. The bags themselves are labeled “made of Bangladeshi jute,” so that’s nice.

Speaking of rudeness, I have to say that the French people I’ve encountered so far are among the least rude people I have ever met (water lady was English). The service everywhere has been better than most Sydney restaurants, both the snooty and un-snooty kind. And it’s not just the people who are paid to be nice that are pleasant. People say hello (or bonjour) when you share a lift, pass in the hallway, glance in their general direction. And if you’re a woman they stand aside to let you enter first, and hold the door for you. Quite a change from Bombay. Maybe it’s just Cannes, will let you know what it’s like when we get to Paris.

Another thing I love about it here is the beverages. When you ask for coffee at breakfast you don’t get a cup, you get a ten cup pot. To yourself. Probably to help you get over the bottle of wine you had at dinner. To yourself.

After collecting my unflatteringly adorned Festival Pass I went off for a bit of shopping. Needed to get a Father’s Day present for Ryan. And more importantly, stuff for me. The streets are getting more and more crowded as people arrive for the festival. I notice I bump into people a lot which I have put down to people here swerving to the right rather than the left to pass you, which is the opposite to home. Also, it could be the bottle of wine I had with dinner.

When Ryan got back from judging we made our way to the infamous Gutter Bar, known as the hangout of rowdy advertising types. There weren’t any there at that time, being too early, but we had a very nice dinner. And a bottle of wine. After which we went for a stroll along the seaside boulevard. Promenade? Foothpath. The lights of Cannes are beautiful at night and we could’ve strolled for hours. Except I had to pee. Damn wine.

Note to my sis in law Shevaun: I am keeping a keen eye out for cute French boys for you. There was a group of rather strapping shirtless construction workers on the lawn of the hotel at breakfast, and I looked them over thoroughly for suitability. I don’t want you to settle though so I’ll keep looking. No need to thank me.