CANNES, France – Well, Rhonda and I now have Marche du Film market badges and more official Cannes Film Festival-related stuff than you can carry with a pack mule as we get ready to pitch our inspirational family film, “Runaway Hearts,” to prospective distributors and buyers.

But yes, we are still honyocks in paradise.

Paradise is definitely the right way to describe the weather here; it’s like something out of a postcard at which you look and think, “Yeah, RIGHT. Like it’s not going to be pouring down rain the moment we arrive.”

It hasn’t done that. Not a drop. As we’ve strolled the centuries-old, pedestrian-narrow streets of old Cannes or lolled around on the beach – the sort of thing one does when taking a few vacation days in advance of eight days of nonstop film-market meetings and mental fatigue – the weather has been roughly 65 to 75 degrees every day, the Mediterranean a perfect greenish-blue and the sky only occasionally marred by even a single cloud.

But that’s not the only way in which we find ourselves in a different world. Everything in the U.S. seems so spread apart. Here, everything is mashed together.

Twenty minutes ago, while returning to our apartment from the Palais de Festival, weighted down by our official packets, tote bags and market guides, we wanted to connect with some of our team members who are scheduled to arrive today. But we also wanted coffee.

So we asked the proprietor of a little café, “Do you have free wifi?”

Yes, he did.

We sat down at a table five feet from where we had been standing and ordered a couple of cappuccinos and asked for the wifi code.

“We don’t have wifi.”

“But he said you had wifi.”

That fellow with wifi had been at the establishment next door. We were one table away from his tables, in at the first row of tables of the next café … which did not have wifi. Now that we weren’t customers of the wifi guy, he wasn’t about to give us the wifi password.

Oh.

The first time we asked for water at a café, the waitress brought us a Perrier, opened it and set it down. You have to ask for “still” water if you don’t want Perrier, which, well, we didn’t. Asking for “still” water, though, still means you’ll be brought a bottle of Evian and another 5 to 6 euros on the bill.

Not saying that’s a bad thing. It’s just different and new to folks from the States.

Our apartment is right next to – on, really – one of the oldest market streets in Cannes. There are little markets every 40 yards or so. It’s amazing. This morning, we didn’t have any cream or milk for our coffee so I went to the first market. It was less than a one-minute walk. It was like going down to the end of the hall.

We could live here … if, of course, we didn’t mind being an ocean away from our families, which we would, and, of course, if we were zillionaires. Which we aren’t.

Market starts in the morning. We’ll have the “Runaway Hearts” official poster available late tonight, hopefully on the Herald site on Wednesday morning.

Rhonda keeps telling me, “Breathe, baby. Breathe.”

That’s good advice.