The sounds of Nice aren't at all nice in the morning. The city bustles and hustles along, honking horns, men cursing in French, hammers and drills pinging, whizzing and whirring, engines revving, brakes screeching, and midget dogs barking.
I miss the sounds of Buckinghamshire. I miss the cow who was always so anxious to be milked at 5:00 every morning. I miss the birds chirping and the Red Kite that would circle above my loft window. I miss hearing Oscar's deep, throaty "I MUST MAKE PEE NOW, FRIENDBEAST!" bark, and Lucy's adamant sniffing under the door "I can thmell you... I know you're in there, becauth I can thmell you."
I fly into Frankfurt next Thursday. I truly cannot believe that this month has gone by so quickly. Wasn't it just yesterday I was waiting for Baris at the airport, anxiously asking strangers if I could use their phones to call my friend because he'd gotten lost in the airport maze and was running late? Wasn't it just last week that we went to Italy for the first time? It must have been. I can still taste the Parmesan, imagine that sunset and see the city lights of Nice as we took the coastal road home.
It must have been just last night that Baris and I were walking the Promenade des Anglais. We stopped to look at the moon and he told me that in Turkish, there is a single word describing moonlight reflected on the water.
Yakamoz.
Although it was at least two weeks ago that he told me that Turkish people are smarter on the toilet (it's where they solve all their problems) and that ostriches are called "camel birds".
I feel very disconnected from time and routine. Sometimes the randomness of my day to day life mixed with my lack of control makes me lose sight of time as a line from A to B.
Time feels like a stew. A giant pot of Irish stew or Moroccan tagine. Meat and veggies blending and flavors melding, thrown into a clay pot and stuffed into the oven for hours and hours to make something good.
And the things that taste good always surprise me. I never would have guessed that pear and monkfish would make a marvelous tagine.
Here are a few pictures from my France stew.
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| This is farcis, a stuffed vegetable specialty of Nice. Tomatoes, courgettes, onions, peppers, eggplant, and cabbage are hollowed out, stuffed with sausage, spices, cheese, and baked. |
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| I went into Cours Saleya to purchase fruit last Monday and was confronted with a flea market, of sorts. No fruit to be found, but an abundance of watches, flasks, buttons and grandmother china. |
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| A picture from the port near where Baris lives. A ferry leaves for Corsica every morning and every evening. Next time I visit Southern France, I will see Corsica. I hear it's full of amazing climbing and hiking. |
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| This picture got lost in my France stew, but it was from one of our many lovely evenings out. I think this restaurant was a Portuguese place in Old Town. We both liked it because it was friendly, down to earth, and local. No tourists (I feel awful saying that) -- which makes sense. No proper tourist would come to Nice to eat Portuguese food. They flock to the restaurants boasting the city's best socca. As well they should. |
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| When no one showed up for the yoga class I offered in Parc de la Colline du Chateau, I used the time to walk around the park and take pictures. I taught a six am class at Yoga West three days a week for over six months. While it makes me sad when people don't show up for my classes, it's certainly a sensation I'm used to. If it weren't for my stalwart Kelly, I would have been practicing on my own nearly the entire time. |
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| View of the port from the park |
A few more pictures from Old Town...
Friday managed to roll around, somehow or other (as Friday always does), and I found myself on the bus and off to Vence to visit Tessa for gluten-free crepes and yoga.
Buses in Southern France are cheap, slow, and crowded. It took nearly an hour and a half (most of which I was standing, as a disgruntled old lady charged me as soon as she got on the bus and demanded in very fast French that I give up my seat) until my bus ground to a halt at its last stop in Vence Centre.
Tessa uses HelpEx as I use workaway.
This is where HelpEx landed Tessa.
She made such a gorgeous spread. When my new friend from New Zealand invited me over for crepes, I did not anticipate coffee and juice and lemons and peaches and nutella all served on beautiful china on a perfectly shaded patio.
I must say, this was a particularly pleasant spoonful of stew.
Stomach happily gurgling and full of crepes, body relaxed and sore from yoga, and soul rejuvenated and inspired from Tessa's company and conversation, I boarded the dreaded bus to Antibes, where I'd planned to meet Baris after he finished work.
Except there is no bus from Vence to Antibes. One has to get off and change at a town on the way to Nice, wait a good while and pay for another ticket.
The buses were packed. Shoulder to shoulder standing room the entire ride -- except for the fellow sitting on the floor at my feet, reeking of body odor, alcohol, marijuana, cigarettes and urine. The only thing on the bus taking up more space than his sprawled out body was his pungent stench.
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| Antibes |
Baris was a little late meeting me in Antibes. That part of last week's stew stands out as a notably spicy mouthful.
I'm sometimes surprised and humiliated by just how nervous I get when I start to feel stranded.
Am I in the right place?
I don't have a phone to check.
I forgot his number. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now I can't ask to borrow a phone to call him.
What if I'm in the wrong place?
Will he still find me?
It's Baris. He'll find me. Of course he'll find me.
What if he doesn't? Should I get on a bus and head back to Nice? Which bus? It wouldn't be the same one that brought me here.
Damn, I wish I spoke French.
But what if I get on the bus and he spends the evening looking for me?
Damn. Why haven't I invested in a working phone?
I was in the right place and Baris showed up (work kept him late) and all that fretting was for nothing. As I knew it was.
One of these days I will stop needing to fret. I'll learn to relax and wait.
Preconceptions: Most French people smell lovely and seem to have great hygiene. Only drunkies on buses and groups of bored teenagers in museums smell like they haven't bathed since spring. When I told Baris about the throngs of pungent teenagers in the Massena Museum, he said, "Aimee, they are adolescents. They vill smell of three things. Sveat, tears, and body odor."
Challenges: Pernod!
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