A Little Bit of Nice.

Aix has a rough translation to water. The city with several fountains scattered throughout the city. Fountains that at the moment mostly run dry. Despite this relationship to water that the city holds, in proximity to the ocean it is not quite close enough. Spending three weeks away from the ocean was the longest consecutive amount of time that I’d ever been away from the sight of the water. This sense of stir-crazy meant that a trip to Nice was needed and therefore Charlotte and I booked our hostel and spent 28 hours in the French Rivera.

As soon as we were weaving along the highway past Cannes I could spot the ocean smoothly resting on the horizon between trees and buildings. A feeling akin to excitement but which I cannot describe, rose to my throat and I felt suddenly overcome as though I may cry. The rainy conditions felt reminiscent of home. The water is special in this way. I can be standing on the edge of the Mediterranean but feel comfortable as though I were to be standing on the edge of the Pacific, a place where I had spent my entire life thus far. After checking into our hostel and taking advantage of the free coffee machine which dispensed out surprisingly nice cappuccinos we set out. Dutifully we paid the 8 euro charge for the empty ferris wheel and gazed in awe at the city as we rose and sunk above it in tiny pink carriages. The city was a mix of terracota, aquamarine and green. There were surprising bouts of pinks and terribly bright yellows and the scene before us did not look unlike a Hollywood movie set, this likely reinforced by the artificial grass sprawled amongst palm trees. To be on the beach and chased by waves that rhythmically attacked the shore felt akin to being a kid once again. I tried to spy a piece of beach glass amongst the stones but to no avail.

We ascended stairs that once at the top provided us with a 360 view of the city. We watched in silence as the waves met the exterior of the lighthouse, of the rock walls. The familiar bob of boats in a harbour lazy and attached to wooden docks. Charolotte and I, exchanging looks repeated the phrase to one another, that became the motto of the trip: “we’re in the French Rivera”.

The city that did certainly resemble the gates to heaven was not immune to bad weather and we spent the late afternoon and into the early evening indoors while thunder, lightning and hail battered the city. During this time we applied water colours to the pages of our journals and continued to abuse the free coffee machine so that we could maintain some energy to explore the nightlife of Nice. As soon as the storm ceased we layered on coats and found ourselves at an Irish bar. One which specialized in cover bands. It was lit only by candles and the laughter of friends. We ordered the cheapest beers on the menu and cheers’d. To be in a beautiful place, with beautiful people who spoke a beautiful language most of which we could not understand. One of my dads’ favourite songs played, Graceland by Paul Simon and I felt myself nearly brought to tears in gratitude for the present moment and for all the beautiful moments of the past. Of course a moment of appreciation for my parents who I wished that I could share the experience with. As was customary at this bar, as soon as the main band of the evening got on stage and began to strum the first chords of John Mayers Waiting on the World to Change the entire bar heaved themselves onto the tables and benches. Not to stick out we of course joined the jolly crew of Welsh, French, Irish and all, singing along to what can only be considered the greatest hits of white people. We laughed and danced and all was certainly merry.

The next day was spent primarily indoors as we perused museums and eventually found ourselves on a park bench with hummus and crackers, a little exhausted from the adrenaline of the previous 24 hours. A city I will certainly not forget and one which I hope to return to soon.