The public market in Cannes (left)

The Riviera
By Stan Morse
March 30, 1998

In the train station at Genoa I learn the bad news; the French railway workers have gone on strike. The Italian train can take me as far as Ventimiglia, which is the last town on the Italian Riviera before France. From there, I'll have to catch a bus or a cab. The cab-idea is out. It's 50 miles from Ventimiglia to Cannes, where I'm booked for three days in a hotel. That would cost a fortune.

The Italians are apologetic, but keep insisting it is the fault of the French. I say something like, "Yeah, the French," and roll my eyes. And the Italian railway people roll their eyes. And we all know that next month it could easily be the Italians on strike.

It's a crisp spring morning, and the trees are budded and ready to burst into leaf. It is almost springtime . . . but not quite. Even with the sun, I'm grateful for my coat as I sit on the platform.

Two fellows in their 30's are assigned to make sure I get on the train. They stand talking a few yards away, smoking, and seem happy to be outdoors. I'd like to talk to them, but neither speaks much English, and my Italian is non-existent.

When the train rolls up they lift me aboard. It's just two hours to Ventimiglia. And that's a good thing, because the car I'm on has no handicapped bathroom. It's a slow train, with few passengers on this weekday. An older couple sits across the aisle from me. He in a suit, with a long black coat that he neatly folds and puts on an empty seat. She in a dress, wearing a simple dark blue scarf, her hair pulled back. They have brought fruit and bread and something hot in a thermos. They seem completely at home on the train. I sense the wife wants to look at me, and at the disassembled wheels and wheelchair frame laid on the seats across from me. But she is too dignified to stare openly.

The track frequently curves and enters short tunnels. We follow the Mediterranean. The mountains become steeper, until we are squeezed between rock and sea. The villas become more splendid -- this is the Italian Riviera.

Ventimiglia turns out to be a town of around 25,000. Men with a lift are waiting to take me off the train, and one speaks English well.

"I was told I could take a bus from here to Cannes," I say hopefully. "When does the next railway bus leave?"

He looks puzzled. "There is no bus," he says slowly. "But there is a train at a quarter past five this afternoon."

"What about the strike?"

"That ends at five. The trains should run on time after that."

I'm happy the strike will end. I was concerned I'd be unable to use my Europass to get from Cannes to Paris. Or anywhere else in Europe. The ticket disclaims liability for "strikes", so I could have been left with a relatively expensive (it cost me $660.00) piece of worthless paper.

The next four hours seem rather bleak, until I look down the street that runs from the front of the train station to the ocean. At the far end, a public market in progress. A crowd is moving slowly through stalls which have been set up on the road fronting the water.

I soon learn that every Friday, there is a huge public market in Ventimiglia. The French come in droves to shop for Italian bargains. Hundreds of day-stallers sell everything from shoes to silk. And the prices are reasonable, the merchandise fairly high-quality.

I decide to buy a pair of dress shoes. After narrowing the choice between two booths, I purchase a pair of black loafers for $42.00. Early in the trip I never would have made the purchase. Too much unnecessary weight. But I'm close to home now; I can take on a little extra baggage. Besides, I really like the shoes.

After lunch at a French cafe (antipasto cheeses and meats, salad, and thin-sliced salmon served with capers, olive oil and French bread, plus a carafe of red wine) I'm ready for more shopping. I buy three silk ties, then head back to the railway station. I've enjoyed my four hours, and wish I were staying here for the night. But I've got a room in Cannes, booked by someone who spoke French, and I'm anticipating something more accessible than the room in Genoa. A place where I can relax and see if my cold will go away.

The French train leaves on time, relatively empty. I'm alone in a small cabin seemingly designed for luggage. There are no seats. Twenty minutes later, at Monte Carlo, the train fills with young people. Suddenly, I'm pressed together with 20 others and two bicycles.

I end up grateful for my fellow passengers. Because the platform at Cannes is two feet down from the car's floor. Despite my non-existent French, I enlist two young men to lift me onto the platform.

I've arrived at the French Riviera. It will be here that I decide how best to deal with my persistent headcold.