Le Normandy, Deauville, France
Whispers from a Bar Armchair
Le Normandy, Deauville.
The weather in Normandy in September is never quite as I imagine. The sun often greets me splendidly on arrival, and I cannot help but smile, thinking, “Oh, what a delightful extension of my summer holidays on the Mediterranean! A stroll along Les Planches, breathing in the bracing Atlantic air—what could be finer?” But the Atlantic, it seems, has other ideas.
No sooner have I entered Le Normandy, left my luggage, and changed my shoes than I set out to the beach, dreaming of a gentle walk. Almost immediately, Les Planches seems to sway and shuffle under the wind’s caprice, gently urging me back to shelter. The Atlantic has a sense of humour, I realise: polite, mischievous, and utterly convincing.
Les Planches, Deauville.
Le Normandy itself is a marvel of Belle Époque elegance, its half-timbered façade a symbol of Deauville’s golden age of seaside glamour. Opened in 1912, it has long been a haven for Parisian haute bourgeoisie seeking elegance, leisure, and the charms of the Normandy coast. Every September, it becomes the very heart of the Deauville American Film Festival, a celebration of cinema where stars and filmmakers from across the Atlantic mingle with the press, the curious, and devoted cinephiles.
There is no other hotel where I have spent so many hours ensconced in an armchair at the bar, and yet I delight in it every time. The armchairs are invariably occupied by those attending the Festival: young hopefuls aspiring to stardom, directors dispensing advice with the air of sages, producers quietly calculating the next hit, and, of course, actors exchanging confidences—and, between sips of cocktails, a fair amount of gossip. Hours slip by unnoticed as English and French intermingle, a tapestry of voices from every corner of the cinematic world.
The bar at Le Normandy, Deauville.
As I listen, I drift into a realm unknown yet utterly fascinating. I do not observe as a traveller with a keen eye; I let my ears roam freely, catching fragments of conversation as if they were delicate butterflies flitting from one bloom to the next. There is a subtle enchantment in those rainy, bar-bound hours: the clink of glasses, the gentle murmur of dialogue, and the murky light filtering through the windows. How many pages could be filled with such stories, such whispered confidences, and the irresistible charm of a world that exists just beyond the velvet ropes?
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