Niceties

After weeks of early starts and full days, the pace of life slowed down when we got to Nice. On our first day, after our remarkably restful train ride, we spent the morning lounging and taking much-needed showers at the hostel, and then moseyed down to the beach in the afternoon. It was blue blue blue of ocean, white white white of rocks (no sand), and covered covered covered with people. As always, I had brought journals and art supplies, intending to be inspired and productive, but the only thing the beach ever inspires is dozing. I did briefly dip myself ankle-deep into the chilly liquid blue, and we stayed at the beach for a good two hours. Our first Niçoise dinner was at a Chinese restaurant, much to our friendly concierge’s dismay. 

The following day I headed out early on my own, acquiring a kilo of carrots on the way, and did some exploring. At the start it was gray and foggy and chilly and seemed unideal for going to the beach, but after a while the neighboring coasts reappeared as the sun decided to grace us with its presence. I recognized several local beach-goers from the day before. After spending a few hours attempting to become cooked lobsters we went to the local market. That’s where I got my now ‘famous’ ring. I also got a traditional baguette, which I gleefully consumed on the way back to the hostel. We stopped in the mall, far larger than the one in Parma, and I added a smoothie to the contents of my stomach. I had been craving one for ages. That evening we walked back down to the beach to catch the sunset, and discovered the docks and a war memorial and other things we deemed worth exploring further in the daylight. This night we did have a traditional meal, though the exact identity of mine was a mystery.

Day three we finally remembered that there was more to do than go lay on the rocky beach. It was Tuesday and I had intended to go to a few of Nice’s many museums, but it turned out that, unlike the rest of the world, Nice’s museums are closed on Tuesdays instead of Mondays. So, we started our day at the market, which in the mornings is all flowers and produce, in contrast to the array of old trinkets we saw the preceding afternoon. We continued on down to the water, but didn’t stop at our usual spot. We walked to the site of the ancient castle, transformed into a climb to panoramic views, parks, cemeteries, ruins, and a manmade waterfall. At the top of the waterfall I took in the spread of red-tiled roofs and the shifting azure expanse of the ocean. Further along were the Jewish and Christian cemeteries. The former was simple, cramped, and haphazard, while the latter seemed extravagant, ostentatious, and expansive. By now we were hungry, and I picked a direction towards a church we didn’t find, but which lead us to a new part of town. I ended up picking a restaurant after going into some other church where they seemed to be tuning a stubbornly dissonant organ.

 Partly because of the previous day’s museum surprise we decided to spend an extra morning in Nice to be able to make it to the Chagall and Matisse museums. On the way I nabbed a chocolate croissant and a chocolate éclair. Yum. At the Chagall Museum, perhaps more than the work, I enjoyed being able to employ my many languages, successfully reading French descriptive texts and eavesdropping on Italian visitors with more information. The sight I most enjoyed was his stained glass windows which, being glass, let in the light necessary to give his heavy colors some air and a sense of life, something I found somewhat lacking in his paintings. Next we went to the Matisse Museum, and I was proud of myself for deciphering the bus maps and communicating with the bus driver, two things that took me a while to master in ‘my own’ Parma. After seeing many artifacts from his household and plans for a chapel he designed, I have added the Vence Chapel to the ‘one day…’ list for my life. On the way back to the hostel we stopped at the same bakery from the morning and I got myself a quiche and another baguette, this time ‘normal’ instead of ‘traditional.’ We picked up our bags at the hostel and bid farewell to the owner, who had been flexing his biceps at me ever since I snapped off the shower knob a few days prior.

We took a train to Monte Carlo, then to Ventimiglia, and from there one bound for Milano. When I saw Italian text again, and finally heard Italian again, it was priceless. I was headed home, to a language I speak and to a home with a family.