Nice, France, had two associations for me (besides Niçoise salad). One is a robbery in which burglers hid out in the sewers and, as I understood it, feasted on French sandwiches before sneaking through a wall and grabbing the booty. The other is the more recent horrific attack when a terrorist used his truck to massacre people on the shoreside Promenade des Anglais, named after the British who saw Nice and the surrounding French Riviera as their playground.
I always yearned to see the French Riviera, having enjoyed Barcelona (a sort of Spanish Riviera?) and the suburbs of Genoa (a sort of Italian Riviera?) and heard jokes from Bostonians about the South Shore being the Irish Riviera. Bond movies and Yéyé beats instilled in me a poppy perception of the area’s lush landscapes and opulent culture. So it was a kind of serendipity when Joanne and I found a relatively affordable self-guided walking tour of the Riviera, now marketed as the Côte d’Azur and Nice.
The trip began with our flight to Nice via Zurich. We had enjoyed visiting Zurich in 1991 en route to Italy. This time, the seats feel small. What was then SwissAir now goes by SWISS in a bit of branding bologna. Zürich airport does not run like clockwork. I wonder if I am losing my wanderlust.
Once in Nice, we take a short tram ride from the airport toward Gare Nice Ville, where we will catch a local train to the Gare de Carnolès in Menton near the Italian border. Any mention of gare brings me back to childhood friend Finny meeting me on a trip to Paris and leaving his clogs in a locker at “the gare” (which of the city’s six gares he wasn’t sure).
The trains on the Nice and Côte d’Azur line run a breathtaking coastal route, reminiscent of the lines between Lisbon and Cascais or skirting Long Island Sound. The French Riviera trains are overcrowded. Many of the passengers turn out to be heading for Monaco. One loud passenger shouts “we’re two stops from Morocco.”
In Menton, we stay at Hôtel Prince de Galles. The sea is crashing outside. The waves seem more frequent than I’m used to. Less boat traffic too. The tide seems rarely to be low. I have liked seeing the sky in a bedside mirror.
Young gendarmerie hang around the lobby of the Hôtel Prince de Galles, watching for migrants fleeing and dying in the beautiful blue sea. A staffer at the desk implies the heavy police presence is because Menton is so close to Italy, where the migrant “crisis” is more widely reported (though it’s hard to understand why, in the global age of the EU and a shared sea).
One day, we walked, then trained, across the unguarded Italian border. The Italian carabinieri parked near the frontier are even more on edge than their French counterparts about the migrants.
Lunch in Ventimiglia offers a refreshing and down-to-earth culture change after France and Switzerland. As well as a memory of wonderful children’s enjoyment of Halloween as we had enjoyed in Rome in 2015. The restaurant we stumble upon is wrapping up a birthday party and technically closed, but cheerful owners let us in to order anything they haven’t run out of. I have tender veal sauteed in delicious butter and wine.
Back in France, frog legs, which never seem to match the Madrid version with their perfect blend of garlic and oil and dressed in pants like humans. Gardens boast all kinds of citrus for good reason. The restaurants are overrated in keeping with French cuisine, especially when it comes to seafood.
A sappy cover of House of the Rising Sun plays in Menton. Complimentary frozen limoncellos (which are also sold unfrozen everywhere as souvenirs).
Famous Riviera residents and visitors include Matisse, Chagall, Cocteau, Charlie Chaplin, Somerset Maugham, Winston Churchill …
Cocteau’s opposing mirrors in the wedding hall in Menton reminded me of my brother Tim and me’s old gimmick about an ad for a tv in a tv in a tv in a tv. (Photo at right.)
Quite a walk along stunning Riviera coast on Cap Martin, then train to Welcome Hotel in Villefranche sur Mer. Usually, we haven’t paid for the beautiful train rides, which I have mixed feelings about given my love for trains (but especially free trains). Cocteau’s illustrations in the Saint-Pierre chapel in Villefranche sur Mer are stunning.
A day trip to Monaco marred by bad transit connections and high prices is a test of nerves. And a reminder that such travails should not irreparably damage the memory of a specific place.
We return to VSM and find the Mediterranean overspilling the pretty little harbor and lagoon on a not particularly stormy night in autumn. Waves lapping over patio outside VSM breakfast room.
Then it’s back to Nice to La Villa Victoria in a ritzy part of the city that reminds me of parts of Madrid. Good Lebanese dinner at Cafe Beyrouth. Next day, good Cambodian lunch at Angkor Fast Food. And good visits in the rain to the Chagall museum and Matisse museum in Nice.
Heading back to Boston, it’s a pleasure to return to Nice’s efficient tram system linking airport terminals (if only Boston had such a thing), though our flight is delayed. Late for Boston connection in Zurich and highly stressed, I took a wrong turn on the jetway and had to embarrassingly knock on the window of the closed-up plane, sparking a flurry of security phone calls among Swiss airlines security officials. Surreal. Watched Taxi Driver and Nope on flight home.
