The Last Walk(tz)

Out from our apartment overlooking Place Rosetti down to the Cours Saleya flea market on Monday, along the Cours to the end where the flowers usually are sold, then across to the Promenade heading west all the way to Hotel Negresco, then through the Museé Massena gardens and the 2016 memorial, and on to rue de France, which turns into the pedestrian mall of rue Massena, then to Place Massena where the Carneval stands are growing ever higher, and on down the Paillon to Place St. Francois and finally back to our apartment.

Two hours, about 3.8 kilometers.

That was the last Big Walk of our stay.

The fabled Negresco looms over the splendid gardens of Musée Massena.

After a quick lunch at home and a short nap, we took off again for the last Short
Walk, across the Cours Saleya as the flea market closed up, then east on the Promenade to the #ILoveNice sign and back. The day was nearing the end, and so was our winter on the Med. Packing and a light meal before an early bedtime to be up at 4:00 a.m. awaited.

Up early (is 4:00 a.m. ever not early?), we were out of the apartment at 5:03, on the tram at 5:15 and walking into Terminal 2 at Nice airport before 6:00 a.m.

And thus began our odyssey home.

Nice at dawn as we taxied out.

Delta had arbitrarily and without notice changed our selected seats on the Nice flight so that we were not even sitting in the same row. I asked at the counter how this could be fixed, but the agent said there was nothing he could do and blamed Air France.

Au revoir, Nice.

No big deal. The flight was only an hour and a half. And it left on time. How about that?

We arrived in the despised Charles de Gaulle airport and walked a couple of miles to passport control, then to our departure terminal (it’s never the same as your arrival terminal at CDG) and found our gate. No lounge was available because the nearest lounge was in another terminal. But we didn’t have that much time anyway.

Inside Terminal 2E Concourse K, headed toward Gate 52, we walked, and then we walked some more, and then we walked to the end of the terminal, where we were directed downstairs to our gate, which was at ground level. I didn’t need to ask what that meant–it meant buses to our plane parked somewhere else.

Upon arriving, we first asked why our seats had been changed on this flight as well, moved from Row 32 to Row 36. The agent shrugged his shoulders, muttering something about Air France, computers and four rows didn’t really make a difference. (It actually does make a difference–32 is ahead of the wing, so the noise of the jet engines for eight hours is a little less.)

Paying passengers waited for instructions that never came.

The boarding process here was the most unorganized, chaotic cluster I have ever witnessed at any airline in any airport in the world. Waiting with the goats and chickens in St. Vincent so many years ago was nothing like this. There were at least five different Delta agents trying to figure out where we should line up to check in. Two of them told us two different locations. Another just shrugged her shoulders. We followed whatever direction we were given, including those from the five bored, disaffected third-party security guards who by now had been taken out of the equation altogether.

This is Comfort Plus? The gentleman on the left had paid for Business Class in Row 2. They changed him to Row 4 and his wife to Row 5.

The only answer from Delta was something to do with Air France, even though this was a Delta flight, not code-shared with Air France. And apparently their computers had either been hacked or the crew didn’t know how to use them (more likely), because the Delta agents were circling around like hens in a barnyard trying to figure out whether to send us through security one more time to show our passports.

At this point, we had already shown our passports three times–once at Passport Control, once to gain entrance to Delta’s area and a third time to check in. But now they wanted to see our passports again. Or not. The next agent, who seemed to be more or less in charge, just waved us through the door to board the dreaded bus.

The scenic side of CDG.

Once our bus loaded to capacity, we were given a drive through the bowels of CDG, taken on a magical mystery tour to a mystery gate in a mystery concourse. Then we were herded off the bus and out into the cold to climb up a tight circular set of concrete stairs to a jetway that magically led to our plane. Nothing like that good old first class treatment from Delta Airlines, who is always telling us that passengers’ safety and comfort come first. Sure. Right.

One airline we are not likely to ever see in the U.S.

The flight itself was relatively painless. However, I have noted lately that they start serving the main meal as soon as the wheels are off the ground, with no time for a pre-dinner cocktail. I can come up with two reasons for this: 1) they want to save money on booze and/or 2) they want passengers eating and not drinking to avoid unpleasant encounters from over imbibing. In the middle of the flight, I finally just took it upon myself to walk all the way back to the galley and request a Bloody Mary. It was actually pretty good even if four hours late.

By comparison to Paris, JFK in New York was a breeze. We walked through Global Entry without even producing our passports, took our headshot, which was transmitted straight to the Border agent, and we were off to grab our luggage, recheck bags and go through security again.

I have often wondered why we have to clear TSA upon entering the U.S. when we have already gone through much more stringent security screening in Europe. Does the U.S. not trust security in Britain, France, the Netherlands? But TSA Pre Check was quick and painless. We had exactly 30 minutes to get to our gate.

Which, as good fortune would have it, was right down from Delta’s lounge. Knowing we would not have a meal on the final leg home, we ran into the lounge, gobbled a plate of food and a glass of wine and prepared to leave.

Not so fast. On my way out, I discovered a Nathan’s hot dog stand. I couldn’t resist.

And then we were on our plane in our originally assigned seats for the last two and a half hours in the air. Signing off our winter on the Med 2023-24.

Au revoir, Nice. Until next time.

First of the lasts

Our time in Nice this winter is growing short. We are in the last week, so each day brings the last time we will enjoy our favorite restaurants or see our favorite sights or walk our favorite paths.

Mmm, mmm good.

Wednesday started the first of the last. It was a rainy, gloomy day, by far the worst we have encountered in our sty this winter. Lynn was not in the mood to step out at all, so I ran our few necessary errands in the steady light drizzle. Rain or not, our dinner that night was our last at Citrus. The dinner was exquisitely delicious as always, but we were disappointed not to see our favorite server there. She lives just down the street from our apartment, and we occasionally get a glimpse of her walking to the market. We had hoped to wish her au revoir at the restaurant, but business that night was so light she probably chose to stay home.

Lynn’s seafood stew baked into a cassoulet.

After our delicious plats of veal confit for me and a seafood stew baked in a casserole for Lynn, we ordered dessert, a rarity for us. It was a black chocolate lava cake with ginger ice cream. The cake surrounded a molten center of chocolate, too hot to eat at first, but once cooled was so decadent, set off with the flavor of the ginger ice cream. Citrus makes their desserts as exquisite as their other dishes.

Thursday dawned with much better weather. The sun came out and the temperature rose to comfortable levels, so off we went for our last visit to Cimiez. The gardens were still colorful with the wildflower plantings, but the roses by then were completely gone, just a few petals left from the season. After a quick visit to the church to gaze one last time at the Brea paintings, we clambered down a set of stone steps to pay one last visit to Matisse’s tomb to say au revoir. His tomb rests all by itself in a green space separate form the rest of the cemetery on the way to the graveyard of the nuns in the convent above. I suppose a giant of art like Matisse merits his own private grave.

After our brief visit to Matisse and his wife, it was back on the 5 bus for lunch at Iberica following a long walk from our bus stop. We still haven’t figured out the best stop on the way back from Cimiez.

I swear, it looks bigger on the outside.

We had made reservations at a new place for us called Chez Palmyre, which serves traditional Nicoise fare in a tiny, rustic family-style room. I say family-style, because everyone sits elbow-to elbow on two long tables on either side of the narrow room. The menu consists of four entrees, four plats and four desserts, all for 22 euros. Chez Palmyre turned out to be a find, with delicious food served expeditiously, because the entire place only holds 25 diners. They offer only two seatings, one at 7:00 p.m. and one at 9:00. It’s a very efficient place, and has been there since 1926, so it is a fixture in Vieux Nice. Who knew? We do now.

Who knew? A crawfish in Nice.

Our companions at our table included a British couple visiting from Hong Kong where they work, then a French couple who obviously knew the place well, then on our other side three young French, two girls and a guy. All three couples sitting on our side ordered the same dishes–the osso bucco for me and trois frommage ravioli for Lynn. For my entreé I ordered the bouchée à la reine, a baked puff pastry filled with seafood–crawfish, of all things. Not as tasty without Zatarain’s, but it was a true crawfish. Dessert was what they call tiramisu, which is actually rich pudding topped with chocolate sauce and chocolate powder with a small crust on the very bottom of the container.

And we all three of the couples at our table ordered the same wine, a delicious Cote du Rhone for all of 17 euros. We’ll be back.

At the storied Negresco.

On Friday for our stroll, we headed west all the way to the Hotel Negresco and a visit in the next block to the memorial for the innocents who were slaughtered by a crazed Islamist jihadist while celebrating Bastille Day July 14, 2016. Nearly eight years later, it is still a sobering sight and doleful memory.

At the memorial garden in front of Musée Massena.

On the way back, we walked around to Place Massena, where the Christmas market was long gone and the stands for Carneval were in the first stages of construction. Mardi Gras is not far for either us or Nice, where the theme this year is King of Pop Culture.

The Carneval stands start to go up.

Dinner Friday was farewell to Bar des Oiseaux, where we both ordered the veal confit, falling apart and melting in your mouth. I tried a different wine this time, but was somewhat disappointed. I’ll remember to stay with the Charme-Arnaud next time. Regardless, we had our table, the restaurant had the vibe, and we hated to leave.

Since Wayne’s is still under renovation and will be, we have been informed, at least to the end of this month and maybe into the first week of February, we decided to stop off at Snug & Cellar, an Irish bar just two bocks down rue Rosetti from our apartment. We found a most friendly place, tiny with enough room for only a few chairs and nothing else. We struck up a conversation with a friendly gentleman from England who is now a Canadian citizen but full-time resident of Nice. He just lost his wife less than a year ago, so is still grieving. We shared his story while Lynn petted his little dog.

Note the admission policy.

During our conversation, one of our servers from Wayne’s walked in, bouncy and effervescent as we had always enjoyed her. She told us she no longer works at Wayne’s, which is why we have not seen her there the last several months. But she still stays in touch with her friends there and told us to tell them hello when we return, which sadly will not be until July.

Saturday was a last circumnavigation of Castle Hill before meeting Florent for lunch at L’Escalinada, which has also become one of our favorites. We walked through the very busy Cours Saleya to the Promenade and up to the base of Castle Hill, where a group of Palestinian supporters ignored the concept of slaughter and demonstrated against the war in Gaza. Most people just walked by without giving them the credit of notice. I refused to take a photo of people who can’t or won’t understand the meaning of barbarism.

The daly line for socca in Course Saleya was especially long on Saturday.

We made it around the Port, where there were no boats of interest any more, then when on to meet Florent for lunch at L’Escalinada. Florent, ever the expert on all things Nicoise, explained the meaning of the gnocchi dish that he and I were interested in ordering. He explained that the literal translation of the dish is duck poo gnocchi, and by golly he was right. It was like nothing I had ever seen before–green elongated pieces that looked for all the world like….

Between the look and the texture, I decided not to order that again, although the flavor was just fine. Next time, I’ll find something else to accompany the daube, like Lynn’s pasta.

Florent was, as always, entertaining, funny and engaging. As we walked out of the restaurant, a very attractive young woman walked up and greeted him, apologizing that she spoke very little English. We left, and they walkedaway together. We weren’t sure whether they had planned to meet, and perhaps planned to leave together or had any sort of relationship. With Florent, nothing would ever surprise us.

After such a late lunch Friday, we planned to have a much more modest evening meal at Cave du Cours, where we could basically eat free while we drank a few glasses of wine. Saturday night, they outdid themselves.

Our friendly chef at Cave du Cours, who kept the plates coming to us.

We arrived just a few minutes after they opened at 6:00 p.m., so we were able to snag two seats at a counter in the back of the room right under the heater. In 15 minutes, the room was full with a lively vibe. At least three different small groups sat at the long table that dominates the middle of the wine cellar. We could hear American accents and French spoken in an American accent. I hope I don’t sound like that when I try to speak my pidgin French, but I probably do.

They were most generous with the knoshes that night. First we had plates of sausage and hard cheese. Then they brought out two more plates of chorizo and country paté. Then two more plates of sausage and hard cheese. All this for four glasses of delicious wine, the Charme Arnaud, the label I prefer at Bar des Oiseaux. It all amounted to a large charcuterie board anywhere else. We needed to eat no more that evening.

Lynn samples what was the start of six plates of knoshes at Cave du Cours.

And then, the Last Supper out. A Sunday steak at L’Atelier du Carnivore.

No translation necessary.

This is purely a steakhouse. No other choices on the menu. They grill the steaks on a Big Green Egg, a really big one. And the choices are from a selection of Irish and Argentine beef, Black Angus from the U.S. or a tasting menu of huge hunks of meat for large group.

We chose the Argentine entrecôte, essentially a 400-gram rib eye just the right size for us to share. The first rendition came out too rare for even me; their idea of medium is all but barely singed on the outside. We asked them for a few more minutes on the Big Green Egg, and the result was just perfect.

We split the steak with some sides of tiny fingerling potatoes and a little salad, just the perfect Sunday dinner and a fitting Last Supper before our Last Day.

The gang and their Egg at L’Atelier du Carnivore. I think we may have been the only customers that Sunday night.

Hello again, Parc Phoenix; au revoir, Peru

Lynn stands at the entrance to Parc Phoenix with the huge greenhouse in the background behind a large elaborate bounce house for some kid’s party.

Parc Phoenix is a multi-modal park near the airport in Nice that we like to visit when we are here. The park includes a primitive zoo of interest mostly to kids; a large open area for picnics (not now); the Asian Art Museum (closed one day a week, of course Tuesday when we went); and a huge greenhouse of tropical flora and a little bit of fauna.

We have visited there in better weather when families turn out in force, but we like to visit at least once no matter the season. Tuesday was to be our day.

Wallabies in their pen.

Despite the closure of the Asiatic Art museum, Parc Phoenix is still interesting and enjoyable for us. There was no line at the ticket window, and we walked right in to find the closed museum. Then it was off to the little zoo where we watched wallabies, ducks, geese, pigs, and goats hang around in their pens. We looked for a few other animals on display but they apparently had hidden themselves away for the winter, like the porcupine.

The hibiscus in Parc Phoenix were in full bloom, even as mine at home were being killed in the freeze.

Then it was off to the huge 7,000 square meter tropical greenhouse to wander through the various climates ranging from Australia to Florida. Even in the dead of winter, the flowers were brilliantly colored, and many of the plants were in full growth in the humid warmth of the pyramidal greenhouse. We even found the snakes and bugs in what is called the salle lineé, or linear room. It was on the way to the bathroom, so we were destined to find it anyway.

Pink flamingoes comfortable in the humid warmth of the greenhouse.

Parc Phoenix is good for a morning if you don’t have kids, and we decided to forego lunch in the little cafe for a more substantial feeding back in town. Rather than alight from the tram at Place Garibaldi, we decided to go all the way to the Port and walk around to the far side to explore for lunch. There we found Ma Nolan’s, an Irish bar, where we dined on cheeseburgers that we had been craving the last several days.

Ma Nolan’s cheeseburgers were satisfying if not great, and the fries were delicious. For some reason, the French serve ketchup and mayonnaise with burgers and fries, but we always have to ask for mustard. The jar that came out was at the very end of its contents, but it was just enough to slather on both our burgers. With a couple of 1664 beers, sitting out in the sun enjoying cheeseburgers was just a wonderful mid-winter experience.

We could see from Ma Nolan’s to our surprise, the Peruvian barque Union was still in Port. As it was mid-afternoon by the time we finished dining, we walked off our lunch around the perimeter of the Port to see if the ship was still open for visits or might show signs of leaving anytime soon.

The midshipmen take their positions on the yardarms for their departure from Nice.

Indeed it was the latter. And it was quite the show.

Shortly before 3:00 p.m. the cadets scrambled up the rigging to take their positions on the yardarms, ready to cast off. A young woman on the dock sang two songs sending the ship off, one of which must have been the Peruvian national anthem, because it generated a round of applause from the crowds lining the Promenade and the parking lot overlooking the Port and the ship.

The pilot boats approached, and they began their job of towing the Union ever so carefully away from the dock. Once clear, the ship began to turn around very slowly with the aid of the pilot boats, one on the stern and one on the bow. As the Union separated from dry land of France, the ship’s PA system played La Marseillaise at full volume as the assembled crowd burst into wild cheers, applause and singing along. It was a thrilling moment. I hummed along, but I really need to learn the words to La Marseillaise.

What a thrill for the kids in the Optis from Club Nautique de Nice.

We walked up the Promenade slowly, watching the majestic tall ship move out into the Mediterranean to be met by two groups of Optis, the Union sailors still standing in the rigging, where they had been now for about an hour. We felt personally attached to this group, because we had talked to so many while they toured Nice and we toured their ship. And now they were leaving. We waved good-bye one last time as the ship motored out to the southwest, bound for Malaga.

Staysails rigged and on the way to Malaga.

Eastbound to Menton

Menton is the last town in France before reaching the Italian border at Ventimiglia. We had passed through Menton a few times on the way from or to Italy, but had never actually visited. Monday was to be the day.

Lynn and I both declared simultaneously in the morning–it was time to explore eastbound. We briefly discussed going to Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild, but we had been there more than once, and the extensive gardens aren’t so lush in the middle of winter. So I suggested Menton. Lynn agreed.

Streets in Menton are lined with Clementine trees loaded with fruit.

Menton is known as the Pearl of France, likely a term that originates with the Office of Tourism. It is, however, a pretty little town perched in the rocky cliffs that run down to the always beautiful Mediterranean. If that is possible, Menton has a milder climate than Nice, tucked as it is in a corner of the Ligurian Sea adjacent to the Italian border. It is known for lemons, and its Lemon Festival is held in February. It also boasts of a number of botanical gardens dotted throughout the little town. Clementine trees loaded with hundreds of fruit line many of the streets in the old town.

Menton, the Pearl of France and the capital of lemons.

Menton is also famed for its beaches, although after we have seen the ones in Nice and all the other little towns sprinkled to the east and west, we know they are all beautiful but none so much as Nice.

We took the tram to Gare Nice-Ville, the main train station, where I purchased two round-trip tickets for 25.60 euros from one of the many machines standing around the cavernous lobby. As I collected my tickets and receipt, I realized that the machine had been set to Italian. I could have dialed up French or English, but just stumbled my way through the process in Italian. How multilingual we have become.

Of course, the scanner was not linguistic at all and would not recognize my tickets when we started through the gate inside the station. The helpful SNCF agent tried to scan the QR code to no avail either, then just waved us through. It was obvious we had tickets after all, and the conductor would check them on the train anyway. The internal gate is useless. Someone had a contract…

Our train nearly filled up in Nice, but then nearly emptied out in Monaco. By the time we reached Menton two stops away, there were very few passengers left. Just about all of them were bound for Ventimiglia and Italy, because we were the only two to disembark at Menton.

Oops. Sorry. Just passing through.

Gare de Menton is under major construction. We followed the directions to the exit that led us to walking through a private tennis club, a pretty impressive affair but also private property. Oops. No one seemed to object.

Construction blocked the main exit from the station, so following the signs sent us down the stairs and right through the tennis club.

Following Google Maps on my phone we managed to reach the Tourism Office, where I grabbed an old-fashioned paper map that the helpful agent circled the major points of interest. He directed us to the pedestrian mall along Avenue Felix Faure (same Felix Faure as in Nice–he was president of France during the Third Republic at the end of the 19th century), then up to the Basilica of St. Michael, and to the waterfront.

The beautiful Palais d’Europe where the tourist office was located in the center of town.

The pedestrian mall was pleasant if nondescript, lined with the same retail names we have seen in Nice and all over western Europe. A few souvenir shops were open selling their wares emblazoned with names of Cote d’Azur, Menton and the usual t-shirt wisdom.

The pedestrian mall was deserted. This is definitely not high season.

By the time we reached the waterfront, we started looking for a lunch spot and found Bar du Cap, one of the few spots open for business. Off season is no different in Menton–restaurants along the waterfront are closed for congé or construction.

Lynn starts up the path to the basilica.

Lunch was fairly nondescript as well. Lynn went for her standard, a chèvre chaud salad, and I ordered mine, a salad Nicoise. With two glasses of delicious rosé, the salads were just fine and a real bargain, 13.50 and 14.50, the lowest we have seen anywhere. Nevertheless both salads were large, generous with the chèvre for Lynn and the anchovies for me. Our only problem was the pigeons that kept flying around as the servers tried vainly to drive them out of the place. The pigeons won.

After lunch, we started up the multiple stairways that led to the basilica, which–not atypical in old France–was right next door to another church. Both looked historic and both were closed until late in the afternoon, so we worked our way down the stairs and on to the waterfront.

To the immediate right of the Basilica of St. Michael stands the Chapel of the Penitents.
Menton’s pretty waterfront and marina feature a promenade of their own.
The multi colors of the umbrellas set each of the waterfront restaurants apart. Most are furled and closed for the winter.

Menton has its own Promenade, not as wide but quite attractive in its own right, starting along the marina, where a string of restaurants operate during high season. At the end of the marina is the Bastion of Jean Cocteau, a museum to the famous painter housed in the old fort built in 1636 when Menton was ruled by the Grimaldi family of Monaco.

Santa was left over from the Christmas decorations, still rowing his boat ashore.

Just down the street from the Bastion is another Jean Cocteau museum, this one a very contemporary building opened in 2011 to display the huge collection of Séverin Wunderman, one of Cocteau’s most prolific buyers. A number of vintage hotels line the street facing the beach, all of them impressive and oddly all only three-star. And just down from these is the large, elaborate Casino Barriere de Menton that faces the beach at the very end of the boulevard where we turned to walk back up to the train station.

The train back had us home by 4:00 p.m., a pleasant and quiet ride in a newer (but not new) regional train. We decided to forego our stroll along the Promenade since we had just accomplished the same thing in Menton. Tomorrow would be time enough.

The latest wonder of the world

IKEA opened in Nice a couple of years ago, far out north and west of the airport. We saw it from the distance once as we took a bus to Vence, but we had never actually visited. Wednesday was the day. We wanted to purchase a chest of drawers to tuck into our cavernous owner’s closet, so we could leave more clothing and other household items in the apartment to save packing them when we travel.

It takes two trams to get to IKEA. We took the airport tram L2 to a stop I had never heard of, then transferred to the L3 that runs north to Stade de Nice, the huge sports stadium that last year hosted some of the World Cup of rugby and this year will most some of the 2024 Olympic soccer matches.

The stadium and IKEA form a complex with a small mall between them.

The stadium is part of a new complex that includes IKEA and an adjacent mall consisting of a few stores, including a Subway, which should be banned in a city like Nice. Along the way, we saw a huge multi-building residential complex under construction. Cranes stood up all over the place amid sleek new modern office buildings. This is most definitely the new Nice.

IKEA is truly a modern wonder of the world. It is massive from the outside and a theme park on the inside. When patrons walk in, they follow a marked path through the monstrous interior that takes them through no fewer than 27 stations representing rooms of furniture, appliances, and everything you could possibly need to furnish an entire home. As we walked through, we realized that our apartment was completely furnished from IKEA, right down to the cutting boards, utensils and china in the kitchen.

IKEA is every bit as big as the stadium behind it.
Our selected piece of furniture will reside in our owner’s closet. Not a bad price.

Following the arrows and signs overhead to the bedroom section that was larger than most entire furniture stores, we found just the right piece, four drawers in a modest sized chest that will fit just fine in the owner’s locker. I managed to overcome a serious language barrier with the store associate to not only purchase the piece but arrange for delivery, which cost more than a third of the price of the furniture itself. But IKEA will deliver two very heavy boxes of wood pieces to 3 rue de la Condamine and up the 12 steep stairs to our door on Saturday. Or at least that’s what the printed receipt said.

Purchase made, we were now hungry, so we wandered our way through the maze of rooms and to the sprawling cafeteria where shoppers and their small children stop to grab a bite. Since IKEA is Swedish, the cuisine was too. I ordered a plate of Swedish meatballs (eight not 12, as offered) with mashed potatoes and green peas. I’d be willing to wager that IKEA is the only place in all of Nice where you can get such a dish. Meanwhile, Lynn ate a Caesar salad. They charged 20 cents for the balsamic vinegar.

Decorations to entertain all customers.

Once fed, we completed our purchase without issue, confirmed that the delivery would be Saturday and walked out of the huge place, staggered at its very scale.

We strolled over to the little mall between IKEA and the stadium to look for some emoluments for Lynn that had been recommended by our friend at Wayne’s. We couldn’t find anything, but the experience was nonetheless interesting. The name of the store is Action, and it is pretty much the French equivalent of Dollar General. To say it’s a circus is to insult the circus as boring. We looked and we left, bound for the L3 line and back home.

Our day of adventure ended with another delicious dinner of sausage and peppers expertly prepared, exquisitely delicious, especially with a nice bottle of Bordeaux from the Cave. Vive la France. Vive la IKEA.

IKEA–Part 2

The order promised a delivery Saturday between 7:00 and 12:00. I was up early and dressed in case the truck showed up in the dark. Needless to say, I wasted my morning waiting on the delivery. They called at 11:48, promising to be there in seven minutes.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. They were at our door. They hauled up the two boxes of heavy composite wood, each weighing more than 50 pounds, as if they were pillows. They walked into our apartment and to their credit carefully laid the boxes down so they would not scratch the floor, took a photo to document the delivery and departed.

Drawers assembled, case next.

Three hours later, I had finally assembled the packed boards into a piece of furniture. Now all we had to do was move it into the owner’s closet.

Just follow the instructions for three hours.

Unfortunately, we had not accounted for the space to insert the drawers or where the dresser would fit best in the large space that now seemed inadequate for this piece of furniture. We twisted it in, then turned it around, then moved it to another location until finally putting it in a position with enough space to insert the drawers. Then we spun the entire chest around to position it where we had originally planned.

Perhaps a different type of furniture would have worked better, but this will do just fine.

Furniture in place.

After three hours of stooping over the floor assembling unnumerable pieces of wood put together with strange looking fasteners , I needed to stretch my legs and my back, so we took a walkabout in the neighborhood. Since we had eaten only a very light lunch while I was piecing everything together, we decided to reward ourselves with a dozen raw oysters at Cafe de Turin.

They were as briny and tasty as ever, almost translucent and redolent of the sea. They made the perfect snack before rewarding ourselves with another fabulous dinner at Bar des Oiseaux later that evening. The beautiful manager there welcomed us with a curtsey and directed us to our table that faced the kitchen. We have become so regular there, they don’t bother to show us the wine list anymore. They just bring out our favorite.

Talk about bon appétit.

A visitor sails into Nice

As we walked into the Cours Saleya Friday morning, it was obvious that something big was going on. A large number of cars were parked in the square, including a few local police vehicles. We could see a large contingent of uniformed people in full dress walking in two groups led by our familiar, friendly tour guide from the Patrimony Office, who seems to be everywhere.

Peruvian midshipmen just before their tour of the Prefecture in the background.

She was explaining the history of the Prefecture building in English to the group, who introduced themselves to be cadets from the Peruvian naval academy. They were all third-year midshipmen, all outfitted in their dress blues, all fluent in English and all young. We talked to a few of them, and they explained that they are here on a naval ship that is sailing around the world under the flag of Peru.

This is no conventional gray navy ship. It is Peru’s tall ship, the barque Union. And it is in port for four days, open for visits. Our ship awaits.

The Peruvian barque Union, docked at the Port of Nice.

We walked down to the Port to see the ship, fully dressed and magnificent. It is a rare barque, four masts, three of which are square rigged and the mizzen Marconi rigged. It was built in Peru and launched in late 2014 as both a training vessel and a sailing ambassador for her country. Including the bowsprit, she is nearly 379 feet long and can make 12 knots underway. The Union carries 250 crew and cadets on its annual cruise around the world.

The ship’s escutcheon.

So far, the ship has crossed the Pacific to Japan, then down to Singapore, across the Indian Ocean and into the Med, where it is calling on Nice, then Malaga before crossing the Atlantic with stops in Baltimore (actually Annapolis to visit the U.S. Naval Academy) and Miami. It will then proceed down the Caribbean, stopping at a few islands, before making the transit through the Panama Canal and then home to Peru.

Winches by, who else? Harken.

I wanted to walk down to ask if the ship was open for tours, but Lynn insisted that it would not be open to the public, and we were approaching lunchtime. As we walked back along the Promenade, we ran into yet another group of midshipmen, who informed us that indeed the ship was open to the public for tours and invited us to visit.

But first, there was the matter of lunch at L’Escalinada. We had made reservations for 1 p.m., planning to meet Florent, our real estate agent, now friend. But Florent turned up with food poisoning so had to back out. That did not deter us from L’Escalinada.

It is a traditional Nicoise restaurant that makes probably the best pizza we have eaten here in town, crispy right to the center. We ordered the aubergine beignets as a starter then dove into their pizza. They actually served it already sliced in half on two plates, a rare gesture here because most people eat a full pizza themselves. We just can’t do that. As it was, our lunch was quite filling and nap-inducing.

The line was long, but moved reasonably in pace.

Later that afternoon, we embarked down the Promenade to the Port and the Union. By then, a long line had formed to see the ship, and it was 3:30 p.m. The security line moved reasonably expeditiously, and then we walked to the dock and waited as visitors left and the next group would be admitted up the gangway.

Talk about traditional–all the blocks are made of wood.

I was like a kid enjoying his first amusement ride. As we moved around on the deck, starting from the aft steering station, we chatted with the cadets, all of whom spoke English and all of whom were so young, so well mannered and looking so smart in their dress uniforms. Through the window of the pilot house, I could see an old-fashioned paper chart of their cruise, with dividers, protractors and a sextant laid on the elaborate map. These kids are learning the traditional skills of the sea.

Sextant, parallels, dividers all ready for traditional navigation around the world.

Post-holiday Nice

We just thought Nice was quiet and deserted the week before Christmas. How wrong we were. Now that the holidays are over and January has descended, all the Italians, Asians, British and most Americans are gone. Vieux Nice is all but abandoned. In fact, this is our fourth January in Nice, and we have never seen it so empty.

The Christmas market is being disassembled, and the booths are being loaded on trucks to be hauled away to wherever they will spend the year until next December.

The Christmas market starts to come down piece by piece, but the Ferris wheel is a permanent fixture.
This little place is undergoing a major remake. Pity poor Hobo next door.

Restaurants and shops are closed for conge´ everywhere. And if not for congé, then for construction, which is being carried out on every block. Even Wayne’s is closed for most of the month (probably all of it) to renovate their electrical system, which is a fire waiting to happen. La Lupita, the little Mexican restaurant two doors down, is closed this week for renovations. The Indian restaurant around the corner, which was open for Christmas (they are Hindu, right?), has shut down for the month for major renovations.

Where will we go for cocktails?

Restaurant Acchiardo has joined the dozens that have shut down for January, not to re-open until Carneval (that’s how it’s spelled in Nice). Restaurants here follow inconsistent opening times anyway. Acchiardo, for instance, is closed on weekends. Now that is truly unusual, to give up your weekend business. I guess they figure they have enough during the week. Some restaurants close on Tuesday-Wednesday, others on Sunday-Monday. There is no consistency at all.

La Lupita, our little Mexican restaurant, is closed for renovations. Our chimichangas will have to wait until next week.

What used to be a bar across rue Rosetti just down from us looks like their total renovation is almost complete. We have no idea what it will be when it opens again. And just across on our side of rue Rosetti, construction continues on a tiny space that will have electricity and a small sink. It’s way too small for human habitation, so we are curious what sort of commerce will move in there.

Paper notices have been plastered all around us, including on our own door, warning of traffic closures a block away from us due to some sort of street construction. We’ll have to monitor closely to see if the project affects access to our building (probably not, but it’s very close). Elsewhere all over Vieux Nice, the streets are being cut up and conduits laid, presumably for fiber to come. We had our “dig” last October, but the conduits remain empty, sticking up from their subterranean lairs.

Conduits all down the street ready for fiber (?).

Cours Saleya and the narrow streets surrounding our apartment are manageable again. In fact, the market is only half full of stalls at mid-week. I suppose it’s cold and there aren’t enough customers to entice all the vendors to stand around all day long.

There is not even a line at the big boucherie near Place St. Francois. Even more incredible, there were only three people in line at Chez Theresa, the socca purveyor a block down from us. Normally the line extends down the street to rue Rosetti. Our little town has settled into winter.

But the Promenade is open all day, every day. And we make sure to have a stroll each day.

A Day at the Opera

Nice’s elaborate Opera dates all the way back to 1776, when a wooden building was erected by private investors, eventually purchased by the city of Nice and demolished in 1826. The city then built a new Opera that opened two years later and entertained kings and emperors before it burned down in 1881. The city rebuilt the present structure in 1885, and today it is called the Opéra Nice Côte d’Azur.

We had tried to tour the Opera building at least three times, the first two to no avail. First time, I walked in and asked if they conducted tours of the building. No. (I later learned that there is a tour through the Patrimony Office, but it is only on Monday, which was Christmas and New Year’s.)

Days later I walked in and asked to buy tickets to the ballet. No. It was sold out.

Finally, we bought tickets to the Nice Philharmonic concert for Sunday afternoon. We joined the throngs of classical music fans and filed into the ornate opera house, designed with the help of Garnier, who designed the magnificent Opera Garnier in Paris.

At least we were closer to the ornate ceiling and chandelier of the Opera.

The box office agent had sold us two tickets on the fourth level (of five) for 25 euros each. We walked into the main lobby and started up the stairs, directed by helpful attendants who continued sending us up more stairs until we finally found our fourth-level seats.

We were clearly in the nosebleed section, and there was one even higher than ours.

We were seated in the fourth of five levels, the lower of the two for the peeps.

All the levels below us were box seats with individual velour covered chairs, seemingly three to a box. Our seats, on the other hand, were short and straight backed with less legroom than a Ryan Air plane. I noticed the velour upholstery on the seat next to me was covered with a piece of red duct tape, likely to repair a rip in the fabric.

Legroom less than Ryan Air.

Uncomfortable or not, our section filled up, as did most of the fifth level above us. The peeps were fans of classical music, and the swells below us filled all the boxes and orchestra seats on the floor. Apparently, Nice loves its Philharmonic.

The concert was truly entertaining. Our seats from on high gave us a panoramic view of the entire orchestra below, and it was a big one. The program started with two compositions by Schumann and Berlioz on the theme of Romanticism at the beginning of the 19th century. The featured artist was pianist Philippe Bianconi who thrilled the audience with his keyboard virtuosity. He was no Professor Longhair or Dr. John, but he played for 45 minutes without the aid of sheet music.

After a short intermission to send the piano to the depths below the main stage and let the rest of the orchestra take their places, conductor Lionel Bringuier sent the Philharmonic through their paces in a series of stirring musical selections, which unfortunately were not identified in the program. Both the featured pianist and the conductor were natives of Nice, so that may have been one reason such a large audience showed up to see them.

No small orchestra here.

After two hours of high culture, circulation in my legs was about gone when we rose to leave the theatre. We were directed down a set of uncarpeted stairs that led out to the side door of the Opera and into the street just as the sun was setting and the golden hour was approaching the streets of Nice.

We then moved from one culture to another.

We made straight for Wayne’s to have a couple of glasses of wine and an order of fries (we had not eaten lunch). This was to be Wayne’s last night before shutting down for a couple of weeks to renovate the bar’s electrical system, which was sorely needed. We had been there before when the lights simply went out. It was a wonder to me that the lights didn’t go out every night, especially when the bands played.

A party atmosphere prevailed in Wayne’s, as we sat and chatted with Irene the Russian bartender, who was planning a sojourn to Paris during her enforced break. As a student, she would be staying in a hostel and hoping to get discounts to the Louvre and Miusée d’Orsay. When we departed, we tipped well and cautioned her not to spend it all in one place. It would not be likely that the renovation would be completed before we leave.

And then it was home for Sunday steak, grilled in the skillet on the hob. The boucherie on Saturday would not sell me a half kilo of cote de boeuf, so I attempted to slice the large hunk of meat in half with only middling success. Nevertheless, the grilled entrecôte was quite flavorful.

With breakfast and Bloody Marys in the morning, philharmonic in the afternoon, steak in the evening and listening on WWL-AM to a glorious Saints victory over hated Atlanta, it was a fine Sunday to be back home in Nice.

Wining around Provence

When we inquired about a wine tour at the desk of our hotel, the delightfully beautiful hotel agent jumped from her desk to a rack of brochures and plucked out one for the Avignon Wine Tour considered (according to the brochure) “The best wine tour in the world.”

You can check it out for yourself at www.avignon-wine-tour.com, but we would put it up there with the best we have taken.

I e-mailed the proprietor immediately, Francois Marcou answered right away, and we booked a full day for Friday. This is not a cheap tour–120 euros a person plus an expensive but delicious lunch–but it is actually on the low end of pricing for similar tours listed on Trip Advisor.

Francois and the vines. These have not been pruned yet, late because of the hot, dry summer that delayed the harvest by a full month.

Francois picked us up right on time and led us to his Peugeot SUV parked right at the door of the hotel. We took off through the narrow streets of Avignon as Francois gave us a city tour and history lesson along the way to our first stop well out into the countryside.

Francois is an engaging, affable, articulate guide who knows his wine and his regions. He worked as a maitre d’ for some 30 years in restaurants around Avignon but also as far away as Paris and Toronto. He is an excellent marketer, dressed in his signature red outfit with a black beret embroidered with Avignon Wine Tours in red across the front. His business, he explained, has taken a massive hit from both Covid and Brexit over the last three years. He said in 2019 he booked nearly 900 guests; now he is down to fewer than 400 in 2023. And that is up from 2022.

Francois leads five different tours a week, a separate region for each day. Our hotel desk agent told us that the Friday tour is the best, taking us through St. Remy and out to Les Beaux de Provence for a total of four winery visits and a large, expensive but excellent lunch at at restaurant named Paulette in a village named Eygalieres in the heart of Provence.

Before entering our first winery, Francois took us to the vineyard to explain the process of growing the grapes that make the juice that makes the wine. He noted that only a maximum of eight bunches of grapes are taken from any vine. The older vines don’t produce as many grapes, so some of them only yield three clusters per vine, which greatly decreases the volume and increases the price of production.

He also pointed out vast number of olive trees growing in the countryside, noting that many have replaced grapes, because olive trees are not as susceptible to disease and can produce a crop of olive oil that exceeds the price of wine. More profit, less work.

Francois’s dissertation on wine tasting.

On our first winery stop, Francois proceeded to first teach us the proper steps for tasting wine:

  1. Color
  2. First nose (swirl, but must be counter clockwise in the Northern hemisphere)
  3. Second nose
  4. Legs
  5. Tasting
  6. Third nose after raising and lowering the empty glass six times into the air

After that dissertation, he explained the classifications of wine we would be tasting along the way, starting with Level 1, basic vin de France, all the way up to Level 7, AOP Cru avec nom de reserve (e.g. Chateau Lafitte). We would mostly be tasting wines at Level 2 and 3, which are designated by region, e.g. AOP Baux de Provence.

No humble wine room; all these were sophisticated operations.

Only then did we receive our first taste of white, then rosé, then red. All were delicious, and we went through an extensive session of smelling all the aspects of the nose–fruit, flowers, food, soil, etc. Lynn’s nose, as usual, was legions above mine. She was able to detect melon, old leather, violets, and other scents, when I was simply smelling white, rosé and red.

Each of the wine tasting rooms were splendid in their own right. These are all very sophisticated operations. We drove through the countryside on our way to San Remy, where van Gogh had spent his last days before committing suicide in nearby Arles. Francois pointed out roadsigns devoted to the tragic artist and Roman ruins that told the history of the area all the way back to Gaul (divided, as we know, into three parts).

One of the Roman structures still standing after two millennia.

After two tastings, we repaired to lunch at Paulette at the end of the open market in the village. Francois let us out of the car in a light rain so we could walk down the street through the small market and to the restaurant. Francois was obviously a regular, as the staff welcomed him warmly. The owners were out of town, in fact, in Thailand for holiday. But the cuisine was not impaired by their absence.

Such a little, light dessert.

Lynn ordered the guinea hen and I had a monstrous hamburger loaded with everything and a delicious pepper sauce on the side. We couldn’t resist dessert, and mine was a sampler plate of tiramisu, pistachio creme brulée, ice cream and a macaron with coffee on the side. Decadent. Lynn was more sensible, ordering a lemon tart that she declared delicious and on the order of a key lime pie.

It was all we could do to walk out of the restaurant and pile in the car. We had two more wine tastings and no chance for a nap.

At Dalmeran, they gave us a surprise tasting of their “orange” wine. Quite refreshing.

By our fourth stop, the sun was beginning to set over the mountains and we were beginning to fade ourselves. Francois stopped at one point to give us a vantage of a village literally carved out of the rocks of the mountain overlooking caves that had been excavated as homes by the Romans more than 2,000 years ago. Moving on to the next village, we passed another cave that has been developed as a local attraction with visual effects of van Gogh beamed on the stone walls inside. Sadly, we did not have time to stop.

The little village is perched along the cliffs of the mountain above the Roman caves that are barely visible in the haze just below.

By the time Francois delivered us back to our hotel, it was dark, we were full of wine and not the least bit hungry for dinner. We took short, long-delayed naps and finally walked out into the mostly empty square for a very light dinner of salad for me and onion soup for Lynn. And then it was back to the room for packing and prepping for our return trip to Nice the next morning.

Overall, we cannot recommend Avignon enough. For a smallish town, it features more art and history than you can see in only two days. Although the restaurants tend to be a bit more expensive than Nice, Avignon also offers a variety of excellent, sophisticated choices that would stand up to any in France. And don’t forget those five free museums.

We have three to go. We’ll have to return.

Palace of the Popes and another freebie

We purchased a combination ticket for the Palace of the Popes and the Benezet bridge rather than the full City Pass, because we really didn’t see any other attractions worth paying for. Besides, there were four other museums to see for free in Avignon.

The castle looms over one of the several gardens within the grounds.

Our ticket was timed for 11:00 a.m., but we were up and ready to go at 10, so we started the 200-yard trek to the Palace in the hope that we could be admitted early. We were waved in with no hesitation.

We hustled to get in front of a large group of Asians and started through the massive, cavernous complex of buildings, now more than 700 years old. Originally constructed in only 20 years, the Palace of the Popes was developed sort of organically, with each of the six popes who reigned there (plus the two anti-popes) adding some element or another. It is the largest Gothic building of the Middle Ages and one of the best examples of the International Style of Gothic architecture. Today it is one of the top ten tourist attractions in France, drawing some 650,000 visitors a year.

The cavernous hall where the cardinals once deliberated.

Your ticket gives you a tablet pre-loaded with VR scenes of the palace chambers and vignettes of life in the 14th century papacy. Lynn does not like these contraptions, and quickly became frustrated. I too had a hard time figuring out the electronic operation, but once we did, the tablets provided interesting information about life in the palace, the history of the art and the extensive gardens that various popes had installed within the walls.

Oops. I forgot that photos are not permitted in the frescoed rooms.

Most of the rooms contained large informative displays that included both English and Spanish narratives, which made the tour easier to walk through. Some of the rooms still contained original frescoes on the walls, where we were not allowed to take photographs, no doubt because some visitors just can’t resist using flash.

Our visit took most of two hours, so it was about noon when we walked out. Instead of searching for lunch, we decided to go straight to St. Benezet bridge, famous in some circles for a children’s song that I was and still am unaware of. The bridge ticket was an extra five euros over the 12 for the Palace. I have to say that five euros is overpriced.

What can I say? The loveliest part of the Benezet Bridge.

We walked the bridge, which extends about halfway across the Rhone, and then walked back. Other than a bare chapel to St. Nicholas, there is not much else on the truncated span. Other than being old, it has very little interest.

First saladerie I have ever seen.

We walked off, now quite hungry for some lunch. On our way back, we turned on a little side street and spied a small establishment called Festicafe. It billed itself as a salad cafe, and delivered on its promise for the lowest price I had ever seen. I paid 9.50 for what amounted to a chef’s salad, and Lynn’s huge slice of quiche with salad came to all of eight euros. Nothing wrong with either the price or the product.

Now we were primed for further explorations. We found Calvet Museum, housed in a huge 18th century mansion donated to the city in 1833 to be a museum of painting and sculpture. It is a mini-Musee d’Orsay.

The hall of sculptures at the entrance to the Calvet Museum is so reminiscent of the front of Musee d’Orsay in Paris. Even the first sculpture is remarkably the same.

The first floor of the building features a hall of sculpture, very reminiscent of d’Orsay, followed by galleries of paintings from the 15th to the 20th century. Again, fascinating, and again, free. The painting galleries go on and on and on.

Room after room of these. Unfortunately, all but one of the narratives were strictly French. For some reason, only the room full of ancient Egyptian art (no doubt looted in the 19th century) displayed any English explanation.

We managed to get through them all, but it was a hike. By the time we left, we were ready for a rest and dinner at the restaurant we had originally chosen for our first night.

L’Essentiel, right around the corner from our hotel, did not disappoint. It was elegant and empty. Only Americans eat at 7:30. Our very attractive and helpful server confirmed that with a smile.

L’Essentiel is a very sleek, handsome place.

Lynn enjoyed her French chicken, as good as she makes at home (well maybe), and I ate Bambi again, slender rounds of venison perfectly prepared. As good as our dinner was, we splurged on one of the most decadent desserts ever, a concoction of chocolate fondant, arabica coffee custard, pecan ice cream, white chocolate and something called kampote pepper.

Just suffice it to say that it was good. No, it was incredible.