You may have heard about a snow storm that absolutely rocked the nation here in Jolly Old. On the advice of my roommate, I took the train to Gatwick, trusting that it would only take about an hour to arrive. It took nearly three. I looked up from my book every now and again, glanced at my phone to check the time, but never really panicked about the fact that it was snowing like a m*therf*cker out there and I was super late. So late, in fact, that I was afraid I was going to miss my flight.
But I didn't need to worry about that.
Upon arrival, I whisked through security quite quickly and entered what can only be described as the twilight zone. All over the place there were signs reading, "Airport Closed." But how could that be? I was flying out today. How can the airport be closed if my flight is leaving? I was perplexed.
Honestly, my ego is sometimes so intensely inflated that it takes me a firm reality check from a hot-headed flight attendant to bring me back down to earth. The airport was closed. And I was not leaving. Imagine that?!
So I sat with the hoards of others and waited. Every twenty minutes or so, it was announced that a new flight was added to the canceled list. ALL the flights to France were canceled (or so I thought), and so I rushed to the information desk to see what alternate arrangements could be made for me. It was about this time that I found out that Heathrow was closed as well, and my school/work companions headed back to Canada were stranded. This was bad. Luckily, it was still being toted that my flight (shocking, right? I mean I think I actually was born with a horseshoe up my rear) would be taking off. Late, mind you, but taking off nonetheless.
To make a loooong story a tad shorter, I did take off. I was four hours late, pushing my arrival into Marseille back four hours. This posed a new problem: I had 55 minutes to deplane, get through customs, and get to the train station, some 40 km away. Gulp.
Somehow, by some stroke of luck or divine intervention, I made it. The taxi cost me £60 and when the driver was clocking 150 km/h, I have to admit I assured myself that the life insurance policy was a good idea, but I made it all in one piece.
I caught the LAST train to Cannes and made it somehow to the four star hotel that Jamie and I had snagged for a great deal. Things were looking WAY up.
Another little snag with check-in ("Your friend is not here. We do NOT have a reservation for you and no, you can not use our phone."), I made it upstairs to the fantastically clean and Canadian-occupied room. It was a huge success.
Come the next morning, we were starving and ready to see how France did breakfast. Determined to share all food so to get a chance to taste it all, we headed down to the downtown for some breakfast.
...saw some flora along the way...
...and finally crashed into a plate of pain au chocolat.
We took a stroll down to the convention centre where the Cannes Film Festival is held annually (and then my camera died)...
...and took a long walk along the beach.
I must say we thoroughly enjoyed the walk along the beach in winter. There were very few people in the town, and we got to see it all on such a gorgeous day. Who could ask for anything more?
Not this gal.
The yachts were simply to DIE for...
...especially when we spotted this one sporting a Canadian flag (which province is this? Is it Ontario? God, that's embarrassing to admit. But then, who studies flags?)
Europeans love their carousels...
...and we loved their seaside bistros.
We took a long walk up a hill to see the city from afar.
And a kind lady from New York (who also owns a house here with her intoxicatingly gorgeous husband) took our picture.
What a place!
We popped into the hilltop church to have a peek around. Lordy do they do atrocious nativity scenes here! They light them up, have moving parts...it's just hideous. Luckily, I captured the less heinous aspects of the holy place ;)
And when night fell, it mesmerized us even more...
As did the French alleyways we passed on our way home...
This is the restaurant where we had lunch earlier in the day. Croque Monsieur and gorgonzola gnocchi. And wine. Always wine.
For dinner though, we stocked up on the essentials and headed to the (clean, white-sheeted) bed back at the hotel.
Stopping along the way to appreciate some architecture.
Swiped some robes from the open supply cupboard, showered, poured the vin, and we were set.
In the morning, we headed here for breakfast, enjoyed the passersby, and headed to the train station.
Ready for the next stop...
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