France Day 6 Nice – Exploring the Rivera

We wake up and wander out to find coffee. The square has transformed into a lively open air market, the biggest one in the city.  Vendors selling table after table of beautifully displayed local fruits, vegetables, meats, seafoods and, at the far end, the flower market.  The displays are extensive and we marvel at how much work it must have taken in the early morning hours.  One meat purveyor’s counter is four full size deli cases.  The vegetables are plied high in the most artful way.  Full cases of bright yellow squash blossoms look like bouquets.  Each flower stall is equivalent to an entire American flower shop, set up at 6am and removed by 2.  We can’t resist the fresh figs and Italian plums and get a container of each for just a few euros.  When we see the stuffed vegetables, our breakfast decision has been made.  Tomatoes, zucchini, mushrooms and peppers, each topped with a mixture of finely chopped meats, herbs and just a touch of socca or breadcrumbs to hold it all together.  We bring it back to the half round table on our balcony and have breakfast and a view.  We can’t get enough of either.

We grab the car from the lot and head east along the sea road, our plan to explore the seacoast towns.  Our stick shift Fiat is great for the ride, zippy and nimble on the tight twisty roads.  Our first day of driving on France we learn something very important.  The French love them some roundabouts.  I’m from South Jersey, and was weaned on driving traffic circles.  There was one about every 10 miles or so on Route 73 or 206.  I remember the cardinal rules – keep moving and always assume right-of-way.  Today, New Jersey is on a campaign to eliminate the traffic circles.  But not here.  Here they are as celebrated a way of life as the sidewalk cafes.  On the sea road, there is a roundabout literally every kilometer.  In one tunnel alone there are two separate circles about 150 yards apart.  Read that again… two circles in the same tunnel!  We are equal to the task, me tearing through the circles, Mandy holding on to the O-S handle and laughing the whole time. 

We pass through Villefranche-su-Mer, Eze, and Cap-d’Ail on our way to the Italian border.  Each town beautiful but different, showing their personality along the shore.  As soon as we cross the Italian border, everything changes entirely.  A working town not bothering to attract tourists, the steep hills are covered with tiered working farms.  We drive in about 15 minutes and realize that the town did not live up to our expectations.  The drive has taken a lot longer than we expected (mostly because we stopped constantly for pictures), so we turn around and head back into France to Menton, where we passed some beautiful beachside cafes before crossing the border.  We pick La Rotunde and order some afternoon drinks.  From the menu, Mandy gets the Nicoise salad and I get the grilled giant prawn.  The prawn, at home we refer to them as langostino, are grilled to perfection with just a little salt and lemon. Getting late, the A8 highway home.

Without dinner reservations, we head into the old city, which we are thoroughly loving.  Our first few choices are full, and we end up at Chez Juilet, billing themselves as traditional regional fare and “slow food.”  The company is great and we chat with the Irish couple on one side of us and the North Jersey couple on the other.  Thank god for the company, because this is the first disappointing meal we have had.  Unforgivable cold soup, and when I finally asked the frazzled server for our main course (couples who had been seated an hour later had already been served), she snapped something about slow food.  Slow food is fine, but don’t use it as an excuse for bad service.  The squash blossoms on Mandy’s dish were uninspiringly fried and served limp, rubbery and cold.  We turn down dessert.  Not wanting to end on a bad note, we stop back in for some more of Fenocchio’s famous gelato.  Mandy gets the pomplamoose (grapefruit) and I get the cannoli.  Yum and yum.

France Day 5 - Dirty Rotten Scoundrels

We leave Paris early.  It’s a great city, living up to its expectations, but city people we’re not.  We get on the bullet train to Nice.  The city quickly turns to harvested farms, pastures with white cows, clumps of small villages.  I look up to see that we’re going 294 kM/hr.  (Pause so my engineer friends can do the conversion.)  The only time I’ve gone faster on land is when Mario Andretti drove me around the triangle at Pocono, but that’s another story.  It’s the most civilized train we’ve ever experienced.  In fact, it’s one of the most civilized ways we have ever traveled.  Smooth as glass, quiet, roomy, clean, and peaceful. 

After the first stop, we go through the grimy parts of several cities, then our ears pop as we climb into the mountains.  I didn’t give France credit for the mountains, looking more like last years trip to Montana then I expected.  We turn distinctively east when we hit the south, and the scene turns instantly Mediterranean, racing through big vineyards and getting our first glimpse of the sea. 

We pull into Nice and cab to our place.  We’re right on the Promenade, but the entrance off-putting from an unappealing back alley  We take our bags in, pull the curtains back and, well, Steve Martin expressed it best when he got to the French Rivera in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O5F8mLWjZeA

WOW! WA WA WOW WOW WOW! WOW!  ALL I CAN SAY IS WOW!

Nice, especially the seaside Promenade in Nice is one of the most iconic waterfront scenes on the planet, painted and photographed by thousands of artists since their mediums were invented.  Blue paint was invented just for this purpose.  It does not disappoint.  The view from our first-ever Airbnb is literally picture perfect.  Blue sea and narrow shore curving out to the tip of the cove a few miles away, the hillside covered in shades-of-yellow houses with terra cotta roofs.  That painting you’ve seen got it right.

Not only are we right on the Promenade, but we back up to the main square in Vieux Nice, the old city.  We are instantly enthralled with the impossibly narrow walkways packed with cafes, shops, tiny hotels and even smaller apartments and flats.  On a recommendation (thanks, Monique!), we wind our way through the maze to find the legendary Rene Socca.  Socca, a local specialty in Nice, is a sort of pancake made from chickpea flower baked in enormous round pans four feet in diameter or larger.  The texture of fluffy cornbread, sections are scraped out and rolled cone like into waxy paper and served piping hot as street food.  Light but filling, they are the perfect midday snack and are being enjoyed by hundreds of people with a beer or glass of wine.

Reenergized, we wander around the old city and are absolutely fascinated.  The shopkeepers are friendly, stylish and attentive without being overbearing.  In a cheese shop, we buy the stinkiest goat cheese we have ever encountered which tastes incredibly smooth.  We add some sharp, silky Roquefort and spend 15 minutes talking to the cheese monger about cheese, Irma and the world. We exchange e-mails and make a date to take him to dinned when he gets to New York in November.  Next stop is obviously the wine shop across the way, with their wall of rosé.  More great service, more great suggestions. 

We stash everything in our flat and walk the Promenade.  We’re in a 18^th century watercolor.  A 1960s linen postcard.  We’re lovers in a novel.  We’re royalty.  We’re also hot and thirsty, so we retire to our balcony overlooking it all.  Pop the rosé and watch the show.  International people watching, beautiful people edition.  We realize that we are sitting on a balcony sipping good local wine in the French Rivera.  A real pinch me moment.

Later we walk back into the square and it has been transformed into evening café mode.  Each restaurant sets up seating in front of their place which multiplies their capacity with coveted outdoor seating.  This wasn’t here a few hours ago.  We choose La Favola at the west end of the long rectangular square based on the dishes we see being served.  The region’s cuisine is heavily influenced by Italian culture because of its sporadic history of being part of Italy.  We get the house speciality pizza and salad and each was excellent.  The fruitti de mare is unbelievable, the light, fresh tomato sauce a perfect complement to the seafood.  We agree these are the best mussels we have ever tasted.

We are stilled enthralled by the old city and its energy.  We wander through the labyrinth and end up in front of Fenocchio Gelato.  If you think Baskin Robbins’ 31 flavors are impressive, you ain’t seen nuthin yet.  From the standards to the exotic and everything in between.  I get a scoop of the fig, Mandy the citron.  They go well together and we happily swap back and forth.  Perfect end to a very long day.  

Paris Day 4 – Gallerie Lafayette and Other Extravagances

We sleep in a little, skip the hotel breakfast in favor of sidewalk café in our Rue Cler neighborhood.  It’s a short walk to the Musee de Armee, the military museum where Napoleon is buried.  OK, buried is not the right term.  We should have known what to expect when the entire relatively plain (by Paris standards, anyway) place, in the middle of the city, is literally surrounded by an actual mote.  Inside is one of the grandest halls we have seen here dominated by a massive alter. It takes us a minute to realize that the entire main level is a gallery overlooking Napoleon’s tomb, a massive stone structure that could have easily fit his horse and most of his family inside.  But it doesn’t.  However, there are plenty of other honored generals and dignitaries enshrined around the perimeter is coffers almost as nice.  We are stunned and amazed.

We are not the kind of people who shop on vacation.  (Do you think there’s a “but” coming? There’s a big but coming…)  But hey, we are in Paris, so shop we do.  We start at Place de la Madeleine, mecca if you want the really high end.  We have more fun than we should in the likes of Channel, Hermes and Panerai.  Trying on $5000 jackets really takes a lot out of us, so we swing by Laudaree for some of the best, and most Disney-comes-to-real-life picturesque coffee and macaroons on the planet.  Sitting across from Mandy, I have a feeling I’m not actually here, but I’ve been transported to her ideal childhood tea party. 

Then it’s on to the main event.  Gallerie Layfayette.  It’s an ornately domed eight story palace.  A museum dedicated to every current high end brand.  It’s amazing and breathtaking and overwhelming and frantic and exhausting.  It’s also the most international mash up we have ever been a part of.  Americans and Asians and Europeans and chirping dozens of languages at a fevered pitch, all being waited on by throngs of multilingual, multiethnic French clerks each an expert in their chic brand.  We find a few nice things for Mandy and head to the rooftop terrace for a very civilized late lunch.  Aperol Spritz for her, wine for me.  Exact calming effect needed.  Mandy has the prosciutto and melon, and it may be the best we have ever had.  I get the burger, “medium rare”, that ends up being steak tartare on a bun with lettuce and tomato.  When in Rome… Paris… OK, it was delicious and I ate every bite. 

Hotel shower nap.  Can’t tell you how nice that is as the transition from vacation day to vacation night.  We walk from the hotel past the Eiffel Tour, by now our normal wallpaper to each day, to board a Seine river cruise by night.  It’s nice, and we see places we have been by and in from a new vantage point.  I also realize I still do not know my way around the city.  Walking home, stop by a café open late for moules frites (mussels and fries) and Camembert.  And wine.  Always wine.  Usually the house, cheap and good.  In the room, Mandy wishes the tower good night as it twinkles back at her.

Paris Day Three: MOAFM

If you know me, you know I’m a sucker for a good yard sale. So when we hear that Paris holds the Mother Of All Flea Markets, it’s up early and Uber-ho to Puces St Ouen.  It’s in an iffy neighborhood and it’s enormous.  The size of my home town.  It’s broken up into distinct sections.  On the outer rim are the amateurs, people just selling their extra stuff on blankets on the ground.  They’re swarmed by the professionals trying to score early bargains to resell on their tables later in the day.  Push in and see the pros with semi-permanent stalls selling the usual array of used goods.  Further in, it’s the new clothing sellers, with booth after boot selling nearly identical flea market urban clothing, sneakers and coats.  Seems to go on for miles because it does.  At the core are the antique dealers.  Small permanent shops of corrugated metal, each with their own specialty.  Mandy’s favorite is the narrow, block long glass front shop selling wildly extravagant vintage clothing.  We’re not talking thrift store, we’re talking 1930s Dior, 1830s dressing gowns and 1750s ball gowns actually worn in the King’s court.   My favorite is the statuary merchant, selling everything from tabletop bronzes to a ten foot tall copper elephant to enormous ornate fountains. 

We leave sadly empty handed (Mandy says that I’m not allowed to ship the pachyderm home) and head to Montmarte.  This steep section of the city is home to tightly packed shops and is dense with cafes and brasseries.  We seek out an insanely small creperie based on an internet recommendation.  It’s called Creperie Brocelinade, but there’s no name on the store because they can only fit the word “Crepe” across the front.  Three dollhouse sized tables out front and two more inside.  We get one savory and one sweet, and they are the best we have had here.  (Do not miss the chestnut crème!)  It’s only about a quarter mile to St Sacre Coeur, the church overlooking the city, but it’s at least 200 steps to climb.  There’s a tram, but that’s just not our style.  We get to the church, and pay our 6 euros for the privilege of climbing another 300 steps, claustrophobic spiral steps no less, to the top of the tower.  Spectacular 360 degree view, and we twist our way back down.  At the top of the peak just outside the church is the iconic square with dozens of street artists doing charcoal and pencil portraits, pastel caricatures and acrylic street scenes.  It’s energetic and mobbed, just like in the movies.  We work our way back down in search of the house Van Gogh lived in while he was in Paris.  It’s remarkably non-descript, now just some dude’s apartment with a plaque next to the front door.  We take pictures anyway.

An Uber later, we land in Tuileries Gardens, an expansive park in the middle of the city.  Groves of trees, huge manicured gardens exploding with well-planned color and giant round fountains at each end.  Plenty of reclined metal chairs around the fountains for visitors to lie back and just soak it all in which we do.  One end is the L’Ornagiere Museum.  After WWII, Monet commissioned two long oval rooms to be built, and in each he did a large format series four panoramic water scenes.  I’m guessing the largest of these is 60’ long.  He gave this installation as a gift to the people of the city as a peaceful place to come and think and consider nature and heal.  You don’t need to be an art expert to appreciate the calming power of these works, and we spend time doing just that.

Home base, nap, shower.  Into Marais section for dinner at L’Arnge.  More spectacular food in tiny restaurant with great service from a friendly staff.  Seated quickly on a busy night (again without a reservation) between a British couple and a German mother and daughter.  We strike up a multi-lingual conversation during which we only speak English.  At one point the conversation among this unlikely group is literally happening around me as I savor my house made fois gras appy.  Mandy and I cross feed on scrumptious lamb shank and melty veal while we six discuss travel, politics, food, art, work and cars.  We friend each other from our phones to stay in touch.  See, this diplomacy thing is a breeze.  Just add red wine.

Paris Day 2 – The Rhythm of Paris

After a deep sleep, we head to the Marais section of Paris for breakfast.  Cool neighborhood, vibey, good mix of locals, students and tourists.  We are finally synching with the rhythm of Paris.  We’re from the type-A northeast.  Although the city bustles, it does so at a more relaxed pace.  It’s the little things.  Waiters don’t rush to your table.  Time between courses, time to talk, time to kiss, time to watch people and be watched.  Never bring a check without asking, to do so would be rude, akin to throwing you out.  Our French language skills are non-existent, but everyone can’t be more helpful.  Poached eggs, served with toast sliced into thin strips to dip into the yoke.  Strong coffee served with a pitcher of hot milk.  We’re coffee people and it’s a coffee culture. 

Leisurely stroll through the neighborhoods.  Goes slow because we stop at so many fun shop windows.  Cross the bridge to Ile de la Cite to see Notre Dame.  Even though it’s past high season, mobs of tourists.  We make our way inside for a look and it is amazing, but we have more fun with the details outside.  Crazily detailed arched doorways tell entire biblical lessons.  Every gutter ends in a gargoyle, so when it rains the creatures spew water.   

Across the street and down into the Deportation (Holocaust) Memorial.  Very moving in its stark simplicity. 

Across the next bridge, past the row of booksellers, and into the Latin Quarter.  Buzzy with the Greek restaurant owners trying to lure you into their quasi-French cafes.  Fun but a little kitsch for us so back across the next bridge.  We find Restaurant Au Vieux Paris D’Arcole, the most picturesque side street cafe imaginable.  Mandy orders the onion soup, I get the escargot and moules and frites.  Who knew French food was a thing here?  When I was a kid I put salt on snails.  Had my mother taught me better I wouldda used pesto.  The service was fun and friendly, the waiter a real pro, making everyone feel welcome.  Mandy asks me the time.  I look at my watch… plenty of time, only quarter of two.  We pay the check and I see my phone… watch set wrong… an hour slow… we are gonna miss our…

Tour of the Louvre with Cedrik, a French born English language comedian with an art history degree.  We text franticly from the cab and he holds the small group for us.  About the Louvre.  It’s big.  Like has its own gravity big.  If you spent 30 seconds looking at each piece, it would take you 100 days to see it all.  We decided on the 90 minute highlights option hosted by someone who really knows his way around.  Of course there’s the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo, but it’s spectacular just to see the place itself.  Learn the history of the place.  The collections are dizzying, but Cedrik does a good job of boiling it down to explain why each collection deserves a place in such a palace.  He does an in-depth explanation of a few pieces in each room.  We realize that for a first time visitor “seeing the Lourve” is about experiencing the place itself.*

Back for nap then out to dinner.  The café scene is not early, but not as late as I expected either.  We pick Bistrot Belhara a few blocks from our hotel on a quiet street.  Without a reservation at this tiny, highly rated restaurant our chances of being seated were slim.  But the waiter took a look at Mandy, smiled, and in true French fashion, showed the pretty girl to a prime table.  I was allowed to stay too.  The owner/chef peeked out the little window from the little kitchen sent an approving wink and a kiss.  We had the “Surprise Menu”, a five-course tasting menu paired with three wines.  Soup, savory crepe, perfectly prepared fish course, sinful shaved cheese course all topped off with a decadent dessert soufflé.  Small plates, one course better than the next with delicious but unexpected wine parings.  Mandy bravely tries every dish, even the ones with mushrooms (which she really doesn't like), and savors every bite.  Again, the service was professional, friendly and fun. 

On our way back, we stop at a sidewalk café for a nightcap.  Brown liquor and great people watching.

* Side Note: We went to the Barnes in Philadelphia a few years ago and had a similar experience.  We tried to see this extensive collection of Impressionists in a single first visit.  Net result was exhausted bodies and spinning heads.  Like the Louvre, when we go again, we’ll figure out ahead just a few rooms to see, and take our time understanding the collection in each.

 

 

Paris Day 1: An Americans in Paris

Our first trip to France, Mandy and I fly from Newark Liberty to Charles De Gaulle and land around 7am.  Flight is understaffed because so many United employees are stuck in Houston because of the flooding, but the service is very good despite.  We take the Habitrail people moving tubes at CDG to baggage where smiling attendants offer complimentary croissants to the travel weary morning masses.  Cab to Hotel Duquesne Eiffel, a charming old boutique in the 4^th arrondissement.  We change and leave our bags with the front desk, tired but excited to hit the town.   First stop, Arc de Triomphe.  One of the most visited sites in France in the middle of one of the busiest streets in France, view from the top gives panoramic perspective of the city.  We watch in amazement as the cars negotiate from the dozen feeder roads into the circle around the Arc and fight their way back out.

 

Make our way down the Champs Elysees and stop for a savory crepe from a cart.  The goat cheese and sea salt add a nice bite to the ham and egg.  We leave the shopping district and pass between the Grand Palais and the Petit Palais, two of the most beautiful museums you will ever see and stop for pictures of the stunning Pont Alexandre II bridge.  The bridge alone would qualify as one of the most spectacular museums in most cities with its gold leaf and bronze statues.  We walk along the Seine to the Orsay Museum, the world’s largest Impressionist collection built in a massive historic train station.  I am awestruck by the statuary, and Mandy is taken by the Monets and Reniors and Degases. 

Exhausted, we head back to the hotel and check in.  The room is exactly as advertised (if not better) with an amazing view of the Eiffel Tower from our bed.  The top floor corner room is compact with two sets of double doors leading out to the wrap around balcony.  Quick nap and shower and off to the most visited, most photographed tourist site on the planet.  

As we get in line for the elevator a thunder shower rolls in.  Hmmmm, we’re in the world’s largest lightning rod during a lightning storm.  What could possible go wrong?   We walk back to the hotel, stopping at a café for light dinner.  Local cheese, cured meats and red wine, at a sidewalk table, of course.  Back at our hotel, we catch the 9pm twinkling of the tower from bed.