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Should you ever find yourself between there and there, don't ever stop in Cannes. They don't have a film festival in Cannes because it is a secluded and exquisite paradise by the sea. It is because the virus called Los Angeles breeds there with acute effectiveness. There is a beach, there are old, beautiful things, there is charm here and there, but Hugo Boss and Universal Studios own the town now.
And the influence has spread, it seems, spawning sleazy little molds like Monaco. 'Til you get to the Italian border, and leave the train, and the sky turns dark and the lightning pierces the sky and the thunder scatters the mangy stray dogs, and you find yourself on trial, with a jury of 300-year-old catholic ghosts presiding and you're sentenced to undergo your purification under the clutched fist of the almighty in a border town of busted hippies and truants hawking withered leo dicaprio postcards, while the rain pummels the earth and you wait for a dirty train to Genoa where you wander into a cloudy, confused metropolis collapsing upon itself from grey cliffs and hills, struggling to summon the Spanish that will pass for Italian that will help you discover your next train leaves in thirty-seven seconds for your place of refuge. |
