It was the Fourth of July. At Cannes. The sand was hot, the surf strong, and the beach dropped suddenly under your feet only a few meters into the water. Not like the beaches in Florida, where your feet keep looking for the place they fail. The water was cold but not too cold for early July. I waded into the waves alone. They were higher and stronger than they looked from the chaise. Or from the balcony of the Majestic where the duchesse, or someone who calls herself that, had complained about the absence of ice, and how you can’t keep a beach running on champagne without ice. Talk on beaches in France often returns to the subject of ice. How it’s hard to come by when you want it. I wonder if in Iceland they talk about the shortage of soft sand and sun? When I returned, covered in water and salt and sand, a seagull had landed on the plate the waiters had brought and claimed the last mound of prosciutto from the melon where it was perched. I was sore about that, the cold water having quickened my hunger. It must have been a fine prosciutto. And he was a fine seagull. Bigger than most. A broad puffed chest, eyes challenging. He didn’t leave the tray until I was almost upon him. Yes, a fine seagull. And braver than most. Like some bullfighters I have known, like Belmont, who was truly brave. Or some artists, like Fernando, who will punch you in the mouth over a picture. So I ate the overripe melon and settled. The beach was rotten with Russians. Everywhere you heard them. They wanted to win something that can’t be won with brute force, or cyber-warfare, like parts of Georgia or Ukraine or American elections. Suddenly Russians are good sports. Football may be a great equalizer. But it is not a great sport, like American football. Or basketball. Or baseball. Or bull-fighting. Which is not only a great sport, but a truly brave sport. I just caught the seagull with a quick right punch to its throat. He got cocky and landed on the tray again. The problem with most seabirds, and most people. They get cocky. It is unlikely he will be stealing anyone else’s ham anytime soon. It was a fine ham. And he was a worthy bird. And it’s a fine Fourth. But at the end of the day I’d rather just not talk about it too much. I hear there is at least one good burger joint in this town. So I’m walking alone home. Not in the rain. Under a nearly cloudless blue sky.

Cannes, La Croisette. 2018