Nice, St Paul, Scott & Zelda

During my high school years, I pondered hesitatingly on returning to England. During my years at university, I wistfully thought about venturing to France. But why was I drawn? In fact only one city had piqued my interest, and with spring rolling in, the time had come to breathe in the tranquil sea on the French Riviera.

Hemingway and his pal Fitzgerald

The undoubtedly divine city of the expatriates, Hemingway and Fitzgerald, Nice was also visited by other literary geniuses: Yeats, Virginia Woolf, and Charles Dickens. I however, was concentrating on Fitzgerald, and more specifically on my kindle, 'Tender is the Night', which I finished while sitting on the one and only Promenade des Anglais.

A solitary bench on the promenade?

During my walkabouts through Nice I could think only of where Scott F. had wandered,
where he had drank a cup of coffee while reading a newspaper,
where he had fought with and loved Zelda,
and most of all,
where did he sit and write?


A few of my guesses.

Down on the pebbly beach?

An inspirational view from the Chateau?

A few minutes after taking a bus to the center, my toes were wet from soaked through boots muddling about in puddles in Vieux (Old) Nice. I soon retired hopes of taking shimmering photos and instead thought of changing socks. 

Soaked Place Garibaldi

I had the opportunity to couchsurf with the lovely Lydie in her glowing fragrant abode. Once inside, I felt I had stepped into a corner of an enchanted India. A scent of oils and hints of mythical stories swathed the air sifting around my nostrils. The veiled burnt orange and hot pink curtains cradled the assorted cultural paintings giving the space a hint of soft authority.

After creating a satisfyingly tasty meal, the night was spent chatting of philosophies of different dimensions. Staying with Lydie was one of my most insightful and touching couchsurfing experiences to date.









On waking to sunny skies I scurried off to find the bus to St Paul de Vance. The bus flew through Antibes and up into the rolling hills, reminding me of Spain's sprinkled houses and warm mediterranean view.

The fortified castle was chockfull of the most beautiful art the Riveria could offer. The gallery which struck my tastes most included works by Roman Garussuta, Nadia Cascini, and Etienne.

If you're not in the mood to click on the links, here is a sample of each (and perhaps you will now want to click to see more):

Garussuta

Cascini

'Baiser dans la main',  (Kiss in hand) Etienne

Bright swirly paintings
and bronze statues missing body parts were to each side of the narrow passageways, and I gaped at pricetags as well as talent.

The gate of La Colombe d'Or

I accomplished my self-given tasks of finding the charming and well-known restaurant Columbe d'Or (in which Picasso and others traded paintings for meals) and after, the provincial fountain, one of the oldest still running.

I wonder if Scott and Zelda ate here..?

On returning down to sea I settled on the pebbly beach with some biscuits. I then chanced upon an old franc from the 1940s and considered my luck.

To satisfy your curiousity..(it certainly satisfied mine)

And night set in. The Negresco, one of the most aristocratic hotels in europe, tastefully lit up the promenade, surely inviting anyone to come in for some well-bred jazz.




Did the Fitzgeralds stay here?

 

The following morning I traipsed up through Old Nice once again (this time accompanied by a friendly météo) and up the many rocky steps to look over the remaining tall walls of the old castle (for fabulous view, scroll up for the first picture).

Not much has been around of the old castle for a few hundred years,
but the visit is certainly worth the hike.
Especially when the trees are blooming.

To conclude on a slightly triumphant note,
walking back from the chateau
to arrange myself for the next part of my journey,
I did finally happen upon the Fitzgeralds.

Biarittz is for the birds. The lucky ones.

The first weekend of les vacances de Pâques (Easter) began with a petit weekend at the Ocean of the Bay of Biscay.

Eloise and I began by taking the bus to the very east of Toulouse, then started to wander with a sweet (if I may say so) sign reading 'Biarritz...stp' spelled in inviting bright neon. As our meter of faith began to peter out, our first ride stopped. A city bus. This must happen as often as my teddy bear makes my bed. But if my teddy bear offered to do my tidying, I have to say I wouldn't refuse. We hopped on with mildly shocked grins. He took us a bit further up to the highway with a bit of advice and a cheery goodbye. After another short ride from two relaxed guys listening to catchy indian rap, we tumbled upon our luck. A talkative chap driving to exactly the same region, Bayonne, a city only 5 minutes away.


And stepping out to the ocean shore, we congratulated ourselves and walked along the shoreline searching coffee.

The original plan was to play games in the majestic casino, but (and be warned, all fellow americans), you will not be allowed in without a passport...I did my best to argue I was indeed an English citizen, but to no avail, we were banished to the bench to drink hot wine during the drizzly afternoon.

 

   






On the other hand, we had already procured a couchsurfer, an american named Anda, who came to find us with his friend William. Living in a gorgeous southern french home just a quick bus ride from Biarritz, Anda welcomed us in with a true couchsurfer spirit. He had run a race and won that morning, so impressing us with his regalia of trophies (which were cleverly turned into punch bowls).






The night continued with assorted games and foolery, nostalgic conversation reminiscing about the states, funny hats, and little ballades on William's vintage (by vintage I mean classic and classy, not second-hand) guitar.












After an adorable french breakfast, we sauntered back to the beach. Greeted by the welcoming sun, the surfers were out to play.

The pizzeria 

(majestic casino on the right)

After a must have lunch of pays basque-ean pizza, hints of ice cream wafted through the streets, as tempting as taking the carpool lane when you're driving single. To say no would be a crime indeed.

Thus Biarritz is a must do and do again.

Enfin, j'aime le neige! - Les Pyrénées

As I sat through one conversation after another with teenagers who had been at it since they began to toddle after their mamas, I began to acknowledge that I had never tried it. It was time. I layered my clothes until I felt like an eskimo in Hawaii, I strapped on the robocop boots, and grabbing the lethal sticks, I shot off down the slopes of Ax Les Thermes, Les Pyrénées.

This was on arrival, you can see my glimmering, happy naivety. 

I jumped clumsily off the ski lift, and we were off. I was skiing. Or...shooting down an icy ledge without any comprehension of how to cool the jets which had anonymously appeared behind my skis, forcing me along at a phenomenal speed.

I would like to say that I very quickly fell over, but instead I raced, arms flailing at the sides, eyes pinned open, I felt like I was learning how to drive by beginning with La Place de L'étoile, ...but all of a sudden, I had come to an intersection. My peripheral view instantly told me I couldn't turn right down the hill, it was like throwing a hamster out the window and expecting it to gracefully turn a cartwheel in the air before landing on all four paws.

Thus I crashed. Eloise came up behind and came to a ballerina-esque standstill, giggling. I was grateful to have lived, my ego was in no frail state. I laughed along.

And gradually got up, only to fall, after maybe 3 metres.

And again.


And again (I lost count).

I paused frequently for water, I had been clenching my stomach and gasping for air while smashing into mountains, falling on my face then my back, then my knees then while rolling down the hill like they teach you in fire safety lessons.

I took a tuna sandwich break and watched the red (high intermediate) slope. Experienced skiers glided down the piste rouge like prehistoric warriors. They were obviously insane.









We met with my two roommates, Catherine and Bertrand, who had been practicing the same flawless ineptitude by snowboarding. We mocked each other over a beer, breathing easily at the bottom of the mountain, no more easy chances of embracing our immortality.






But surprisingly, I felt exhilarated. I loved it. I wanted more. I decided to go again two weeks following.

Ready!

Nora, me, Mika, Ben

This time my mental preparation went a little far for the circumstances. I went with two first timers and an expert snowboarder. Nora was a bit more intuitive than I had been, attempting to understand technique before careening down the ice. Mika and I slid down together, taking hills in shifts, a bit at a time, waiting for the patient teacher and the hesitant (rightly so) pupil.

We stopped for déjeuner on a peak, munched on some veggie sausage, ham sandwiches, and fruit and soaking in a bit of sun before setting off again. Ben took the black (expert) slope a couple times, leaving us to take breathers.

Mr Ben rocking out

'focus' face

'do I have to?' face

Then off down the blue..this one was just a bit steeper than before, Ben came down beside me, shouting out, urging me continually, 'Tiens toi droit, tout droit!'

At least I think that was what he was saying...I was split between my adrenaline and my unwillingness to fail (in other words, sheer panic).

Can everyone see how tantalisingly delicious this looks?

The day ended in chocolat chaud and lovely crêpes soaked in nutella amidst tranquilly liberated smiles, as every day in France inevitably should.