And so we find ourselves in a Mediterranean-side hotel with a pool on its roof. There is (what’s left of) a castle on a hill, and even, occasionally, some pleasant weather. Our Nician vacation is, naturally, not without its quirks—the pushed-together-but-separately-made-up twin beds spring to mind—but what travel experience ever is?
Here’s something I didn’t know: when people mention the stone beaches, they’re not kidding. Apparently there is no natural beach here, and sand would just promptly erode away. So instead, they decided to cover the “beach” with a bunch of rocks, and call it a seaside resort city. It is entirely un-walk-on-able; I tried this morning and nearly broke both of my ankles, in addition to how I could swear the soles of my shoes were about to split wide open any second. The smart tourists plan for this little quirk, and save part of their travel budget for the daily chair-locker-and-towel combo rentals that various hotels offer on “their” sections of beach (one of them has even covered theirs entirely with a wooden platform, part of which extends all the way to the water). Everyone else perches awkwardly on the lime-to-grapefruit-sized boulders, determined to get that authentic vacation tan that all their coworkers will ooh and aah over.
In the first 24 hours, while Nick has mostly been busy with work commitments, I have been discovering Nice. I climbed up to the castle ruins, and stopped at every point marked “panorama”—there had to have been about twenty, and it’s not such a big hill. I lingered outside of a pub where a man was doing, really, a very soulful rendition of “Midnight Train to Georgia.” I saw the cathedral–it’s all painted and colorful inside—and heard the noon canon that Lord Something-Or-Other gave to the town in a highly creative show of problem-solving (he was annoyed by irregular mealtimes). I ducked into a doorway based solely on the sign saying that entry was free. “On this floor is the apothecary. The next one up has the instruments, and the top floor is the noble floor,” the greeter told me, arousing an absolutely raging curiosity. But just like he said: on the ground floor was an apothecary that had been transferred in its entirety from what later became the birthplace of Victor Hugo to some random nobleman, who then gave it to Nice (a whole apothecary—who does that?). And the second floor had been converted into a museum of music, and held fabulous old instruments (a dragon-headed bassoon, although the text abashedly admitted that it was really a horn rather than a woodwind), and the top floor had remained furnished as a palace, which is what the building had originally been. In addition to some lovely paintings, it boasted “free-swinging Italian doors with asymmetrical hinges,” and, again, there was truth in advertising: the bottom hinges had an extra few inches on them that created a bizarre fun-house look. I bought six flavors of caramels, and about eight of cookies (the glacéed fruit looked amazing, but you can’t get cookies in Paris). I strolled along the promenade above the “beach,” and passed by just as a speedboat gently set down a pair of parasailors right on the shore. I’ve always wondered how parasailors get down from there, is all—I imagined them slamming painfully into the water—so I was happy to see them drift impossibly slowly down out of the sky like it was nothing. I resolutely savored two sit-down meals alone (ratatouille came, unannounced, with both, as if it were inevitable, which is how they would run Heaven if it were up to me).
Olives are a big deal here. I never really “got” olives, but I’ve been steadfastly working to suspend my skepticism, because they’re seriously in. So when the restaurant I chose for dinner last night (my new love is truffle sandwiches; Nick is not pleased) started me off with a pile of toast chips and a pot of tapenade, I threw caution to the winds and, you know…ate it. So now we know that I like tapenade; it can join olive oil and olive-oil soap on the grand list of Things That Caroline Deems Largely Inoffensive. It’s not all so easy, of course, but I am absolutely determined that I will eat and enjoy a chocolate-covered olive before I leave this place.*
(*Upon closer inspection, chocolate-covered olives turned out to be a quaint Provençal myth: they are actually bits of nut or fruit, covered and painted to look like olives, then labeled “olives,” in a rather questionable marketing move. But let the record show that I was up for it.)
There is a strong Italian influence here; I have yet to see a menu that didn’t feature a pizza and/or risotto section, and one of the local delicacies is named “socca,” which doesn’t sound all that French to my ear, at least. One restaurant proudly offered “pizza and other niçoise delicacies.” But what I was most excited about were the deep-fried zucchini flowers, which I did get around to trying today. As soon as the thing was in my mouth, though, I realized that what I was really after was an appetizer I had in Barcelona: a zucchini flower stuffed with sausage, olives(!), and ricotta, lightly tempura-ed, and fried. Needless to say, the “beignet” I got at the sketchy counter in Nice’s Old City was not remotely that, and I settled for nibbling the ends of the bland, doughy mass, where the occasional brightness of the blossom flavor did come through.
Unlike in Barcelona, though, I feel ready to give myself completely over to Being a Tourist here. I bought a big, brightly-striped bag on the first day so that I could carry my guidebook around; I gape at the sights; I plan to take the little tourist train today or tomorrow (“Really?” my reluctant husband asked. “You’re going to be that way?”). The one thing that I won’t do is speak English, because that’s where I’m getting all of my sense of smug superiority these days. In Paris I may get the occasional, grudging, “You get by in French okay,” but my English accent makes me a standout here. About five people in 24 hours have gasped in disbelief at my linguistic prowess—especially when I told a couple of Spanish-speakers in a charming little soap shop that “I speak a tiny bit of Spanish.”
“And French,” I reminded the shopkeeper, who had already declared herself stunned by that very fact.
“And English,” I added…but that was just for me.
Just now, as I was typing, a Brit found himself stymied by his own euphemistic language when he tried to ask where the men’s room was (I’m on the roof, sipping a Champagne cocktail, with the sunny sea to my left and the stormy mountains off to my right).
“Stop that,” Nick said, as I turned toward the men. “Don’t do that.” When I asked why not (during which time they sorted it out on their own anyway), he had this to say: “Because you’re not doing it out of any actual desire to help.”
“Just because I happened to be writing right now about that exact thing does not mean that you have any idea what you’re talking about,” I snipped.
Just as well that it’s just a long weekend; I think I could quickly get insufferable without the Parisians around to cut me down to size.