Nice

I’m only in the French Riviera very briefly, so France gets only one page. (I do really like Paris, but I have been there twice already, so my time in France is short on this trip.)

The original plan was to take an overnight train to Nice (“neice”) on our way to Italy, but a few weeks ago, we decided that we would take our train from Barcelona as far as Montpellier (“moan”-“peel”-“yay”) and crash there for the night. That first train was to be four-and-a-half hours. I guess that wasn’t to be because it arrived 3 hours late. Leave it to the French.

In fairness, there was a fire on the tracks somewhere, and apparently, you can’t drive a train through fire. Lame. It was still interesting to hear the conductor come over the loud speaker to tell us there was an “incendio.” But in general, it was not a pleasant train ride. We were stopped for ages, and they rarely told us what was going on. When the train did move, it was particularly nauseating this time. Similarly nauseating were all the French people in my cabin. It’s mean; I know. But the sound of that language is not for me. It didn’t help that I couldn’t tell what was going on or ask anyone about it. Least helpful were the four screaming French children that were jumping on chairs and generally causing havoc as their mother cheered them on. After about six hours, I couldn’t take it any longer. Since I didn’t know how to say, “You’re doing a terrible job with these children” in French, I just moved cabins. Eventually, we made it to Montpellier, slept for an insufficient amount of time, and hopped on two more trains in the morning to get to Nice.

We arrived at about 11:00am, dropped our bags at the hotel, and headed out to grab a bite while we waited for the room to be ready. It was immediately apparent that we were in France, now. Everyone was a little more dressed up, and all of the streets and business were a little bit more polished as well. It’s nothing against Spain, but for one reason or another, France always just seems a bit fancier than its neighbors. Of course, we were also in Nice – which is somewhat of a fancy town even by French standards. It’s spotted with nice stores here and there and generally has a mild air of snootiness about it.

After we checked in, Reed and I walked around the town and took in the atmosphere. Per usual, we saw the plazas, the fountains, and the beach. Nice is essentially a beach getaway in France, but interestingly, it has no sand. The beaches are somewhat narrow and all of them are entirely gravel. The sky was a little gray, but the temperature was still great, so it was nevertheless easy to understand why the French flock to Nice.

I had only recently learned that Monte Carlo – home to one of the most famous casinos in the world – was just a 25-minute train ride away from Nice, and I was eager to check it out. Reed decided that he would rather bask on the beach, so I headed off to Monte Carlo on my own at about 2:00 pm. You can read about that on its own page, though.

When I returned from walking around Monaco at about 6:00, I was hungry and ready to try some southern French cuisine. For a taste of southern France specifically, a website recommended a local spot where I could buy some “socca” - which is something like a crepe made out of chickpeas. I waited in line with the locals and ordered some socca and some vegetables provençal that caught my eye. The socca was somewhat bland, but the whole meal wasn’t too bad. It was also surprisingly filling for an unintentionally vegetarian dinner.

After dinner, I resolved to climb through the Castle Hill park and to the top of a mountain that provides a better view of Nice. I passed a waterfall on the way up and eventually reached the top about 10 minutes before sunset. Naturally, I decided to wait it out so that I could get some really good pictures. But just as the sun was setting, I heard someone yell, “Excusez-moi, monssier!” I looked down a few levels and could see a French parks-and-rec guy on a vespa. When he saw me look, he yelled again, “Excusez-moi, monssier!” I responded with a “Yes?” and he must have picked up on the English because he added, “The park… He is closing!” (He accompanied this ridiculous sentence with his best hand gesture for closing gates.) Now that he mentioned it, the park didn’t seem like the best place to be after sundown, so I begrudgingly started walking down with the couple of pictures that I managed to get. I was still laughing to myself about his accent and his comments (It’s too bad that you can’t hear my impression; it’s great.) when the gate came into sight, and I noticed that a different Frenchman was locking me in. I had to run to the gate, and this time, I was the one who had to yell, “Excusez-moi!”

Before walking back to the hotel, I treated myself to a chocolate and banana crepe on a restaurant patio because I love dessert crepes and because being in France seemed like a good reason to buy one. Then I headed back to the hotel and called it a night before leaving France for Italy in the morning.

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More pictures of Nice: