It was not the start of a foreign trip,
as today is (a visit to the UK being a foreign one if you live in
France), when you would be rather foolish not to have a passport to
hand.
It was dinner along the coast in Cavalaire* and, with the most effusive
of apologies, we were turned away.
The way I look? A failure to observe a basic smart-casual dress code?
Muttered threats about "this better be good at 38 euros a head"?
No, Mme Randall simply wasn't able to produce ID, and the dinner - one
of those sad themed spectacles I am known to attend, this one Brazilian
- happened to be taking place in a casino.
Casinos are places of no interest to me. Yes, I did the pools and yes,
I still have a punt on the lottery. But not since the days of the Spanish City
have I so much as bothered an amusement arcade.
So I had no idea that the law obliges anyone entering such premises in
France to have official photo ID. I had mine; my wife had dressed to
the nines and was carrying a skimpy little handbag with room for
virtually nothing.
No amount of pleading, pointing to my wife's name in the next-of-kin
bit of my passport or appeals to reason made the least difference.
"Honestly, we only want to eat and watch the show," we said. "We don't
want to gamble the night away."
The two jobsworths were polite but unmoved. The law's the law, they
said. So we ate at one of our favourite restaurants in Le Lavandou
instead.
Everyone more or less knows that you are officially obliged to carry ID
in France, so this must be a cautionary tale, not a whinge. It's just
that you don't expect to be asked for it when you pop out for a meal. I
bet the show was rubbish anyway.
Visits to the blog may be sporadic over the next few days......
* Not Cavaliere as first mentioned, one letter different and maybe 7 or 8 miles apart....and too small to have a casino.
Labels: casinos, Cavalaire, France, gambling, identity, Law, Le Lavandou, passport
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