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2 Fun and games on the Arab
Riviera By Pepe Escobar
CANNES and ST TROPEZ, France - The next
time wacky US neo-conservatives start looking for
an Iraq-al-Qaeda connection, they had better start
looking in the French (Arab) Riviera. One of Osama
bin Laden's brothers owns a stunning villa in
Cannes, at the corniche of the Paradis
Terrestre - only a few meters away from Saddam
Hussein's own villa (speculation is rife on who's
going to inherit this one; Saddam's daughters?).
The buck does not stop there. The
3,000-square-meter Villa Bagatelle is owned by a
Saudi prince. Another Arab royal owns
the
Villa al-Ryan, which used to be in the possession
of the emir of Qatar. Their neighbors include the
prime minister of Jordan and the eldest son of
King Fahd, who bought the Palais des Horizons and
the Chateau Robert for an "incalculable" amount,
according to locals.
The Arab Riviera is
an ultra-deluxe gated-community gulag over the
hills in - where else? - "California", the top
Cannes neighborhood. There are more (security)
cameras than in a Steven Spielberg set. Walking is
not allowed. Golf-carting transportation is
encouraged. These lucky few Arabs living -
literally - in heaven contrast with the hordes of
(mostly legal) second-generation immigrants
selling vegetables or Chinese knockoffs "down
there" in the Frejus "Arab" market or younger ones
servicing the thousands of restaurants along the
Cote d'Azur.
There are no fewer than 300
real-estate developers' offices in the Cannes
region alone. In St-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, the price for
a square meter can easily reach US$50,000.
Democratically, anyone may admire the lush photos
of villas or palaces with stunning views - but
prices are never on show. A proper, "grand" villa
in California - at least 1,000 square meters of
living quarters, with garden and pool - can easily
go beyond $40 million. A "small" house sells for a
cool $5 million - and its value may double in only
six months.
Which major, jaded Arab
monarch/politician in his right mind would want to
dwell in the searing heat and the desert winds of
the Middle East summer? They'd rather be sipping
martinis by their infinite view pool. Away from
the turning and turning of the geopolitical gyre,
the French Riviera remains the Arab as well as
Russian and Chinese billionaires' favorite
playground.
So George W Bush should take a
cue from the Cannes Film Festival and hold his
Middle East-solution summits at the Carlton Hotel
- complete with G-stringed starlets, lobster
dinners washed with Cristal, free Lamborghini
Diablo rides and hordes of paparazzi in heat. The
effect would be devastating. Bye bye
intifada, bye bye Sunni Arab
muqawama: let's go surfing the decadent,
Western capitalist way. Even Osama bin Laden and
Ayman al-Zawahiri might be tempted to drop the
cave talk and join the fun.
Life in the
fast lane The wealthy French Riviera, not
by accident, votes from extreme right (Jean-Marie
Le Pen's racist National Front) to downright right
(French President Nicolas Sarkozy, who co-opted
millions of Front voters with his muscled approach
to immigration and internal security). But there
are more nuanced layers to the phenomenon.
Forget about the Muslim invasion of Europe
("Horrible! They reproduce like rabbits!"claims
many a retired senior citizen). In the French
Riviera, Islamophobia takes a back seat to the
real clash of civilizations - between the lucky
few ultra-haves and the voracious, aspiring
have-somethings, all of them immersed in an orgy
of trivialized hyperactivity.
La Cote
d'Azur in summer - azure skies every single
day, no rain - is a classic case of self-indulgent
Europe staring at its (tanned) bellybutton
surrounded by a six-pack abdomen. A few might
worry about France's Arab foreign policy - how
should it be part of a grand Euro-Mediterranean
vision?
Most agree with Francophile Polish
historians yelling, "Europe is not out of
fashion," still capable of resisting the
"intimidation of that Russian", President Vladimir
Putin. And most definitely agree with Harvard
Professor Jerry Frieden that France's problem is
the "rigidity of the labor market" - which in
essence means the ultra-haves not having the power
to fire aspiring have-somethings at will, just
like in Britain.
Charter-fliers fresh from
Liverpool or Bavaria turned into instant fried
chicken (oh, the sorry ignorance of the perfect
Vichy tanning cream) dream of re-enacting Cary
Grant and Kim Novak drinking Moet and looking cool
in 1959, at the 12th edition of the Cannes Film
Festival. Dolce & Gabbana-clad beach vultures
would rather settle for a pre- La Dolce
vita style (after all, the Italian Riviera is
just a five-hour bumper-to-bumper drive away),
when Vittorio De Sica used to rub elbows with the
stunning duo Sophia Loren and Silvana Mangano.
The question of les tables is
always prominent. When in doubt, ultra-haves and
aspiring have-somethings alike don't even flinch
about investing in the table gastronomique
of the Martinez Hotel, where one needs a doctorate
on Jacques Lacan to decipher the dish descriptions
on the menu. Might as well go all the way and
splurge on a few bottles of Chateau d'Yquem 1975;
it certainly beats churning out an indecent $22
for a glass of iced Chardonnay on any given cafe
by the Croisette.
Aspiring foxy ladies on
the prowl for Arab villa owners will be frankly
destabilized by not owning a Sergio Rossi python
travel bag submitted to a golden Brunelleschi
treatment (after all, a weekend comprises two
days, and a femme fatale with two feet must
wear at least six pairs of high heels, including
vertiginous Sergio Rossi golden sandals draped in
strass). Not to mention the face massage with L'Or
de Vie by Dior, the ultra-exclusive night version
of the Yves St Laurent bag Muse (only 40 units
ever produced) and that Versace microdress in
laminated silk. Arab princes go absolutely wild
for the whole package.
On a more relaxed
front, psychiatrist Patrick Lemoine is sure to
become a best-seller in the Riviera with his
recently released book on the joys of getting
bored. Americans are mostly baffled
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