Silent But Deadly

Peggy and Sam in Paris--2004

FRANCE, JULY 2004:

It had been a good trip. My daughter Peggy was attending a summer program in Paris and I had the pleasant responsibility of escorting her to her school. We had spent four cold and rainy days in Paris, but we had friends who showed us everything. I had never spent much time in Paris and I was excited for Peggy.

I had always wanted to see the south of France and I stayed a few extra days to see a bit of the Côte d’Azur. I thought that perhaps the scenery would be nice and the weather sunny. I flew to Nice, rented a car, and drove to Cannes. When I unpacked at the hotel, I found that I had lost my passport and I paced all night in the hotel room until I could go back to the airport the next day to search for it.  In the morning, I ended up driving the wrong way up a one-way street, couldn’t get the car in reverse, and caused a minor tie-up in rush hour. People were yelling at me or offering me well-intentioned and indecipherable suggestions in French. Luckily, the owner of the same model car showed me how to get the car in gear.  At the airport, the lost and found was attended by a beautiful young Frenchwoman, who told me, yes they had my passport, and no, she couldn’t retrieve it.  I would have to wait for another person who came in at twelve and whose signature must have carried the State’s official imprimatur.

That episode done, I headed back to Cannes, where I observed the much desired scenery.

Why I thought Cannes might be nicer than Nice

The next night I was strolling up the seaside promenade called “La Croisette,” smoking a good Cuban cigar, and I saw a mime in front of Le Grand Hotel. His face and hands were painted gold, he was wearing a gold top hat, shirt, tie and a gold formal tails suit. He was pretending to film people with an all-gold prop “camera” that had a hand crank and a gold tripod. Mimes annoy me and I walked on, trying my best to hide my displeasure.

La Croisette, Cannes

I walked to the end of the boulevard and turned back towards my hotel. I passed the mime’s location again. I’m not sure exactly what happened since there were several people shouting in French, but all of a sudden the mime was being wrestled to the ground and beaten by an angry man. I thought it was an act, a clever piece of street theatre at first, but there were real blows exchanged. There were cries from the observers to obtain the police.

The mime was winning, getting in twice the punches, and silently taking over the fight.

A woman, whom I guessed to be the angry man’s mother, started scolding me in French. My schoolboy French did not help me a bit. I’m not sure whether she was angry that I had not tried to break up the fight or whether she was angry that I was taking in the improvised drama, but in any case I moved on and observed from a distance. A couple of moments later I saw the woman forcefully take the angry young man away from the scene with him complaining loudly to her.

A Mime (Google Images)

I seem to have a talent for getting yelled at in France, yet strangely enough most of the people I met in France (despite the American stereotype) were friendly, polite and seemed to like me.

I just never thought I’d see a mime that was ready to rumble.