Hemingway sur Antibes

You’re an expatriate. You yearn for a place where the man working could be a young Hemingway. He’s healthy. He’s vibrant. The drinks are cold. Sweating, like the men sitting, facing west, the sun refusing defeat to their turned backs. These are good men. And their hearts are pure. And the women roar with laughter. There’s a place next door where the sandwiches are long and hearty and simple and rustic. You can bring them to the bar. Which is right. The din is met with the glow of a screen. A screen that unites men. The World Cup. La coupe du monde. They stand. They cheer. They cry. They drink. Don’t bother with the clubs, with the white table cloths, with the beachside resorts. It is here where the people drink the coldest rose in Provence, where the roar of simple hearts rises above the crowds next door, where the true heart of Antibes rests.