Europe @ 2.4 km/h (39 page)
Correction. Some rooms are costlier still. Even the Hermitage Hotel blushes to advertise how much it charges during the Formula One Grand Prix in late May. Prices during this Very Very High Season are obtainable, its schedule teases, ‘
sur demande
’.
1172-1176 km
Another photo — in retrospect the most poignant — shows Grace accepting plaudits at the opening of the Princess Grace Theatre, a restoration project close to her heart. Soon afterwards there was mourning — as there would be when another princess died in a car crash fifteen years later. But in 1982 no one talked of a conspiracy to murder, mystery Fiats or dynastic division. This princess had already claimed her realm, even if it was one of far inferior magnitude to that of England.
A new exhibition at the Oceanographic Institute — The Arctic, 1906-2006 — commemorates the work of Albert II’s great-great-grandfather, Albert I, who was an Arctic explorer from the Mediterranean. In an elegy for the Arctic that doubled as a searing critique of petty politics among his subjects, the first Albert wrote, ‘I love the North whose attractiveness takes me far from acts of injustice and of covetousness, in the unadulterated splendour of the scientific spirit’.
The prince made 28 expeditions altogether, four of them to the island of Spitsbergen, where reels of his 1897 expedition — among the earliest cinema documentaries — can be viewed through stereoscopic boxes that resemble binoculars. Albert I wrote of his 1899 expedition, ‘I succeeded in sailing west and north to Spitsbergen as far as latitude 80º 37' where the ice field blocked my path, and I returned to the south by the Greenland Sea’. I don’t know about you but my blood tingles with excitement at such writing. In it real life imitates art, for if I had told you Jules Verne wrote that would you not believe me?
Albert’s scientific zeal occasionally competed with an appetite more familiar among European royalty. Again from 1899, ‘Sometimes some species were caught in my trap in great numbers: for example, one of my traps that had been lowered to a depth of 393 metres arrived back on deck with 1775 red prawns inside: a true wealth for my laboratory as well as my table.’
In July 2006 the reigning prince led his own expedition to Spitsbergen to study the impact of global warning on marine life. A blown-up photograph by Albert II of the same Spitsbergen cove hangs alongside one taken by his forebear exactly 100 years before; and here is something instructive: whereas then the cove was icebound, now it is ice-free, open sea.
But who are the Monégasques? Aware of how brief my time here is, I take a short cut by asking a hotel executive who has worked in the principality for years. ‘You have people belonging to Monaco with their blood,’ she says. ‘Monaco is attached to the Family, it is an extension of their family, the prince’s Family — and to their little piece of earth. Others want to be seen as Monégasques, and try too hard to prove it, because they don’t have roots in Monaco.’
Madame then offers a critique of the enclave that explains why she has asked for anonymity. ‘There are sharks out there and I am only a clownfish. But I am not afraid of the sharks because they will give me a certain amount to eat when they have enough to spare.’
So what do Monégasques think of Big Brother France? One thing I ought to know, she tells me, is that, whatever its family quarrels, Monaco looks down on
all
its neighbours. Villefranche is inexpressibly posh, Nice vulgar, Menton dead. ‘They go to sleep at eight o’clock.’
1182-1183 km
Grace loved the rose — and a snippet of free verse she tossed off one day is chiselled for posterity in front of a statue of the lady herself in the Princess Grace Rose Garden, unhappily sited next to an airport.
What is special about a rose that it seems far more than a flower?
Perhaps it is the mystery it has gathered through the ages.
Perhaps it is the joy that it continues to give.
Rose patches bear the names of family members — Rainier, Stephanie, Caroline. Some are unaccompanied by blossoms. For all I don’t know about floriculture, they are out of season. Cary Grant is not appearing this year but, in case you were wondering where Elvis had got to, he is here. So, for that matter, is Charles de Gaulle, but that one keeps well away from the Grimaldis. (They never were the best of friends.)
1185-1187km
Surprise, surprise. Monaco, playground of the rich, has proved the cheapest country of the journey so far — simply because every expense has been spared in the matter of accommodation.
Today I attend the Changing of the Guard at the Palais du Prince, only to learn upon arrival that a decision may be made quite late in the piece to cancel the ceremony, weather not permitting. On my way back from the ceremony, which goes ahead despite drizzle starting five minutes in and falling steadily to the end, I meet a formidable but friendly lady of 70, Isabel Smith from Kent, protected from the persistent rain by nothing more than a plastic sheet.
Her view of the Continent is that of the old Tory party base. ‘I like Europe, I really do. I like my neighbours, but I don’t want to live in their house.’ She visibly shudders at the thought of an ever-closer union. ‘Those people who died (in war) would have been horrified to think that there would be a united Europe.’
1189 km
Back in Nice, the morning brought forth another classic faux pas
.
Wanting a clean towel for my shower, I asked the hostel’s duty receptionist, Alison, for a
serviette hygienique
. I mean no disrespect by this, but she laughed like a hyena. What’s so funny about trying to dry your body with a tampon? I think it’s sad.
1197-1198 km
Freshly arrived in Cannes, I saw an ostentatiously rich man inspecting a city map. Clueless as to what direction my
pension
lay in, I politely asked where on his map the relevant street (the Maréchal Gallieni) was. He conspicuously ignored me, flicking one hand at my importunity, as if dispensing surplus cigarette ash. Compare this with an unsolicited offer of help — 150 metres on from that first encounter — by a ragged Kurdish youth from Kirkuk, whose family must have been through terrible times. The meek shall inherit the Earth, right? I can’t wait …
My
pension
, did I call it? It was a spartan dwelling but at €9 (A$15) the room cost a record low for Europe so far. Transfer to the appointed lower bunk was accomplished only by performing a Fosbury flop from the chair so my head passed just under the sagging upper-bunk netting. That night I spent in the dingiest digs of the entire journey, worse than anywhere, including the Russian
peripheria
— and this in luxurious Cannes, no less. I ‘shared’ the room with a short-order cook who had sticky-taped a large-as-life photo of Kim Basinger on the wall; whose worldly possessions appeared to consist of portable stereo speakers and enough clothes to half fill a wardrobe; and who never came home.
1202-1208 km
Apparently I should have applied in writing two months in advance. Frère Pierre-Marie, who revelled in the slightly sinister title of the monastery’s guestmaster, was apoplectic. ‘
Vous imposez!
’ he growled. His eyes flashed with anger. I could only respond, ‘
Vous avez raison
’ (‘You are right’), conscious of the promised reward for meekness but willing to pay my share of the burden until my time came to inherit the Earth.
Pierre-Marie said with undiminished vehemence, ‘I will get you a room for the night.’ Only later did I discover that those eyes which flashed lightning could twinkle with humour and dispense the sacrament with compassion. The storm passed, his natural sunniness beamed forth and I warmed to him.
At lunch and dinner silence is enjoined and observed, a trial I at first found onerous but valued so much by the end of my stay that for weeks afterwards the sound of voices in a refectory at breakfast time annoyed me.
Half an hour by spume-churning ferry from Cannes, Abbaye de Lérins is a Cistercian monastery situated on St Honorat Island — a retreat for the faithful, a point of interest for the historically inclined and, yes, a destination for day trippers. While the priests would say they live by faith, their monastery thrives on visits from the outside world and the purchase of olives, wines and liqueurs sourced from its vineyards.
I arose early in answer to the bells announcing Vigils at 4.15 am. (I’ve always felt there is no real point in visiting a monastic community and not attending its observances); and at half past five went back to sleep until the breakfast summons. After 9 am Mass I followed the only trail around the island, which is mostly wooded but opens into a clearing where 900-year-old Trinity Chapel stands. Near today’s monastery is its abandoned predecessor, converted into a fort by Spanish invaders in 1635.
1214-1216 km
Salt-encrusted ancient port, purveyor of a famous fish stew; France’s main sea link with North Africa; her oldest city, and one of the oldest in the world; the one that lends its name to the national anthem; stronghold of the National Front; a place that simultaneously greets and repels immigrants. Marseilles has its own subset of French impressions that long precede first acquaintance. Yet you never know quite what to expect …
My initial impression is of its beauty. At Vieux-Port I am facing an oblong harbour with restaurants strung like bangles along its left and right arms. Evening lights have just come on, casting a rainbow of colours over the water. A floodlit medieval castle rears on high. It is not hard to see why people are prone to fall in love with Marseilles at first sight. Who knows? I might even succumb myself.
But tomorrow will bring reminders that, after six months’ journeying, I am definitely in the South of Europe. In too few cities are transport systems accessible and integrated — but there are more in the north of the Continent than the south. An extensive Métro system underlies these streets but to me it is beyond reach. (This matters when you’re staying at a hostel on the outskirts of a sprawling city.) Pushing round town, I see that Marseilles is bidding to be the European City of Culture in 2013. More strength to its arms, disabled ones included.
1220-1226 km
At the outset of my Cook’s tour round the inner city, I stumbled on a food fight. Well, not exactly, but at the Vieux-Port morning fish market where large silver catches expire on the ice before your eyes — no question, these fish will be fresh before they’re frozen — two tenants almost come to blows. They’re dressed in plastic aprons, the better to wash down the (fish) blood, but onlookers assure me they’re in earnest. The cause? One of them had caused his barrow to trespass 3 cm into the other’s assigned space.
