We drive down and out of the scenic little paradise of Monaco, until we end up at the water. The “Cote d’Azur” (literally, The Blue Coast), as the French call this lovely stretch of the Mediterranean, is just as beautiful up close as it appeared from our view in Monaco. Apparently St. Tropez is right around the corner from this pretty little nook, which is where P. Diddy hosts his annual white party. Nice is also where Angelina and Brad gave birth to one of their children. Interesting factoid.
Since the beach is rocky, as oppose to sandy, we each take a pretty little stone as a keepsake (Shh).
We check into our hotel, which is right in the center of what appears to be an elaborate festival, and soon find out that Carnivale begins next week (a month-long version of our Mardi Gras). Thus the main square is richly decorated with carnival-type activities, ferris wheel and all.
In the late 19th century, Nice changed hands from the Italians to the French, and the government consequently poured a ton of money into essentially “French-ifying” Nice. At the time, they were going through a period called “Belle Époque” (try saying, it sounds beautiful out loud), also known as the Golden Age. Thus all the new buildings created as part of the remodel are characterized by this grand, sophisticated, feminine yet European-Gothic architecture.
Even today, all of the main entrances to these buildings face away from the beach, because even though the elite that traveled to the French Riviera for the climate, they didn’t actually want to be in the sun as acquiring even the slightest tan would make them appear lower-class. So everything is designed to keep them in the shade, away from the reflection of the sun on the sea.
Anyways. The city itself is pretty awesome, and reminds me in a lot of ways of both Seattle and San Francisco. There is a stretch along the water where people go running and walk their dogs, and in the main part of city, every street is lined with outdoor covered bars where there are a million different happy hours to choose from.
We have a “typical French dinner” with our group and it is excellent: Eggplant penne as a starter, pork and french fries as a main dish, and finally a fluffy vanilla cake with whipped cream. And a bottle of Chianti, of course.
And then comes the best part, when I meet my French B.F.F.s
We go to a local-recommended bar, and if you were to replace drunk college kids with French adults, it’s basically the same crazy scene as the Dirty D back home, but with interesting French accents on all the American lyrics being burst out. Certain things don’t change from country to country.
Luckily, right before we are to call it a night, French angels swoop in and save the day. They were not like the creepy Europeans we had been dodging all night, but nice, clean, polite guys. Ten minutes later we are the only Americans in a private club with bottle service and eight nouveaux amis . My five years of French are a Godsend here, where I can much more easily communicate with the locals. I talk music with one guitarist, who is very jealous that I have seen King’s of Leon in concert, but boasts that he has seen The Strokes, and also confesses that he hates the rap music they play at these places. (I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anybody dance so goofy in my life, this tall, gangly, musician).
I am mistaken by a couple different people as a U.K. citizen, which was quite the compliment, because it means that my French is good enough to differentiate me from the general American population who have a bad reputation in this department.
Firenzo, the musician’s best friend, has near perfect English, which is funny because the musician can barely speak a work and supposedly they were in the same class their entire life. Either way, when I tell him he has impeccable English he said it is okay, but not good enough to get a good job, and knowing English is an absolute requirement as you must be fluent to get any kind of career. Interesting, because that sort of thing is just considered “bonus points” in America.
“There are some phrases you must know here,” Firenzo further enlightens me. The first: "Baise, donnez-moi un bois”. I laugh, already knowing the latter half. Apparently Firenzo thinks the most important thing to know how to say in France is “Fuck, get me a drink.”
At some point I realize our bus leaves Nice in 3 hours so I round up the troops and we head home for a quick midnight nap before we begin the next leg of our journey.
No comments:
Post a Comment