Women around me are lying oiled and topless.
The man beside me is
stripping into shamelessly skimpy trunks; cologne reeking more strongly with
each discarded layer.
This is Nice in November, and sitting alone and I'm feeling coy, British, and slightly overdressed.
Beach man half runs, half hobbles painfully over pebbles towards
the glistening sea; arms flailing, throwing shapes like a drunken dad on the
dance floor. After five minutes' immersion, he's mincing back over the stones
to his sun-roasted shirt and shorts; scent still, inexplicably pungent.
Above the beach, the beautiful people are barely breaking sweat as
they pound the Promenade des Anglais, happily lapping the designer clad walkers
in the slower, 'no-look-at-me' lane, out to pose in size two
Gucci, with poochie.
I'm now feeling overdressed, and overweight, in Nice.
I grab a comforting almond croissant and retreat to the cooler,
shadier old town, for my own work-out: an ungainly clamber back up the near
vertical, hamstring-stretching 39 steps to my rented top floor studio. It's
five minutes and several centuries away from the city's blindingly bright
yachts and designer stores; and thankfully so.
The sunlight's dappled here; dancing on higgledy terracotta
terraces of homes so close you can inhale the heady aroma of someone else's
supper; hear who`s coming… and (cue slamming door…) who's going. You can squint
at the headlines in Monsieur's "Nice Matin", opposite; or the frilly flutter of
Madame's smalls on their balcony line; blushingly close.
In fact, there`s such a patchwork of scenes unfolding, that I'm
tempted to stock up on baguettes, cheese and fruit from the feast of stalls in
the Cours Saleya , shout “ACTION!” and stay in this royal box
of a balcony for the duration.
But with holiday clock ticking, I chase the
bigger picture; the mesmerizing, breathtaking, sparkling sweep of city and
shore from the wooded castle ruins high above the town. Far, far below, more
beautiful beach people are home from school with their beautiful children, splashing and squealing
as they play in the warm water.
Reluctant to leave the view,
I dawdle down, stopping for a
crisp, skinny slice of socca, and a fat scoop of sorbet .
That's supper sorted; superfluous the next day, though after a
simple, filling lunch at another Nice surprise: The April knitting café (needles
optional.)
Women, mainly, meet here, away from the bustle of the city's big
squares and their
everlasting lunches, to chat, eat, and create something. Travelling alone, I find the female clientele comforting, especially when Lisa serves me her incredible cauliflower soup
with bread and salad, then lemon cake and coffee. On the Ruelle de la
Boucherie, this is a real sanctuary; a gem of a find.
I discover other Old Town treasures too; the minuscule but opulent,
Genoese- Baroque Palais Lascaris, near tiny shops packed with soaps and shoes
and spices. There are eye-popping displays for free at the gleaming Modern and Contemporary
Art Museum, and just streets away, the Opera de Nice. I`m only here to ogle,
but it's offering free concert tickets for that night. I grab one, gratefully,
and return later, smarter; taking the tiny lift to the dizzy heights of the
sixieme etage. My heart soars at magnificent Mozart from the Orchestre
Philharmonique de Nice with its incredibly talented young guest soloists.
Show over, I scuttle back through the dark side streets to pack;
woken for my morning flight by unsynchronised bells sounding seven, from two churches;
overlapping noisily, boastfully, like squabbling children.
Later, airborne, I look back at the bay, and my break. One of
sated senses and uncovered secrets; but with tankini untouched, none of them,
mercifully, mine.
One of my favourite solo trips, and blogs from the last few years. Please dip in for more...or cross to thetimeofourlives.net to find out about our pretty big adventure #writearoundtheworld . ...and some pretty fab medium sized travel adventures, too....Thanks for reading !
COMMENTS:
Roy Williams 
