Antibes, Absinthe, and DUCK -- Nice, France

The key to wisdom is this -- constant and frequent questioning, for by doubting we are led to question, and through questioning we arrive at truth.

~Peter Abelard

I never want to lose my curiosity -- regardless of its propensity for killing cats. 

Wednesday was a quiet day spent on my laptop. My body needed a break from all the climbing and running and the rest of me needed to buckle down and write a few posts.

So I spent the day propped up on Baris' tan couch, staring at my screen, out the window, at his photography on the walls, and at my screen again.

I have such a love/hate relationship with this blog. But most important things are love/hate relationships. I love teaching yoga because it's deeply satisfying and meaningful to help someone feel comfortable in their own skin. I hate teaching yoga because competitive people have injured themselves in my classes before. I love painting because it's a productive meditation and I hate painting because I can't create anything original. I love writing this blog because it keeps me writing and sharing and remembering, but I hate writing this blog because it distracts me from playwriting and takes me out of the moment. 

But I sorted through my muddled memories of England and Nice and posted a few entries on Wednesday. As I clicked the orange box with the white "Publish" text, I felt clarity, focus and relief.


Baris drove Sophia to the port well after six and buzzed the doorbell to let me know he'd arrived. I slammed my macbook shut, lurched to my feet, grabbed my sherpani purse, and bolted down the stairs. After carefully opening and shutting the door (which I've forgotten to lock a time or two. Why are doors so hard for me?).

We were going to Antibes to eat duck. Baris had been talking this meal up for the past three days, and had succeeded in transforming the word "duck" or the sound "quack" into cues that made my mouth water, Pavlovian style.

"Aimee!" Baris hugged me as I flew out the building. "We are going to get duck!" He took off his protective jacket and demanded I wear it with a concerned tone and fatherly furrowed eyebrows.

I didn't even protest this time. I licked my lips and stuck my arms into the jacket, feeling the stiff shoulder pads and elbow pads settle into place as my hands slid through the cuffs. I was very excited for duck.

The sun was setting, considerately casting its final lustrous rays directly into Baris' eyes and reflecting off the mirrors and the rippling sea. The air was cool and smelled of salt. I gripped Baris' slender waist as Sophia gamboled over speed bumps and skidded to abrupt stops in front of tourists with cameras and natives with their pretentious and preposterously fluffy miniature dogs.

It was late when we arrived in Antibes and most of the city was closed for the day, doors locked and glass barred. So we windowshopped the shops with windows and I rubbernecked past all the gelato stands, trying to identify the bizarre flavors.

Absinthe is a anise flavored drink distilled from a special variety of wormwood that contains the menthol scented chemical compound thujone. It was the cheap, effective liquor served to starving Parisian artists like Van Gogh during the latter half of the 1800s. The sale of this extremely alcoholic, mind-altering substance was illegal for almost 100 years (beginning in 1915), but has clearly managed to find its way back into French bars and restaurants. To drink absinthe in the traditional manner, pour one or two ounces into your glass and enough water so that the ratio is either 1:3 or 1:5. Place the absinthe spoon with sugar cube over the glass, drizzle a couple drops of absinthe onto the sugar, and light the cube on fire. Caramelized sugar will drip down into your drink, adding sweetness to the anise kiss.

We went in this shop to ask about prices. 6 euros per 100 grams. My goodness, that chocolate had better taste amazing.

Antibes at night.

Baris said this pizza place is one of the best restaurants to eat pizza in all of France. He wouldn't let me go inside because he didn't want me to be too disappointed if it turned out they didn't have gluten-free crusts and I'd have to walk out empty-handed after being tortuously tempted. They didn't have gluten-free crusts. France seems to be belligerently unaware/insensitive to people with celiac disease.

The duck... was... exquisite. I can still taste the fatty, crackling skin and the flavorful pink meat. It was a meal so good that I will view ducks differently from here on out. As in, I will look at them, remember that dinner, and start to salivate.

I met with Patrick Thursday afternoon for our second climbing session, grinning ear to ear with anticipation of another genial, ass-kicking adventure. We greeted with the traditional kiss on each cheek and I said hello to the Jack Russel Terrier cowering in a pannier behind the handlebars with the traditional scratch behind the ears. I then buckled on the medium sized helmet and hopped onto the padded seat behind my accomplished friend. He roared off onto Promenade Des Anglais, heading in the direction of a different and more intimidating looking cliff face. Once there, he spent a couple of hours teaching me how to set the course myself, clipping the rope to each ring so that I'd never fall more than four or five feet, should I lose my holds on the wall.

I don't think I ever stopped grinning.

 Ach. I take that back. I might have stopped grinning here. Right after my calf muscle started to spasm.

Yoga while climbing? Yes please.

Baris and I had planned to go to an art show that evening, but we were both so sick, tired, and sore that we stayed in for the night. I showed him the bruises on my knees and bragged about my arm muscles, and he told me I looked and sounded like a nine year old boy. 

Then we watched my other favorite animated film and I felt like a nine year old. Perhaps not a nine year old boy, but I felt like a kid. A kid who had her cake and ate it too. 

Preconceptions: I don't think I've seen a single restaurant with frog legs on the menu. Frog consumption in France ranges between 3000-4000 tons each year, but the cheeky side of me thinks that half this amount is consumed by tourists visiting Paris (for the sole purpose of bragging rights) and the other half is consumed in Dombes, where frog is a particularly traditional dish.

Challenges: None today.