Deep Sun Café, Boulevard Carnot, Cannes

Across from our table at a café a block from the apartment, a serene woman in a pale peach dress sat in one chair, and her pug sat on the chair beside her, as if this were their usual Saturday habit. The woman leaned close to the dog to speak once in a while. The pug accepted a few offered nacho chips. And then how natural it was here in Cannes, where small dogs seem more like friends than pets, that the woman offered her own gold-rimmed pilsner glass, and her companion lapped up a taste of the beer without spilling a drop.

Earlier at the cafe, reading Le Monde, I had marveled at what a challenge Arnold Schwartzeneger’s “girlie men” taunt at the Republican Convention must have posed for the reporter in today’s issue. The story quotes the Governator as taking a swipe at “poules mouillees,” which, according to my digital Larousse, literally means “wet hens” or–Arnold would have approved–“wimps.”

Francoise left this morning for her flights to Denver, offering us instructions and tips on where to shop right up until she stepped into the taxi. Darlene and I rested much of the day, venturing out finally to buy vegetables at an open-air market, where in our befuddlement with Euros, language, and lack of sleep, we left the tomatoes and onions behind on a table.

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