CANNES, France — “Cannes isn’t France,” a French friend once told me in a brisk tone of airy disdain that was, in notable contrast, the very essence of France itself. “They put on a big show of being French and purist about it, but the whole thing is defined by the people who go there. It’s like Disneyland Paris with better clothes.” He wrinkled his nose to underscore his distaste, before dealing the most damning of killer blows. “Even the rosé is bad. Any French person will tell you.” I’m not saying my friend is right. Cannes may or may not be France, but I’m always happy to be there regardless, and the rosé — so long as you steer clear of anything pinker than a bad sunburn — tastes just fine to me.