I didn’t mind that it was raining when I arrived in Cannes on a Tuesday afternoon in November. Strolling the small city on the French Riviera, best known for its annual celeb-studded film festival, I appreciated the sleepy beaches; the warm, salty breeze; the dearth of crowds or waits to be seated at restaurants. That evening at Le Fouquet's brasserie, as rain pitter-pattered on the ceiling of the heated terrace, the sommelier poured me a chilly Chablis to go with my crispy seared scallops. “Romantic, isn’t it?” he asked. I couldn’t help but agree.