From Paris to Nice

October 29, 2018

From Paris to Nice

26-27 October 2018

Anyone who knows me knows I’m not good in crowds. Unlike the museums Emma and I visited on the first day Musée d’Orsay was extremely popular. I arrived to be advised that the wait for entry was half an hour and I joined the queue. A young French couple behind me invaded my personal space constantly, to the extent I think they may have been trying to push pass. A quick scathing teacher look put them off for a few minutes but they persisted after that. A few Americans in the queue were easy to find due to their loud voices but at least they were of a happy tone. Another way to spot Americans is by Adidas three stripe track pants. I know from reading Almost French by Sarah Turnbull that this is not the Parisian way. Apparently it is an insult to all the people you meet during the course of the day if you haven’t dressed properly for them. Track pants are only meant for the gym.

Once inside I went to the Picasso: Bleu et Rose exhibition which was the main feature at the present. It was very crowded so I raced through with passing glances at most of the works, only occasionally lingering for a longer look. Dad and Sandra, you’d be so disappointed in me. The rest of my time there I took a little longer to examine each section and found my preference seemed to be for more brutal depictions of life. Human beings can be so nasty.

Emma then took me to lunch at Le Cafe des Chats, a concept copied from the Japanese. I had a beautiful pave (slab) of steak and salad, followed by a cheesecake citron. Meanwhile cats milled around us, rubbing against our legs and being pampered by pats from all and sundry. It was very calm until a border collie taunted from outside and a cat flew at him, only to thump against the window with brute force. An employee picked him up, gave him a hug and placed him on a pedestal for recovery away from patrons.

An afternoon nap was required before our next food indulgence at a restaurant serving traditional Parisian fare. We ignored the escargot and frogs’ legs and instead had the rich luxury of foie de gras and toast. So delicious! For mains we both had duck confit, also divine. By this time our stomachs could hold no more so we shared “burnt cream”, their English translation of creme brûlée. I had started the day feeling relatively slim in a skirt with sucky-in stockings but by the end of the evening the skirt cut into my waist and hugged rather too closely.

We were warned by Solange and Arnaud that this would be a cramped restaurant. I was thinking share tables might have been the case but instead all the couples were seated at single square tables except they were lined in a row against a bench seat. The waitstaff slid the table out to let people in and out. Above the bench seat was a luggage rack like what you can find on trains because there was no space between people to place handbags. It was cosy and one could not help but listen to the conversations either side but that was part of the fun. On one side there were a couple of older American women, one of which was quite the whinger. She talked of her time in rehab, her botox treatments and a doctor she reported to his colleagues after he broke her heart. She didn’t like the restaurant but at least it was better than the one they had dined at the night before that did not have a menu choice. She turned away her salmon, saying it was overcooked before she had even cut it open. The staff gave her a menu to choose something else but she said there was nothing else she liked so took her salmon back. On the other side of us were a French father and son who offered no real entertainment value.

The next day we boarded a train at Gare de Lyon bound for Nice. My Uber driver on the way to the station wished me all the best in the sun of the south but rain is the forecast for at least the next two days. The speed of the trains in Europe always surprises but I swear this one was even quicker than usual, hurtling past ploughed fields and sheep, not so different to home. A field of lavender could just as well have been Patterson’s Curse. It also appears a bit dry but nowhere near as bad as the drought back home.

When Emma went to the dining car to buy us some lunch ,and was taking a very long time, we stopped at a station a little earlier than I expected. Now Emma had told me after the many announcements in French at the start of the journey that there was only one stop en route, where we had to alight. I gathered our backpacks and coats and scurried to the end of the carriage where our massive suitcases were stored. I looked out and saw that the station was Avignon, not the Aix-en-Provence noted on the tickets. I asked someone by pointing at the ticket and thankfully she spoke English, “Just 15 minutes to that stop”. Phew! I was about to get off the train with all our luggage and abandon Emma.

When we really arrived at Aix-en-Provence, we could not find our next train on the departure board. After some mild panic we discovered the next leg of our journey was by bus instead of a train. It was a little slower and more cramped than the train but pleasant enough. Upon arriving in Nice, I was relieved to find women wearing knee-high boots. It is no longer the fashion in Paris, unlike three years earlier. Maybe Nice has different fashion, or knee-high boots are only worn on weekends or in wet weather. Also, jumpers are not fashionable in Paris, except under coats, and definitely not bright colours like the red jumper I favour lately. I should not care so much.

We ended the day with a seafood dinner and a bottle of Chardonnay in the hotel restaurant (see photo below for evidence that Nigel and Kate must have come here on their honeymoon) and this time we were genuinely too full to have dessert. We are going to have to stick to bread and water after this.