In a taxi driving to my hotel in Nice for the annual
European Stroke Conference, a more accurate prediction of my visit to France
could not have been provided.
‘Ah, la tête!' said my taxi driver,
who spoke as much English as I do French, tapping her temple.
I assumed she knew, for one reason or another, why I was
here.
Attending an annual academic conference always gives a
little insight into a country's psyche.
In America,
delegates are there by 7am, whizzing around expansive conference centres on
electronic scooters.
In France,
priorities are different. Delegates meander around the conference centre
sipping espressos and beer. Research presentations and symposiums on
innumerable aspects of stroke take place till 12.30, before a mammoth lunch
break spanning out until about 4pm.
And lunch for the academics and medics attending the
conference from as far afield as Australia
and Japan
seemed very important. Not in a leisurely way, but like a scuffle for a winning
lottery ticket, they all ran to tables stuffed with brown paper bags of booty
at 12.30 on the dot.
I learned how valuable this technique was on my first day at
the conference. Going for lunch at 1pm after a look around the posters, I was
apologetically handed a box of soggy lettuce and a chocolate brownie.
The delegates' search for culinary, and other delights, on
the Cote d'Azur
didn't stop there. On an evening you could spot them a mile off; suited packs
of mostly men wandered through the old town of Nice, unsuccessfully shaking off the
distinguished air of academia.
My eyes were elsewhere, trying to spot any A-list movie
stars attending the Cannes
festival down the road. But a George
Clooney or Brad Pitt was not in sight (although I gather the latter is nested
in some part of France
waiting for the next addition to the Brangelina clan).
But all hopes of celebrity spotting were not lost. Sitting
outside a traditional niçois bar called the King's Head, who would walk past
but the bloke who plays Minty from Eastenders.
‘Oh, I love you! Our Brenda will be so jealous!' screamed
the UK
blonde at the next table. ‘You don't mind, do you?' she said, whipping her
digital camera from her handbag and handing it to her hubby.
Either because he's a good bloke or these types of request
are few and far between, Minty (otherwise known as actor Cliff Parisi) leant in
for a photo with her, baring his trademark cheeky grin.
‘She'll be so jealous, when I get home,' said the blonde to
her husband, as Minty went on his way, totally unrecognised by a pack of
delegates out for their last night of conference fun.
But I knew she'd be the one who was jealous. After all, just
a couple of days before I'd met Nick Ross of Crimewatch fame in Nice. That must
be true Côte d'Azur
glamour.