We head into the town center, park our car, walk up the dark stairway … and voila! You are greeted with a buzzling, terra-cotta-colored town center, palm-trees and all. I could live here, I thought. Surely less crowded than Paris, a permanent view of the seaside, probably more friendly people, and lower-stress levels I assume.
And when I feel I am beginning to look pale and sick … what couldn’t be more inviting than this?
Well, a bit rocky and probably painful, if you ask me — but heck, beggars can’t be choosers, right? Or … if you don’t have the license or the right to bare it, perhaps we could settle for a walk.
And when you’re tired and worn out, go slow and visit the brocante (flea market) — which will surely do more than just arouse your curiosity. It has everything — from clothes, to jewelry, to silver cutlery, to vintage Louis Vuitton bags. And while you’re shopping, errrr — resting your feet, there’s even enough groove to cheer you on.
Just a warning to would-be tourists to Nice or anywhere else in Paris: When you want a photo taken near a performer, a statue-look-alike, or any of such artists along the streets — it is common courtesy to drop a coin in their hat. If you don’t … be ready to take the screaming that will follow after you press your camera’s shutter!
We enjoyed a whole afternoon just walking along the narrow streets with laundry lines criss-crossing old homes that seemed to each have their own stories to tell. The shops were homey and quaint … and these items were the ones that blew me away. Salt … and soap. In every conceivable flavor, aroma, and color.
On this day, I knew, that if one day my life should flash before me — it would surely be worth watching.