I left the drizzly grey skies of Dublin early Sunday morning. So early in fact that it was just more practical to stay up completely for my last night. I slept a bit on the 3-hour plane ride and when I awoke we were beginning the decent into France. This was probably the coolest sight I’ve seen from a plane. The sun shone upon scattered little houses in the richly green canvas of earth like a perfect hand painted miniature plastic landscape. But that was still on the plane, and as the expression goes; “I hadn’t seen nothin’ yet!”

From the airport was a short bus ride where I was dropped off on the pavement in front of the beach. The walkway is called the Promenade de Anglais and is the front row to one of the most beautiful sights known to man: the French Rivera. I stood there, mouth gaping, hardly believing what I was seeing. A few short hours ago I had traded drab skies for bright beautiful sunshine and warmer weather. And water, oh the water… There really is no way to put the water of the French Rivera into words. To put it mildly it is the most blue thing I have ever seen. It is Disney blue; that perfect ideal that you think only exists in dreams or in fake landscaped theme park rides. Like some one dyed it all, or like it’s made of hand polished blue glass. It really is so beautiful that it is hard to believe it is real. And that is what France it to me, this surreal experience of pinch-myself-I-must-be-dreaming excellence.

I had a very broad experience of the town, and just loved it all. From admiring the grandeur of the way architecture and art coexist seamlessly, to basking in the flawless beauty of the beach, to shopping in the open-air town market for delectable cheeses, luscious bread, and exquisite olives, to a quite night of going to the cinema, to seeing live French bands and literally becoming a card carrying member of the underground music scene, to wandering through the narrow streets of old Nice with so much charm you could just die in the postcard perfection, to the abundance of mouthwatering meals and wine I digested, I just absolutely loved it all.

And I was there at the perfect time. Being that it is the coldest part of the year (though it is still sunny and miles warmer than England) the town is dead to tourists. So I got to enjoy the beauty and splendor without the nuisance of thousands of English speakers diluting it. It is one of the most beautiful places in the world and I very nearly had free reign of it. I still have to convince myself that it all actually happened, that I was there, and that it is just as, if not more, picturesque as I remember it. I would love to live there for a month this summer, just rent a tiny little room and spend days in artistic outlet, painting and writing while snacking on treats from the boulangerie. I may actually try it too, but my fear is that with the amount of people trolling the streets in tourist season all its quite charm will be trampled over. The inverse argument however is that the local women will be wearing bathing suits and I don’t think it is terribly sexist of me to mind seeing that.

This is of course because the women are, as a friend so eloquently described; “kick-you-in-the-face beautiful.” Everywhere you look you see a women you could easily be a model. Young or old it doesn’t matter, they know how to dress, and take care of themselves. This goes for men as well… and come to think of it, even their dogs for that matter. Everything in France is just perfectly groomed! I will admit however that I am a bit biased. I have had a crush on France in general for a while now. And as far as the women go, I again in a very general sense, have been enamored them. Perhaps it’s because I have this notion from French cinema that they are all strong-willed yet passionate, quirky, and beautiful. Just my cup of tea! The English I know have a less flattering opinion of them, an opinion that revolves around them being hairy and manish. It’s no wonder the two cultures don’t get along that well.

Anyway to recap my experience of France al I can say is that is one of my favorite travel memories. I wish I hadn’t kept to myself so much and would have made friends so I could go back and visit. I also wish I could have stayed much, much longer there. Even now back in England I am missing saying merci, au revoir, je voudrais blanquette de veau and all the other things I managed to get out of my mouth. I tried using merci with an English bus driver in Leeds and he just kind of shook his head…

Dearest Nice, I hope to return to you soon.

Footnotes on Nice…

There was something especially validating about going to France. Probably because it was the first foreign language speaking country I’ve ever been to. This added such an element of excitement for me, not to mention a level of wonder/confusion. For example in my hotel bathroom there was this porcelain bowl thing. At first I thought it was the toilet but upon further inspection realized it couldn’t be (the toilet was actually in this little closet of a room next to the bathroom). So then I thought perhaps it was bidet. But once again its design would suggest otherwise. In the end I went with my most educated guess, a footbath, but even this doesn’t quite add up. I suppose it will remain a mystery. I do know however that it was good for washing my socks in after I ran out of clean pairs….

This wasn’t the only incidence of confusion. It took me a surprisingly long time to figure out both how to turn on my lights (you had to put your key in a slot in the wall) and how to flush the toilet (you had to lift up on this lever and hold it midair for a few seconds). These kinds of moments of “what is this? or what does this do?” are some of my favorite.