Vendredi 04.05.07 Bean's in Cannes
The kids are a bit restless today and some of them are even sad that they only have a half day of school. The school is being used as a voting station for Sunday’s deuxième tour of the French Presidential Election and even at 10,00 there are workers out and about the yard fixing up the place for the Ségo/Sarko race.
There’s not much racing being done today on the roads of Martinique. There’s a motor mobilised protest on around Fort-de-France. Some groups are demonstrating for their rights. I’m not exactly sure as to what rights they’re driving for but it brings the traffic to a standstill. I’m waiting for Nicola at the port as we’re going to enquire about a trip to St. Lucia but in the end she’s stuck on the motorway with a cop car cruising alongside, intimidating her.
I’m lucky I arrived when I did because the ticket office queue doesn’t take long to resemble the chaos on the roads. I bite the bullet and get us two tickets for St. Lucia for next weekend. €85 return. It’s the Jazz Festival weekend and all. Sweet. I’ve enough time to pop across to EDF and the lady at the desk (however slow she is) clears up some code concerns I have.
I haven’t had time to scrutinise the boat timetables but every time I arrive at the jetty in Fort-de-France the boat only seems to be going to Point du Bout. It doesn’t make much odds though as the walk home is pleasant and I get to splash along the strand until I reach Anse Mitan. Back at home I’m ready to tuck into my lunch when Cecile calls me. Herself and Francine are heading to the beach at Point du Bout. I hadn’t really intended going back but once my Mum texts to say there’s bad news from home I gobble down my food and head thataway.
I meet a croppy-haired Sonia outside the bungalow. She’s settling in well but she doesn’t have much of a weekend as she’s preparing for the Well Being Seminar. I ask her if she knows William, our former Belgium neighbour but she doesn’t. She appreciates me dropping in her post we received and wishes me a good time at the beach. I’ve no sooner turned the corner than two guys in coast up to me asking where the beach is. There are some tiny beaches along the coast but I send them in the direction of the strand.
I try to call Ireland using the call cards I have but even though they’re not wasted nobody replies.
While I’m here I wander about the environs. There’s a beautician’s nearby and I wonder if it’d be worth my while changing my allegiance. Not a chance. €10 for pits is a rip-off and €18 for down below is below-the-belt madness. I’ll just have to hike up to Bellevue again for my usual waxathons.
I head to the beach for a bake and a splash before deciding to head back home for whatever doom and gloom awaits me. I meet the girls en route. They’ve been browsing around the Créole Village but we arrange to meet again over the weekend.
I phone my Mum for the bad news update. My Aunt’s neice, my childhood friend, Heather was assaulted and beaten up while on holiday in Salou, Spain. She was separated from her friends after coming out of a club and some Moroccan guy came on to her. She resisted his advances and tried to run but ended up on the ground getting the shit kicked out of her. Some American tourists called the police but when they arrived he was still kicking her. She’s at home now; withdrawn with broken teeth and a fractured jaw, and bruised morally and physically. The bastard was caught and could do up to 15 years as it’s considered as sexual assault. Mum gives me the usual personal safety advice before my credit runs out; you never do know who you’ll meet or what obstacles you’ll run into.
I can pick-up Wifi on my laptop so I go a’knockin’ on my neighbours doors to see if anyone can help me out. Only one guy is in. Remy. He lives downstairs with his girlfriend. They’ve been here since September. He’s a mechanic and she’s a logistical co-ordinator. They’re from the south-west of France somewhere and no they don’t have Wifi, just cable. They don’t own the cats either. I leave Remy to his newspaper.
Nicola and I watch Mr. Bean tonight. There are some funny moments but as he’s off to Cannes there’s that pretentious cinematic element to contend with. I’ll not be passing through France for a while yet but for the moment my bed is beckoning so that’s we’re I’m bound.
The kids are a bit restless today and some of them are even sad that they only have a half day of school. The school is being used as a voting station for Sunday’s deuxième tour of the French Presidential Election and even at 10,00 there are workers out and about the yard fixing up the place for the Ségo/Sarko race.
There’s not much racing being done today on the roads of Martinique. There’s a motor mobilised protest on around Fort-de-France. Some groups are demonstrating for their rights. I’m not exactly sure as to what rights they’re driving for but it brings the traffic to a standstill. I’m waiting for Nicola at the port as we’re going to enquire about a trip to St. Lucia but in the end she’s stuck on the motorway with a cop car cruising alongside, intimidating her.
I’m lucky I arrived when I did because the ticket office queue doesn’t take long to resemble the chaos on the roads. I bite the bullet and get us two tickets for St. Lucia for next weekend. €85 return. It’s the Jazz Festival weekend and all. Sweet. I’ve enough time to pop across to EDF and the lady at the desk (however slow she is) clears up some code concerns I have.
I haven’t had time to scrutinise the boat timetables but every time I arrive at the jetty in Fort-de-France the boat only seems to be going to Point du Bout. It doesn’t make much odds though as the walk home is pleasant and I get to splash along the strand until I reach Anse Mitan. Back at home I’m ready to tuck into my lunch when Cecile calls me. Herself and Francine are heading to the beach at Point du Bout. I hadn’t really intended going back but once my Mum texts to say there’s bad news from home I gobble down my food and head thataway.
I meet a croppy-haired Sonia outside the bungalow. She’s settling in well but she doesn’t have much of a weekend as she’s preparing for the Well Being Seminar. I ask her if she knows William, our former Belgium neighbour but she doesn’t. She appreciates me dropping in her post we received and wishes me a good time at the beach. I’ve no sooner turned the corner than two guys in coast up to me asking where the beach is. There are some tiny beaches along the coast but I send them in the direction of the strand.
I try to call Ireland using the call cards I have but even though they’re not wasted nobody replies.
While I’m here I wander about the environs. There’s a beautician’s nearby and I wonder if it’d be worth my while changing my allegiance. Not a chance. €10 for pits is a rip-off and €18 for down below is below-the-belt madness. I’ll just have to hike up to Bellevue again for my usual waxathons.
I head to the beach for a bake and a splash before deciding to head back home for whatever doom and gloom awaits me. I meet the girls en route. They’ve been browsing around the Créole Village but we arrange to meet again over the weekend.
I phone my Mum for the bad news update. My Aunt’s neice, my childhood friend, Heather was assaulted and beaten up while on holiday in Salou, Spain. She was separated from her friends after coming out of a club and some Moroccan guy came on to her. She resisted his advances and tried to run but ended up on the ground getting the shit kicked out of her. Some American tourists called the police but when they arrived he was still kicking her. She’s at home now; withdrawn with broken teeth and a fractured jaw, and bruised morally and physically. The bastard was caught and could do up to 15 years as it’s considered as sexual assault. Mum gives me the usual personal safety advice before my credit runs out; you never do know who you’ll meet or what obstacles you’ll run into.
I can pick-up Wifi on my laptop so I go a’knockin’ on my neighbours doors to see if anyone can help me out. Only one guy is in. Remy. He lives downstairs with his girlfriend. They’ve been here since September. He’s a mechanic and she’s a logistical co-ordinator. They’re from the south-west of France somewhere and no they don’t have Wifi, just cable. They don’t own the cats either. I leave Remy to his newspaper.
Nicola and I watch Mr. Bean tonight. There are some funny moments but as he’s off to Cannes there’s that pretentious cinematic element to contend with. I’ll not be passing through France for a while yet but for the moment my bed is beckoning so that’s we’re I’m bound.
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