Where the dickens am I?
Ah. Judging by the strap with the plastic doodad, I am in someone’s carry-on luggage, and will soon be hurtling through the atmosphere at an altitude of 35,000 feet, at the mercy of prosaic flight attendants.
It is quite hospitable of Cannes to provide me with the perfect vantage point from which I can reflect upon the sky, the sea, the vast potential of life, and Frenchwomen without bikini tops.
I am here for the Cannes Advertising Festival. It is not as salacious or perverted as they make it out to be. Or perhaps my assigned human is not visiting the right places. Instead of bringing me to the Gutter Bar, she totes me along to talks in the Grand Palais. What need have I for the latest trends in digital engagement? I require inspiration! Someone hand me a glass of rosÃ©!
There is too much bread here.
Humans of all stripes keep stealing glances at me in the auditorium. This would not happen at the Gutter Bar.
After many such days, we are outdoors. The carousel near the Palais is a welcome sight for an inspiration-starved poet such as myself.
The muse comes in many forms. Here she is a horse with too much makeup.
But we must take what we are given.
“Forsooth! It is in the grace of sunlight
that we forsake our boots too tight.”
Yes, I know it needs more work.
It is our last day. My sister will surely appreciate the picturesque landscape behind me.
In fact, I do believe she will be positively bilious with envy when next we meet. I must savor these last moments of self-indulgence! Everything is mere material for my poetry, of course. Until the next journey, mes amis. Au’voir.