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Sunday, October 1, 2006Howdy, Cowgirl!We pull into the Perpignon train station at 7:30 pm, on time. Both the station and the town itself are tiny. Gene, Linda and I stand in the designated taxi area. But there’s no sign of the taxi we requested by email this morning. We are not surprised. We wait. A Frenchman walks by and shouts “le chapeau!” I am wearing the straw hat with the black band Gene bought in Barceloneta yesterday. I wear it because I couldn’t pack the hat without crushing it. Linda says I look like George Bush in the hat. That pisses me off, and she says she means not like Bush himself, but like a cowboy. I know she is really saying I look like an American, which pisses me off more because she means it as an insult, but I let it go. A large taxi finally pulls up. The driver knows the Malibu Village resort and does not need to look at the address I try to show him. Our first French transaction is successful. Malibu VillageMalibu Village reception is closed after 7, so we pick up our apartment key at the Hotel Europa across the street. The desk clerk speaks fluent English. We lug our bags to the second floor of the building named Emeraude. Why did I expected an elevator? The hall is dark and we are noisy dragging our bags up the steps. The apartment smells musty and I am disappointed for just a second, but we find the lights and everything is good. Peach walls and ceilings, blue curtains and picture frames remind me of cottages in Ocean City.
We leave our bags unopened and head to the restaurant quickly for fear it might be closed. No problem, we’re in. The outdoor tables are full and we are among the few indoor diners. I want to use our French phrases but Spanish wants to come out of my mouth: muy bien! The local white wine is perfect and we have two bottles. Linda and I have grilled vegetables as appetizers. I am happy to see vegetables after fried London food and the rich food of Barcelona. Gene indulges in a fois gras salad, followed by mussels and fries. I have fish soup and Linda has a fish dish too. The chocolate mousse cake Linda orders is delectable and I can’t resist a couple of bites. We go to the Blue Gin Bar by the pool. We are the only customers at the bar and the girl teaches us a few French words that I’ve already forgotten. We return to the apartment and work on the crossword puzzles we started yesterday. |
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Monday, October 2What’s in Store?I am losing track of the days of the week. That is a sign the vacation is working. Gene and I awaken before Linda and we find the grocery store, a ten-minute walk away. The store is huge, like a grocery store and WalMart combined. We slide a Euro in the grocery cart to unlock it from the chain of carts in the parking lot.
I like visiting grocery stores in other countries, especially large stores that do not cater to tourists. Their product packaging is so different and the ratio of one type of food to another reveals local tastes. (New Zealand stores have an entire aisle devoted to brand after brand of honey. Yogurt takes up a lot of aisle space in France.) I look up the words for “milk” and “butter” in my dictionary while shopping because the packaging is so different typical US packaging that I am not sure what is inside. Just Chillin’Today we will relax. Gene and I take a long nap while Linda checks out Malibu Village and its six pools and three tennis courts. There are two French words on the resort map that I can’t find translated in my phrase book. One turns out to be “garbage” so we won’t visit there. The other is still a mystery, but we think it might be croquet or bocce ball. I take another nap and I’m starting to feel unwell. Gene and Linda are hanging out on the balcony, having some vodka and laughing over some DVD she brought. We decide to get pizza instead of going out, but the pizza place is closed. It is decidedly off-season here and the hours kept by the shop and restaurants seem short and inconsistent. Linda cooks some eggs with Roquefort and toast. I am feeling worse, so I go to bed, hoping that tomorrow I will be back in the game.
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Tuesday, October 3Sittin’ in a Railway StationGene and I vacillate about which day to leave for Nice. We consider leaving today with Linda, then tomorrow and even Thursday. But this morning at 6 a.m., when neither Gene nor I can sleep, I firmly decide we will leave today. Gene agrees. From the Internet station in the lobby of the Hotel Europa, we book a Le Hotel Meridien in Nice for the next three nights. The Westminster where we are booked for Friday and Saturday is unavailable. We order a taxi for 11 a.m. Too many little things are wrong here: no car to explore the region, too cool to enjoy the pool, the restaurants and bars on the premises open limited hours. The place is full of ants. Though we clean thoroughly, we miss one spot on the counter and a whole colony is crawling on the counter this morning. Long Day’s JourneyYou know you’re in France when even the pre-packaged sandwiches sold at the train station are great. We are on the train to Nice in first class. We will change trains in Montpellier.
I get up to look for someone—preferably an employee—who speaks English. The lady holding her baby in the vestibule is the first person I ask. She speaks fluent English and assures me we are headed to Nice, that we just switched tracks due to the same bad weather that caused the train’s delay. We don’t see any bad weather out the windows, just the beautiful blue Mediterranean and rugged mountains. When I lived in Japan, my Mom would take me to the orthodontist on the bullet train. Sometimes—inexplicably—everyone would get off the train. So we would get off too and take the next train. And we never knew why. Hotel Le MeridienWe pull up to Le Meridien, and sigh with gratitude as we take in the lushness: red carpet, gold-leaf trim. Fifteen hours after our decision to pull up stakes at Malibu Village, we are happy to be here and happy with our decision. We rush to the rooftop restaurant, La Tesserae and bask in luxury. We sit next to the window and look out at the black Mediterranean. We drink whiskey sours and split a bottle of wine. Gene has gnocchi with olives and fois gras to start. I have prawns and Turbot.
OliverWe go to the second floor bar for a nightcap. The man sitting next to Gene starts chatting with us. His name is Oliver and he is excited that we are from New York. He has just returned from New York himself, scouting restaurant locations in downtown Manhattan, near where we live. He tells us he used to work at Les Halles. He also says that New York landlords are asking $23,000 a month rent for restaurants in Midtown. It is difficult to stay in business in New York he says, especially as an immigrant. He wants to move his wife and child to New York and send his kid to one of the two French-language schools in Manhattan. Oliver buys us two drinks and refuses our offer to buy him one back. |
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Wednesday, October 4Upon the roofA beautiful summer-like day: the Mediterranean is baby blue this morning. Gene orders an omelet and I have a croissant and toast at the outdoor café next to the hotel.
We buy flip-flops so we can walk on the stone beach. The proprietress of the flip-flop store speaks no English, but she enjoys helping me look up words in my dictionary. The beach in Nice is all stones, no sand. Gene enjoys the sound of the waves pulling back off the stones.
There are cafés right on the beach. After our beach walk, we cross the Promenade des Anglais and go down a side street, looking for a clothing store. The cafés all spill out on the wide cobblestone streets.The shopping is fabulous and the food being served smells great. When we were in Barcelona, I said there is a Temple Bar in every city. We walk by a Temple Bar in Nice and laugh. I love Nice!
Johnny Depp SightingWe are on the roof deck of the hotel, relaxing on the chaise lounges, staring at the sea.
We need to Google “Johnny Depp tattoos” so I can confirm whether it is him or not. My big decision for the balance of the afternoon: should I take a nap? Or a bath? Or both? Milo’sWe go to a nearby Italian restaurant for dinner. Milo’s, in the tourist area near our hotel, turns out be be mediocre. I want to go to Oliver’s restaurant tomorrow and find that amazing French food that Julia Child raves about in her posthumous memoir, My Life in France. Back at Le Meriden, we enjoy a night time cocktail in the open air rooftop bar and we watch a lit-up cruise ship sail across the moonlit seas.
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Thursday, October 5Celeb CentralWe take an afternoon car tour with a Russian-French driver, Georgy, and a couple from Ireland. Georgy points out Elton John’s Honky Chateau way on top of a mountain that can only be reached by helicopter. He points out Tina Turner’s villa (he says “wee-yah”), Mick Jagger’s, Bill Gates’s villas and Bono’s island. Of course celebrities live here. Where else would you live if you had all the money you need and freedom you want? EzeOur first stop is Eze, a medieval village that is like a fortress only with tiny shops in each nook and cranny. There are little cafés too. We must follow the red brick path so as not to get lost, but the path splits off in several places. We rely on our sense of up-or-down to determine if we are going in the right direction.
Fragonard We sit at a counter and sniff different scent strips as we hear Anne’s sales pitch. I am not a perfume person; I prefer scented creams and lotions. They’re more subtle and the dual purpose of scented lotion appeals to me. But Gene and I cave and buy a unisex fragrance, “Diamant”, made from mandarin orange, pepper, jasmine, plum, rose and patchouli. The fragrance comes in Fragonard’s gold aluminum bottle. Anne says the exclusively-designed bottle keeps the perfume good for six years. I also buy a body lotion and a set of tiny fragrances in sun-capped bottles. Prince Albert’s CanNext we go to Monaco, where we drive on the same winding mountain road where Princess Grace died in a car crash in 1982. Our driver drops us off in front of the palace where Prince Albert lives. Too shy to say hey to Albert, we walk around the narrow streets. The shops are big compared to the ones at Eze, but tiny nonetheless.
Hard to believe Monaco is only about half the size of Central Park. And you have to be a bazillionaire to live here. Residency requirements are stiff, Georgy tells us, an applicant must proof a huge net worth. Georgy says ten million dollars, but I think he is wrong.
Monte CarloNext stop, Monte Carlo. We get out in front of the famous casino. A row of Ferraris are parked out front. We are intimidated to walk in, but we see other slovenly tourists entering, so we follow. I ignore the queue to pay and enter (it was a little disorganized) and I walk past. The guard starts waving at me. I think he is waving to a colleague behind me because his motions are so nonchalant. Finally, he shouts, “Madame!” and Gene pokes me. So we leave without seeing the grand interior. There is a small room with slot machines before the main entrance. That room seems to be the token casino for the people who only have fifteen minutes before they must meet their car or are too cheap to pay the entrance fee.
As we drive around, Georgy mentions the Grand Prix circuit several time and I wonder if we were going to see it. Then I realize the streets we were driving on IS the Grand Prix circuit. How do the cars avoid crashing into the buildings? Le Claire FountaineGene and I set out for Old Town to find Oliver’s restaurant. We see a different part of the city, not nearly as touristy. Le Claire Fountaine is an outdoor restaurant in a square facing the Palais de Justice, the facade beautifully lit. We are seated by a fountain, but I am disappointed with the menu. We see Oliver walk by as we are debating whether to stay or go, so I guess we are staying. Once Oliver comes over with a complimentary onion tart, our mood improves and so does the service. The food is hearty and fantastic: lasagna, moules frites, tomato-onion salad and goat cheese salad.
Frog Frog has good live music: folksy, a guy on guitar and keyboardist. The guitarist sings “Walk on the Wild Side” in French. We split a bottle of white, plus an additional glass each and we feel we have our wine-ordering words down pat. The waitress is amused by our ordering and helps us with the words. Frog rocks. We stop in our hotel’s casino, Casino Ruhl. The room is bright and full of desperation. We sit at the bar in front of four plasma screen TVs watching female weightlifting juxtaposed with male fashion shows and Midnight Oil videos.
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Friday, October 6A Change of Scenery and StyleWe change hotels this morning, rolling our bags down the Promenade des Anglais to number 27, the Hotel Winchester. (I keep calling it the Hotel Westchester.) Our bags have expanded since we arrived in Nice and we fill the empty duffel bag we brought. The Hotel Winchester is as old as Le Meridien is razzle-dazzle. Gene thinks it looks like the Overlook Hotel in The Shining. The hotel has a wide marble staircase and huge framed mirrors on each landing.
Scary Bus RideWe want to go to the Musee Matisse today and the hotel desk clerk advises us to take the city bus. She says it would take two hours to walk and we will get lost. She and the bellman advise against a taxi. The #22 bus isn’t hard to find; its just three blocks behind our hotel.
Somehow, we miss the second-to-last stop and we are at the end of the line. The bus driver tells us the Musee Matisse is closed, fermer. It is supposed to be closed Tuesdays and today is not Tuesday, so maybe its closed for renovations, who knows? We get off the bus, but options seem few and unclear, so we get back on. The driver tells us he will go back around in ten minutes. We scrounge up a second fare. Crazy Old LadiesWe sit together in the back third of the bus. An old lady sits in the front seat and starts yakking loudly to the driver, non-stop. Another lady across the aisle from us starts chuckling at her. A third woman whose back is to the yakky one cups her forehead, crosses herself and starts chuckling too. Both ladies #2 and #3 are making eye contact with us, like they are embarrassed, so we conclude that we are the subject of the tirade. Evidence aside, the yakky lady didn’t see us struggle with the change or tickets, nor do I think she heard us speak, so maybe she was going on about something else. You think? The ride home is long, longer than the way out. With no bus map and no words, we are unsure where to get off. But we stay on and stay on, and it pays off. We see the Virgin Megastore that we landmarked on the way out. There, Gene buys a compilation of New York Dolls bootlegs and buys me the KT Tunstall CD. We go back to the beach café where we had breakfast and order a couple of summery vodka drinks. We Love SignsThis one we see in Eze.
Back to CivWe eat dinner at the hotel restaurant. The dining room looks like it’s a museum time warp, a waiter greets us but not another soul is dining. The walls are two shades of pink with white trim. Long white linen covers the tables and the white-wood chairs are upholstered with pink floral chintz. Maybe this is The Overlook.
We have the exclusive attention of our waiter, Loic, and the Spanish bus boy. Their devoted attention is somewhat unnerving. With every sip of water or wine, our glass is refilled. With each course he brings, Loic arranges and adjusts the forks and plates so they are at the perfect and correct angle. This meal is the French food I am craving—rich and delicate. We have a glass of champagne and a manhattan on the front porch as a nightcap. Our waitress is British. For lack of a Euro, Gene left a £2 coin as a tip. We hope she takes it in the spirit it is given. |
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Saturday, October 7Final, beautiful day on the French RivieraOur last full day in Nice and our last day of vacation. It is time to go home and resume our regular lives. The French Riveria is the most wonderful place to de-stress.
Next time we come, we will be better French speakers. I’ve enjoyed learning new words and using the few phrases I have. But I can’t string my words into sentences, I have mostly nouns. My favorite word is grapefruit: “pampelmousse”. We rent chairs and an umbrella on the beach for €24 and spend a few hours staring at the sea and working on the script. We walk through the exclusive Hotel Negresco. It is as much a museum as a hotel, so regal, we feel like we might get thrown out any minute.
Joune, atelier de gout
Our waiter greets us in English; he spent six months working at the Essex House in New York. We sit on the terrace, which is really a couple of tented picnic benches on the sidewalk, six seats on each side with a space up the center. The “terrace” is on the opposite side of the sidewalk with a makeshift green tarp covering. People walking down the sidewalk are essentially walking through the wait station. Somehow it still manages to be elegant. We both select the fish of the day as our main course. I have the strawberry tour with meringue for dessert. Gene has double chocolate death or something like that, with multiple chocolates. At first, I don’t think we should exchange bites because mine is so tart and his is so chocolate but Gene wants to, so I agree. Then Gene cleans his plate with no taste for me! Kiwi Water SkierWe decide to have a nightcap at the hotel bar. We sit at the bar and chat with Helen, the waitress we thought was British. Turns out, she’s a Kiwi and she tells us about her first career as a water skier. She was a champion skier until she had an accident and was in a coma for three months. We see Loic and tell him how wonderful the restaurant he recommended was. Loic is pleased. Our wake up call is 5:15 am. We check out before 6 and taxi the short ride to the Nice airport.
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Our train from Montpellier was very retard, delayed. Everything
is fine once we get on the train. I’m working
on my French in 10 Minutes a Day when in Marseille, the
train starts moving in the other direction after a long announcement
in French.
Right
around the corner, is the perfumery, 
We walk toward the hotel, looking for a bar. We pass tons of cafés,
but no bar-bar. Closer to the hotel, alone in an alley, is Frog.
Gene pays the bus driver and receives two tickets that we must validate
by punching them in a machine. The Musee Matisse is the second-to-last
stop, but we don’t
have a schedule listing the stops so we pay close attention. There is
unlikely to be any English speakers to help us out. 
The restaurant
that Loic recommended is called Joune, atelier de gout. We know we are
in for a treat when we show the address to our cab driver and he compliments
our choice. The restaurant is deeper in the old section of town than
we have been before. 
We start with a glass of champagne and complimentary pasta fagole.
Gene says the pasta fagole is the best he ever tasted. It is a pre-fixe
menu. For the first course, I have mushroom risotto and
Gene has Scallops St Jacques. Again, the best. This is the meal that I
imagined when I read Julia Child’s “My
Life in France”. 