The crowds are promenading, dressed in the kind of nautical stripes, pastel linens and yacht tans that only make sense down here on the French Riviera, and you can almost smell the heady scent of rich. The traffc is much more proletarian, beaten Fiat 500s, Smart cars and the odd fancy bit of metal, all local traffc sporting the bumps and bruises of French street parking. The scars are normal – these urban backroads were designed before cars got big, and they’re only wide enough for two medium-sized cars to pass as long as everyone breathes in and grits their teeth. The new Porsche Macan Turbo feels wide. It isn’t – it’s still just a medium-sized SUV – but here it feels like a Cayenne, half an inch and a twitch from milling the shiny 22-inch wheels on emotionless
