A short train ride from sleepy little Nice is up-tempo Cannes, which displays its preference for film and film stars with elegant waterfront hotels, a harbor filled with yachts, a luxurious waterfront park filled with exotic vegetation, and miles of brand-name boutiques.
A waterfront rock concert, crepe vendors, a table piled high with candies all vie for the attention of well-heeled tourists strolling along the shore promenade. A gaggle of little local boys have perfected a continuous game of soccer, weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic, only rarely mis-timing a pass, which takes out a tourist or two.
Offshore on a small island dancers twirl fire sticks. A few groups of young men stagger around, their inability to hold their liquor on display to all, but apparently bothersome to few. The police come but refrain from arresting the intoxicated until and unless they do something more offensive than throwing their arms around strangers, giving them sloppy kisses.
Sharply-dressed young women giggle at the drunkards, and walk past quickly, holding on to each other's arms. An amazing range of ethnicities and languages populate this night in Cannes, but for the most part, only one class.
The riche.
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