And I got a nasty case of Frenglish. I employed this dialect all over the French Riviera as a gesture of good will and received many gestures in return. Mais oui! International diplomacy accomplished with my ass hanging out. Which is how it's done in France.
Above is a photo I did not take of Vielle Ville Monaco, Les Rocher, which may be loosely translated as Place Of The Most Celebrated Facilities Management Folk In The World. Except For The Ones Down The Plage At Hotel Du Cap Eden Roc. They paint all those trees and wash the rocks every jour. I did not take the photo because my camera broke one day into this outlandishly picturesque holiday (merde!) and because, duh, I was in it. You're going to have to zoom the bejeezus out of the shrubbery to the left of the medieval crazy-ass Escher-esque rocher/castle because, after hiking along a perfectly manicured 3.6k walkway etched into the cliffs above the crystalline bluegreen sloshing on the rocks Med with stone steps cut into the cliff at various points for the purpose of dipping into the sea ala mermaid with pool ladders built into the rocks so I didn't have to wonder how the hell I was going to get out after executing a pretty sweet canonball on the way in and looking at villas built excitingly at the very tip edge of a 500 meter sheer cliff while floating on my back like Grace Kelly, which is to say, elegantly -- after that, Prince Rainier and I brought our picnic fixings in a plastic sack to an out-of-the-way battlement part way down the wall facing the sea (above) and parked it on a bench. Just our royal selves, salty, sandy and sublime, and some preserved canons watching the sun go down on wavelets and yachts. Pretty effin idyllic. As we had forgotten the Swarovski crystal goblets, we emptied our water bottles and decanted the vin de pays (from June, a very good month!) into them. Just as we were knocking back a toast to la bon vivant, a family of tourists -- mom, dad and two teenage daughters -- pale, lumpy, footsore and uncomfortable in dressy clothes with creases still in them they'd bought to visit schmancy Monaco stumbled on our back alley bistro. The look of horror, the shielding of the daughters, the tight-lipped and silent hurrying by with eyes averted! They came all the way from Draining Whitlow, bought new clothes and expected to show the girls how the quality live in the glistening world of Bugatis and tans, and what's all this? Coupla damp-assed degenerates swilling rocket fuel from dented water bottles! The Prince and I, we tried to be friendly. Raised our plastic vessels and hollered out, Bee-en ven-you Monaco! Have an effin bon jur! They obviously did not speak French.