and Wednesday evening, Aug. 11. I look around, I scan the crowd in slow motion and the dazzling lights of ships, hotels and palaces.
Hey, we are in Cannes! We are in the city of the stars! There is the Croisette! There are palm trees, the real ones and those golden painted a bit 'everywhere. There is the Palais des Festivals (the Palais!) And its frame of marks left by well-known in the cement, Distinguished hands. There are cars such as to show the means by which I and my friends we get (a car that normally would call it more dignified and even beautiful) battered economy car. There are waiters and doormen in livery of that I do not even deserve a look when I pass the entries to their hotels and entertainment outlets. There I am, alas, for various personal reasons and not (including the shorts I wear, frowned upon by security) I find myself wandering around the famous promenade, not including an exclusive concert by a famous diggèi held at the Palais aforementioned . My friends have managed to enter, and their party will be fantastic. But I can not really say to be totally disappointed with my situation. In short, such an event is not for me (and certainly not for me the price of entry). So here I am on the Croisette, to shoot at will into the night. Between a bowl of ice cream (too much chocolate to seal - the mouth), a bit 'of wandering around the city beautiful and a pair of existential reflections on the beach (oh, the end of adolescence ...) come the two. It's time to move, it is up to me to be a driver for all, 'is holiday. Retrieving the car from the underground car park, I despair a bit 'around looking for a damn gas station (the chance that some pious soul is still at certain times in these cities summer) and then revives to the Croisette, hoping to find a hole (also illegal) there. The crowd was sparse. The small families, flocks of Japanese and retired or nearly reached their niches. Groups of young people remain on the beaches or the promenade on the wall. And pretty young girls, alone or in groups that stop near the entrance of the hotel or bus stops or on some bench. "We do not have with me or a cigarette lighter" naively think to myself while I drive, reminiscent of past experiences and views of the many beautiful girls to go away disappointed by my being a non-smoker. But my naivete (or was it just a hidden reality things?) vanishes at the next corner. Where I take the innocent smile, embarrassed so clear and bold with a girl dressed in black. A skirt not too short. A blouse, perhaps, normal, pretty similar to what I've seen him in my friends. And that smile. Again this smile turned towards me, clearly flirtatious in his shyness. And I understand. And maybe I already knew, but did not want to know.
I'm not a moralist. Do not invoke the vice squad combative patrols or spies on every corner. But that was not imagined that the Croisette. This was not the Croisette that I had been sold. I thought at least here there was that fake golden patina typical of the perfect life of the star. Even on this seaside too famous. I thought that at least the customers of the luxury hotel had to pass in the dark parallel street, ten feet away, to find their occasional companions. But apparently they are still naive state. I had them distracted by the decoy. And then I question arises: if it is so easy to find this side of "less noble" (later the "nobility" depending on your point of view) of the famous Palm D'Oro, why hide it? Why not tell things as they are, why not tell the whole reality of this city? By now
not read or hear, much the same way the services on the next Cannes Film Festival. When you feel speaking of bridges, festivals, awards and celebrities, I always return in mind that city that I knew, I saw the Cannes.
Speaking of prostitution is increasingly taboo. Cultural conditioning which dates from the dawn of time prevents us from being honest in assessing the issue, and tends rather to invoke a loud voice, on and off, the intervention by the state, the exemplary punishments and maneuvers to resolve this great social evil.
But really just go beyond stereotypes and investigate, or even imagine, step into the shoes of others, to know and recognize the humanity that lies beyond the facade of the oldest profession in the world. Behind those girls and those kids (because yes, there is also this lesser known aspect) there is us, we who are their equals, but in our arrogance we believe the best, hit by some kind of anointing of holiness. Maybe it's time to get off the pedestal.
"'Therefore I tell you, her many sins are forgiven, for she loved much. But he who is forgiven little, loves little '. " (Luke 7, 47)
Isissibus *
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