Beach Etiquette

As we meander around Villefranche, Mom and I have come to a realization - not everyone knows how to behave in a European beach environment. So here are some helpful hints:

First and foremost, no gawking, pointing, making loud exclamations about bare boobies, or drooling. Lolling tongues out the side of the mouth are equally unacceptable. And, as Mom has pointed out, no laughing, under any circumstances, no matter what you see. Be prepared to see bare breasts. Only the North Americans are obsessed with the mammary glands. Over here, there are men who have larger breasts than some women. So, no silly giggling at the view.

When walking along the boardwalk or beach wall, one must not gawk (mentioned above) or lean over for a better look. Even if you are on the phone. It is irritating and a bit discomfiting. Scuffing of shoes, or kicking of stones will also garner unwanted wrath and a volley of curses about your ancestry. Add to the list of no-nos, no throwing of cigarette butts, spitting, or horking over the side. Sunbathers take a very dim view of projectiles, fiery or wet, coming in contact with their bronzing regime.

Be prepared to see underwear. Not just the men wearing oversized jeans so that one can see their boxers. Rather, real underwear - bras, panties, briefs. It happens. At least 50% of the people on the beach are wearing their underwear instead of a swimsuit. Be thankful, that at least they are wearing underwear.

So when you see a woman in a bra, more than likely she is covering up!

As for men, it is not unusual to see briefs. Not the tightey-whities, rather, the Calvin Klein multi-coloured variety. The Europeans have quickly figured out that white becomes transparent when wet. That's one way you can differentiate between real French and pseudo-French American wannabes. Also, no boxers. That's just wrong and they bag in the most inconvenient places, not to mention, when wet, they dribble continuously.

Finally, on this subject of underwear, if, by chance, you should catch a glimpse of exposed underwear, do NOT take a second look. Chances are your eyes will be subject to the Full Monty and, in most cases, will immediately sear that image into your retina and memory. It will be rare the time you actually get a pleasant view, rather, more often, it will be a shock of withered multilayered skin baked to leather, or, more rolls than the Pillsbury doughboy, or, even worse, a line of hair that never ends.
So look away, quickly.

Cell phone conversations are particularly annoying. For some reason, people tend to speak louder (shout) into their phones than when they speak normally. Once again, details of business deals, or intimate descriptions of various antics from the prior evening do not need to be shared with an unwilling audience. Coquettish flirting is also particularly nauseating. It is not clear why cellphone users think that people around them are deaf as they divulge their deepest secrets. Unless the audience is allowed to throw rotten tomatoes at the cellphone abuser, a whisper goes a long way.


Positioning one's towel or beach mat is equally important. Do not place them sideways. It is considered very piggish to hog the prime real estate. Like they teach you in kindergarten, share.

As for how close you can set up camp, there are several ways to tell.

If you can lie down on your stomach, raise your arms and throw sand pebbles at the person beside you, you are too close.

Being able to play tiddly winks with your toenail clippings using your neighbour's bellybutton is another way of deducing that you have placed your mat too closely.

Being able to read your neighbour's book is still another indicator of too close proximity.

Walking by and leaving a trail of sand pebbles on their beach mat is definitely too close.



And finally, walking right by the top of their head so that the drips from your ice cream cone fall on their head like seagull poop is quite a no-no.


After finding a suitable location for your towel, we now go on to courtesy. Quiet conversation between friends/acquaintances is perfectly acceptable, but no loud discussions about politics, religion or sexual encounters. TMI.

Unspoken also, is the rule about who sets up camp where. Each beach is divided into areas:

the young families congregate together in order to maximize the supervision of young-uns. Young parents still care about offspring, even other people's. It also provides respite from being your child's personal playmate if there is another child around.

Another area is for the teenagers or young adults, with their inane chatter about who did what, where and when as well as their own "adult" analysis of what happened, punctuated by "oh, my God" and "Like, what a skank!" It also provides room for the young males to show off their prowess by indulging in horseplay and push-ups while their audience, flip their hair and gaze adoringly, or, as happens quite often, ignore the immature antics of the male species.

Finally, there is the serious sunbathers. Quiet rules in this area. Little talking, idle chatter and serious baking. Well tanned skin in various degrees of exposure. Once again, the rules about gawking apply. You may also want to add the caution against taking photos of various specimens. How gauche!

Under no circumstances should the various groups mingle. Blood may flow, words may be uttered and the sanctity of the beach would be compromised.

Hobnobbing with the High Society

Tuesday found us hiking over the hill to Cap Ferrat -- the land of the uber rich, I-want-to -be-alone rich, like Tina Turner and Elton John.

We had had tantalizing glimpses of the rich and maybe famous already. Large, luxurious yachts were moored across the bay, with people being shuttled in smaller boats to and from the mainland; very expensive Porsches, Jaguars and BMWs (with Monaco plates, no less) parked in the middle of the road with little regard to any pedestrian or car inconvenience, as they disgorged their haut couture inhabitants who sauntered into their chosen restaurants; a huge Hummer parked outside a very expensive restaurant with pink disco balls and many champagne pails; little red laser lights danced on the pavement before the restaurant, bringing to my fanciful mind the pointers that snipers use (for those who come too close). Talk about mixed signals.

So, like Robin Leach (old reference) we wanted to join. Under the guise of a little walk before settling in the surf and sand, we climbed the stairs at the end of the beach and were immediately transported into another world of giant wrought iron gates (with separate service entrances), gardeners, and security cameras. Like little kids peering through the window at candy store, Mom and I checked out the places. A little like Bridle Path only, more rich and exclusive. All too soon, we decided to move on, before the dogs were let loose (and they did have some watch dogs as well as the cautionary signs).

Then it was off to a more approachable venue - La Villa Ephrussi de Rothchild, once owned by the Baronne de Rothchild of the bankers fame. I could live there quite easily - just as luxurious as Schonbrunn only more homier, kind of.

The gardens are what you check out there, complete with dancing waters (fountains) that are timed to music, and all kinds of differently-themed gardens. The gardens were amazing, even this late in the season, and the view of Villefranche and Beaulieu/Cap Ferrat was breathtaking, not to mention the birds-eye view of many other estates. A lot of money in those babies.

In keeping with our desire to experience the "better" life, we decided to splurge and have tea, but not crumpets, in the tearoom. The gilded wooden chairs with dusty pink cushions had us surreptitiously brushing the back of our pants before we sat down, very gingerly, mind you. Not quite in the Lazyboy hefty size that we are accustomed to. Very dainty, you know. We also obviously had to remember our manners, no slurping tea from the saucer in this room.

Especially as we were being overseen by the waiter, complete with gold trim waistcoat. All very proper, you know. Overlooking the gardens and the bay, we lifted our pinkie fingers and absorbed the ambience. A piece of apple pie (French style) complete our fantasy. We could be civilized too.

All too soon, we toddled back down the road and returned to our reality - sunning ourselves on "our" beach, eating our homemade ham and cheese baguette, and then going for a swim with our little fishes.

And nobody cared if we licked our fingers after eating our oranges.

Villa Ephrussi de Rothchild, Cap Ferrat">More photos from the garden.

Vegging in Villefranche

True to the title of this post, I've been vegging, too lazy to sit down and write.

Peace. Tinkling of wind through the guidelines of sailing boats. Soft muted lapping of waves against the shore.
No one in a hurry - slip slop of flip flops, quiet talking between people. The louder greetings between owners and passersby.
The odd car or truck, diesel engine going by slowly. Cars stop on side of the road (double parked) to go in for a word with someone in the cafe. Others wait. No rush, no honking.

It's been a week and it is amazing how quickly we have acclimatized to this way of life. Summer is winding down, the influx of day-trippers and cruise people has slowed down to a trickle. Even the trees are getting their winter pruning.

Our morning routine is set. Coffee on the balcony watching whoever/whatever walks by, some you recognize, others are just one-timers headed for the train station and parts beyond.

Then it's off to the stores (conveniently situated at the top of the hill so that we get our morning constitution). One constant (baguette), others are variable -- fruit, cheese, milk, water, juice or whatever sweet catches our eye. Then home again, home again, jiggidy jig.



Make lunch, and then it's beach time.

The feeling of the sun as it warms your skin. Sweet, warm caressing. Warmth of the sand as it conforms to your body., The wafting breeze,sometimes too cool, against your skin. The slight tingling that tells you that you've had enough sun.

Time to go swimming.

The crystal clear water, just cool enough to make it refreshing. Watching the small fishes swimming below you (dinner tonight?)



It's lunch break. Here, there's no rushing to the gym for a workout, rather it's off to the beach for a tan break, or even a swim. Park the car, doff the clothes, dive in and swim across the bay and back using a slow measured, unhurried front crawl, Followed by 10 minutes in the sun,a discrete change of clothes, and back to work.

Yup, life's tough here.

We have become regulars here. Evenings, we tromp down to our favourite restaurant and before we even sit down, the waiter sees us, turns around and returns with our two Sangrias, plus spoons, plus serviettes, just like we asked for the first day. Sipping our Sangria, we look around at today's catch (newbie tourists). How superior we feel, how comfortable we are in our setting.

I'd call chicken soup for the soul, but there is no chicken in the soup, and usually it is fish accompanied by wine. A powerful combination. Occasionally we go really wild and have rabbit (or "lapin" as it is known in civilized circles). It's all good.

One more week to go. Hard to believe almost two months have passed. Soon we will have to think about winter coats and boots. But not today. It's beach time.

Special Yellow Buses and Sangria

I'll never make fun of small yellow"special" school bus drivers again.

Monday was Sona' s departure day. We'd planned our route; she'd managed to pack all her new purchases into her already bulging bag; and off we went. The trip back to Nice was uneventful -- something that you know if you have been reading this blog is not normal. But it was, no wrong turns, missing roads or unknowing pedestrians trying to commit hari-kiri in front of me..

I pulled up beside the car rental place, double parked it nice and close to the other car ( 'cause that's what they do in Nice) and almost threw the keys at the Sixt rental agent. For the first time, she actually came out and checked it over. So what if it was a bit dusty and had the odd pine needle sticking out of cracks and corners. The tank still read full and there were no further dents or scratches. She was satisfied and so were we.

Next on our list was to make sure Sona got on the correct airport express bus. As luck would happen, there was one at the stop, so off we scurried, running on the road, because there was a huge group of students (stupid teenagers on a school trip) on the sidewalk between the bus and us. With a quick goodbye and hugs, Mom and I waved to Sona as the bus roared off.

Now we just had to get back to Villefranche-sur-mer.

We had to catch the 80 bus. Now, we'd seen it before and knew it was a small bus. We figured it was because there were not too many people that wanted to use it. We were incorrect in our assumption.

First, we made it to the bus stop for the 80 bus in plenty of time, so we sat down to wait. To our utter dismay, as we were waiting, the little yellow bus roared by, going in the opposite direction. We had been waiting on the wrong side of the street, even though it was the end of the route. With some unrepeatable comments at both the bus system and ourselves for making such boneheaded mistake, we crossed the street and had to wait another 50 minutes for the next bus. We joked that Sona would have made it to Cologne, Germany before we'd managed to get back to Villefranche.

The second bus arrived after hiding in a clump of bushes for 10 minutes. Not so good at playing hide-and-seek. We climbed aboard and settled in. As the little bus rocked and rattled its way through the outskirts of Nice, Mom and I grinned at each other like fools. We felt sooooo special.

And then we began to climb. Up the side of the mountain that separated Nice from Villefranche. Mom had been looking at the map earlier and wondered why the bus route seemed so twisty and turny. Now we knew. Talk about the "petites routes montagnes". The reason why the bus was so small was because a regular bus would never have made it up the mountain, let alone navigated the turns.
As it was, the bus had to back up a couple of times to make some of the turns. Mom and I don't like roads that have cliffs down one side. Mom kept making funny (not ha-ha) noises and pointing out how high we were climbing. I just kept looking at the rockface that was actually there and trying to ignore the huge cliff on the opposite side, dotted with the roves of small houses that jutted out over the precipice.

Then Mom made the observation how easy it would be to lose your kids, or your husband, if you lived in a house built there. You know, most people would think that it would be great, because you didn't have a backyard to mow, or that you'd end up with calves of steel, but not Mom. "Just give him a few drinks and then push him over. Problem solved."

We'd also wondered why there were a fair number of older ladies on the bus. That was because they would have died of a heart attack trying to climb up the mountain to return to their homes!

Going up was bad enough but, as you know, what goes up must come down. All I kept hoping was that the brakes on our yellow bus had been well maintained and checked recently. Thank goodness we didn't have a Mario Andretti wannabe as a driver. After all, we did occasionally meet another car coming in the other direction, and they usually had to head for the ditch as we passed by them.

Words fail as you attempt to describe this route, probably because, there really wasn't much of a road to begin with and your heart was beating so hard, it was difficult to distinguish it from the downshifting of gears and grinding brakes, let alone what you can imagine when you feel the bus rolling backwards on a steep grade.
As the bus finally chugged to a stop at the port, there was a moment of silence from all passengers as if they weren't quite sure that they'd survived the trip and then, en masse, old ladies, young mothers, complete with strollers and small toddlers, Mom and I jumped up and got off that bus as fast as possible, shoving our way through the unsuspecting waiting passengers. There was no kissing the ground, but I am sure that the sentiment was there.

We had to go back to our apartment and lie down for a rest to calm our shattered nerves.

Rest didn't really work so we got up and went in search of stronger medicinal treatment. We found it just down the road from our apartment. We didn't even have to climb any stairs or hills.

Sangria. Nectar from the gods!

And as it turns out, a bit more potent than Kir. We were definitely quite tipsy by the time we'd finished our glass of sangria. They must have used the original recipe that contains brandy and Cointreau, as well as soaking the fruit in the wine. Our excuse was that it had been a long time since we had eaten lunch. And that's our story and we're sticking to it.

Did you know that Mom doesn't like orange rind? Do you know what she does with the rind? Did you know that she chewed the fruit off the rind, spat it into her hand and then, because we were sitting right beside the sea, she threw it into the water. The fish were hungry, she said.

I had to remind her that pedestrians also walked along the side of the water (for some reason, they didn't want to walk on the road) and that they wouldn't appreciate half-masticated pieces of fruit being thrown at them, splatting against their South of France white ensembles. It didn't appear to bother Mom. All I got was a classic Chad shrug. I then had to keep telling her whenever a pedestrian came along until she finished slurping her sangria and eating the fruit (minus the rind).

In a much mellower frame of mind, our nerves calmed, we continued along the road/sidewalk/quay, with a minimum of stumbling to our chosen restaurant.

One final thought. We have to take the 80 bus back into Nice on the day that we leave. I think that I need some more sangria.

Help, I'm Trapped in a Beach Parking Lot and I Can't Get Out

Saturday morning found us packed back into the little Ford Fiesta and on the road to our final destination -- Villefranche-sur-Mer.

All went well; the maps were clear; directions matched actual roads and conditions and we even had agreement with TomTom. Up on to the highways without incident; successfully navigating both ticket and coin toll routes and back into Nice, we rocketed. With one tiny exception where TomTom told us to stay right, and all of us echoing "stay right" and still I took the left fork, all was good.

Nice was relatively calm and uneventful as we passed by the Negresco, toodling along the Promenade des Anglais and up to the Quai des Etats Unis.

We rounded the corner and a collective "Ahh" was expelled from the inhabitants of the car at the amazing view we witnessed. Our deep blue water sparkled in the bright sunshine, white sailing boats cutting through the waters without a care, and the huge cruise ships bobbing in the port.

Villefranche is truly a small town down the side of a cliff that extends into the most beautiful deep clear bay. Down and around sharp switchback roads (thankfully at a snail's pace because I was following the little 'petit train touristique'), we entered the port of Villefranche. Apparently the old part of Villefranche was along the side of the hill. We continued along the road, not sure if it was a pedestrian walkway, or a sidewalk lined with restaurants. But that is the way in Europe, pedestrians walk everywhere and cars stop for them, and in return, cars can go on pedestrian recognized lane ways, just so long as they drive slowly.

We found our apartment but then came the task of finding a parking space. So I did what everyone was doing -- headed for the beach. As I took the ticket I carefully noted that you could pay by coin and I had plenty left over from the toll roads.

Our apartment is right on the port road, overlooking the moored fishing boats and sailboats and the odd yacht. The beach is about 100 meters away and traffic, when it's not beach time, is relatively light and slow because the pedestrians are everywhere, a steady stream of humanity, wearing flip flops and sandals, all excitedly chatting about their day.

This apartment is all about location. The living quarters are basic - no expresso maker, no chi-chi wall hangings or even a broom. But there is the balcony and that makes up for everything.

We quickly grabbed our beach gear from the car and spent a pleasant afternoon at the Beach. Unlike Nice that has a large stone beach, Villefranche has small pebbles at quickly conform to your back when you lie down. The water is cooler now; guess Fall is setting in, There is little actual beach once you enter the water; there is quite a drop off. There's not a lot of time to get accustomed to the water temperature - refreshing is a good description. As long as the sun is on you, it is very nice indeed.

Upon our return to the apartment, we settled down to wait for a parking space to become available. One opened up and I dragged Mom down to wait by it until I could retrieve the car. Specific instructions were given to throw herself under the cars to ensure that the space stayed open for me.

Now, I must digress for a moment, to give further explanations. This trip has had its moments of stress and trouble whenever tickets were involved. You know about my toll route troubles, but I had omitted (accidentally or on purpose is for you to decide) about Les Baux. Where you enter at the parking lot (which, incidentally, is called Parking not Stationnement), there are signs all over the place in numerous languages to remind you to take your ticket with you and pay for it at the automatic cash machine before you attempt to leave.

I had dutifully taken my ticket into the windblown medieval town, keeping it safe in the side pocket of my purse. Time came to pay. I pulled out the ticket and it spat it back, rejected. Okay, maybe I'd put it in backwards. I reinserted it and this time, nothing, no instructions, no whirring to indicate machine thought, no ticket. I could see it, but it wouldn't come out. This is also the only ticket paying machine available.

As the line formed behind me, I looked around with desperation for assistance. There was a policeman talking to another man, so he became my would-be saviour. I batted my pretty brown eyes at him and gave him the helpless female look and over he came. After repeating the obvious (The ticket is stuck in there. Did you force it? It won't come out - all in French of course.), he produced a rather large knife from his back belt compartment and proceeded to dig out the ticket. Better than a nail file.

That's when I discovered that I'd accidentally inserted the Chateau's entry ticket into the machine instead of the parking ticket. From the corner of my eye, I could see Mom and Sona physically distancing from me as they realized what had happened. With a pointed look and some words of further clarification in case I needed it, the policeman handed me back the entry ticket. Rather red-faced, I checked my purse pocket again and there it was, the parking ticket. I quickly paid, retrieved my exit ticket and ran to catch up with Sona and Mom. Another stupid tourist story for the policeman to recount to his wife that evening.

Now flash forward to Villefranche.

I ran back to the car, executed a passable three-point turn, and drove slowly to the exit. Ticket inserted, nothing. There I was, sitting with my Euros in hand, ready to pay but no place to pay. And no ticket. Panic was setting again. Would Mom still be there, guarding the parking space? Would a driver become impatient and just run her over? Would I be able to ever leave the beach?

Once again assistance arrived in the form of the Police Municipal. I was informed to push the red button on the machine. Dutifully following his instructions, I buzzed. A voice actually answered. I had to return to the Snack Bar and get a ticket from there. Another three-point turn, and back down the beach I drove. I had to pass the Snack Bar as there were no spaces available and go all the way to the end of the parking road, turn around and come back. There are 2 Snack Bars. I stopped at the second one and was told to go to the red building OUTSIDE the parking lot and seek assistance. Once I had stated the obvious, I was told to go to the automatic parking machine by the first one. Thoroughly frustrated and now hot and panicked, I made the second stop, went up to the machine, pushed the red button and once again, I explained my circumstances ("the machine ate my ticket.") and he checked the video surveillance camera (for a beach parking lot?). Nine euros later, I had a exit ticket and off I went.

It was with much amazement and relief that I found Mom, and Sona, still guarding the parking space, eve after a half an hour. I quickly parked, and they told me how they'd stared down the drivers who'd dared to eye the parking space. The steely glare and jutted out chin that Mom must have shown would have been more than any intrepid beach goer. Not worth the trouble.

And so here we are. In paradise. It's good to be us.

Check out the pictures. More to follow, so check out the photo site.





Villefranche-sur-Mer


">pictures.

Les Hyeres - Surf, Sand and Wind

Early Thursday morning we set off from our beautiful Manse in Saint Remy, complete with fresh fruit, nuts, cookies, nougat and the biggest damn meringue that we'd ever seen, just in case we got hungry on our trip to the seaside.

The first part of our trip was uneventful; we'd managed to get on the right road, the right highway, in the right direction, with a full tank of gas and clean windows. Mom was in the navigator's position, complete with three different maps, written instructions, AND the iPad with photos of different parts of the route. Sona was in the back with TomTom.

The trip on the autoroute was uneventful, successfully navigating the tolls and tickets. Then we turned off and took a smaller highway (similar to Hwy 35) down towards the coast. We passed vineyards and farms as well as amazing flora (real bamboo) and just enough hills to make it interesting to drive.

All went well until we arrived at the outskirts of Les Hyeres. Then we ran out of road. All maps indicated that we should follow the highway until we ran into the sea. But it stopped about 5 miles from there, in a roundabout. There we were, going round and round, talking quite excitedly to each other, Mom flipping maps and pages, TomTom telling us to go to Nice, and I was feeling vaguely nauseous.

So we took the next exit looking for someone to tell us the way. Sona turned off TomTom. Mom put down the maps and looked for the sea. Ten minutes later, and better instructions. Ridiculously easily, we were back on route and saw our first glimpse of the beaches that extended for miles. To quote Sona, "Beautiful!"

Les Hyeres reminds me of Cape Cod. Jammed during the summer months, and practically deserted off season. Some stores are even closed for the season. It's only the die-hards and old-timers that remain.

Our first excursion once we'd found the hotel was to eat lunch in the port, surrounded by sailing yachts worth more than our house.

Then it was off to the beach.


The water was crystal clear (more green than in Nice) and quite shallow for a long way out. Sona swam, and splashed and soaked up her sea water with the biggest smile that I've ever seen. Mom floated on her worm until her knees brushed against the bottom of the sea. Then we laid out like seals, soaking up the last rays of sunshine.

Next morning, the wind was blowing, so off to the old town we went. Climbing up more hills and steps, rewarded by ice cream and magnificent vistas. Very pretty.

The wind continued to blow. metal signs were knocked over and boats moored in the bay were rolling. When we went to the beach, the wind kicked up sand in our faces, like a schoolyard bully and then raced out to sea and back again.

Back to the hotel for a nap. Sona went for her last sea soak. I checked out the restaurants and our escape route.

Tomorrow, back through Nice to Villefranche-sur-Mer. What other mischief could we get into?

When is a duck not a duck?

Copious amounts of wine were sacrificed on the altar of shattered nerves in order for me to get back into the car and drive the next morning. Luckily, the Bar/Brasserie des Alpilles had a bottomless supply of the grape nectar and a willing waiter to dispense it along with his opinions of the medicinal benefits of each different vineyard.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (or was it bleary-eyed and bushy haired??) off we went to Les Baux. The famed medieval fortress. Les Baux, was very beau, and very Haut. For some reason, I didn't connect the idea of a fortress was to protect an area from attack - usually from a high, really high, vantage point. Which translated into today's standards meant going up the cliff side of a mountain (mini or not) on little roads, usually resulting in some steep grades and switchback zigzags.

Going up wasn't too bad because, as Mom and Sona were admiring the scenery from such a high viewpoint, I was able to concentrate on the centre line. Going down however was a little more unpleasant, with little signs of "Rappel" (remember what?? cliff just over there? did you check your brakes lately? is the truck behind you going to run you over? are you going to fling the car over the edge using that stupid centrifugal force theory you learned back in grade 9?). With a motorcycle so close to my bumper that the rider could have burned his lips on my tailpipe, the first set of turns were executed little too quickly, resulting in frenzied mutterings of "Oh God, oh God, oh God, Charleen ! " from Mom in the back, and Sona gripping the handles on the upper side of the door, smiling that forced, reassuring fake smile you usually reserve for the dentist, and the contents of the car (that was us) jerked from one side to another as if we were on a Midway ride. But we survived and I slowed down enough to make it back down more or less safe and sound.

I blame my sore foot for not being able to tell how much pressure I was putting on the gas pedal.

Les Baux was really quite interesting with amazing views and had a candy store. Do I need to say more?

The afternoon was spent checking out the insane asylum where Van Gogh lived and painted 143 paintings in just over a year. Very calming and peaceful, if a bit freaky when you looked at some of the methods of treatments used.

Our final day in Saint Remy was market day. Almost the entire centre of the town was lined with vendors' tables, selling everything from blobs of gooey plastic to leather shoes to the more mundane artichokes the size of cantaloupes. Everywhere you turned, you were offered samples of cheese, sausage, antipasto, cookies and crackers.

Mom and Sona were in their element, trying them all and checking out the goods as well as the people's fashions. We bought some more scarves because everyone knows you can never have too many scarves (just like shoes). Bargains abounded. I even bought a spatula made from an olive tree. Now all we need to do is find a place for them in our already crammed suitcases.

Content with our purchases, we feasted on crepes and homemade ice cream. It was a good day.
Oh, as for the reference to the duck, it had to do with our second evening's dinner. I'd been talking about having duck for a couple of days, and decided that Saint Remy was the perfect place for it, it being in the countryside and all. Well, I ordered it. When my dinner came, I started to eat it. It was quite tasty and well prepared, unlike the other parts of the meal. After a couple of bites, I stopped and asked Mom and Sona what I'd ordered. They affirmed that I had, indeed, ordered duck. What I was munching on, however, was steak! We started to laugh, thinking that the cook in the back must have been commenting on the stupidity of des Americaines who didn't know the difference between duck and beef. I didn't care, I got a nice steak for the price of duck. Worked for me.

Quack, quack, moo.

Photos (but not much commentaries) of Saint Remy

Here is the link for the pics of Saint Remy.

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On the Road

The next morning, we three women (no, don't start singing Christmas carols), woke up and faux-cheerfully began our day with the necessities - coffee. After coffee, we examined the woe-begotten limb. What would be the final decision? Remain in Nice? Mom at the wheel? Carry on, like brave little soldiers, in search of new adventures, wine and good food?

With care, we decided that I could put pressure on the foot, so I could drive. We quickly packed up and set out for the rental agency. Our first hiccup was trying to find the car in the parking garage. O34 was the parking space, but no Ford Fiesta -- rather a large minivan. I so was not going to drive a minivan in France, let alone park it. So back we trooped to the agency.

A short time later, we were in the correct car, heading back to the apartment to load up. No parking space available. Now, you must understand that in Nice, you park anywhere. Double parking on the street, on corners, on half of the sidewalks and even in front of driveways. So, the street was completely full, not even the Smart car could have parked perpendicular to the sidewalk (which it did on a regular basis).

Mom and Sona were unceremoniously tossed out of the car to go up and bring down the baggage, while I circled the block. Once again, not as simple as it would seem. There are no real square blocks in Nice and many one-way streets which don't always put you back where you want to be. Fifteen minutes later, and three zigzagged circuits, I came around to find Sona in the middle of the road, ready to throw herself in front of any car that dared to try and park in that available spot. Triumphant, we quickly packed the luggage, pink worms included, into the car and set off. We were one hour ahead of schedule.

Mom had the large map and Sona had the Google instructions. We were Set. I missed the first turn onto the Promenade, but was ready for the second one. Cruising along the Promenade des Anglais made us feel oh-so cosmopolitan.

As the nice fancy mansions/hotels gave way to more utilitarian, graffiti-covered industrial centres, we tried to find the super-highway, A8. The highway that joins all of the South of France. Once again, not as easy as it would seem. Somehow, we ended up on a smaller highway (we forgot to turn off - not really clearly identified is my story and I'm sticking to it) heading in the exact opposite direction. After pulling off the highway, into a garden centre, asking an old man and his wife, listening until they both agreed upon the easiest way, turning around in a large Cosco-like commercial centre, crossing the highway and getting back on the same highway, only heading back into Nice, we finally were headed in the right direction.

Did you know that the speed limit on the Autoroutes in France is 130 kph? Did you know that a Ford Fiesta is pretty gutless in 4th and 5th gear, doing 120 kph? Every once and a while, the cars pull up to a toll booth and you either get a ticket. or you throw in coins. Mom and I had been collecting coins just for that reason. The first few tolls went smoothly, tossing the money and then setting off again. Then we hit the ticket portion. I dutifully collected the ticket and then at the next toll, I pulled up and was ready to pay with bills or coin. But there was no place to insert the money. So, out came the credit card, just like the pictographs showed. Rejected Visa. I had to get out of the car, skip across a couple of lanes to an attendant and explained my dilemma. With a laugh (guess it happens often, accepts only French cards, you know), the attendant followed me back and took my money.

We were on the road again, like a herd of turtles, chugging up and down the hills, and passing the slower trucks, with the odd reference to Thelma and Louise. Every once and a while, I'd check my rear view mirror and all that I could see was a map flapping in air and Mom's hands slapping it down, trying to fold up it up. Very difficult to pass a car when you can't see what's zooming up. So I'd have to wait until Mom succeeded in subduing the miscreant piece of paper.

With a couple of last-minute heated discussions about which direction to take, we managed to get off at the correct interchange for Saint Remy de Provence. One, two, three, four roundabouts and we were feeling pretty satisfied with ourselves. Then it was time to find the back route into Saint Remy. Note to self. Roads on Google maps appear larger than what they really are, AND, sometimes, the distances are off too.

After numerous wrong turns, several three-point turns under less-than-perfect circumstances, such as farmers' fields and roadside canals that act as ditches, we ended up on a dirt side road, heading towards an airfield. It was actually the ancient road the freaking Romans used to go to Arles! We flagged down a driver who told us to go back just one stop sign, turn left and keep going "tout droit". Until you come to civilization. But be very careful to stop at all the stop signs as it was "des petites routes".

Ten minutes later we arrived safe and sound, if somewhat frazzled, at our beautiful oasis of a hotel. I don't like petites routes any more than petites routes montagnes.

Parking is not high on my list of favorites either.

Tomorrow, the Chateau at Les Baux.

Shit happens

After a lovely and relatively relaxing two weeks in Nice, we are packing up and heading out of this wonderland of fresh fish, delicious Kir (that a mix of wine and cassis that is the aperitif du journey in Nice), and amazing shoes. Yes, even better than Venice. But more on that when I have more time.

Anyways, to set the stage -- dramatic pause -- we were almost done packing when we decided to take a pause and feed both us and the pigeons.. Off we headed to our favourite patisserie, which incidentally, also made great sandwiches. If we happened to notice a particularly succulent looking sweet, well, then it was just karma, wasn't it.

Delighted with ourselves we exited the store and decided to pick up some fruit from across the road. SEE? Sometimes eating heathy isn't always good for you. As I stepped off the curb, I checked for bikes, because they are perfidious.

And then my ankle, my right ankle, turned. I went down like a ton of bricks, Mom trying to hold me up, yelling my name over and over again. The instant after I fell, the first thing I did was to check again if there were any bikes approaching. I could just imagine the indignity of a trip to the French equivalent of Emergency and having to explain the bike tire marks all over my face. Not to mention that somehow I'd managed to roll around in the gutter. Thankfully, The Nicois wash their gutters every night, it was still relatively clean.

It's funny how your mind works when something unexpected happens. In this case, all I was interested in was getting up, because, let's face it,it's embarrassing rolling around in the gutter when you aren't drunk. As I tried to put pressure on my foot, it sent out a sharp reminder that something was wrong. So I decided to remain where I was for a minute so; Mom clucking around me, hitting the side of my head with the sandwich bag she was carrying. A very nice lady from the Sushi Shop (try saying that 10 times in a row) across the road came to my assistance and together, we managed to get me off the gutter on to a chair where I recovered enough to hobble home.

Mom went into nurse mode. Iced towels, formerly used to bring down the swelling on Mom's feet, were quickly applied with anxious enthusiasm. What was not taken into consideration until my pathetic yelping seeped in, was that while Mom can't feel too much in her feet, I was more than aware of my feet. Aleve was then shoved down my throat and dire threats of more injury to other parts of my body were issued if I dared move off the sofa.

Calm panic ensued as we discussed our options, if I couldn't drive the next morning. The car we'd rented was a manual. Mom hadn't driven a manual in 45 years. We could rent an automatic car and then she could have driven. Anyone else got that very cold finger of fear down their back?

We could throw ourselves on the mercy of the rental agency and stay in Nice until I recovered enough.

We were also supposed to pick up Sona from the airport bus that evening. Dare I send Mom alone? She had just figured out the four corners where we had staying for two weeks because of the close proximity to the patisserie. Could she be trusted to go twice as far (even though it was in a straight line) down to the Promenade and bring Sona back? I wouldn't have bet money.

In the end, after about four hours of ice and rest, I felt well enough to slowly walk down to the Promenade and collect Sona. After the stress had died down, I then had to listen to, over and over, how I was always telling Mom to be careful on uneven pavement, and I end up falling over a curb. Sona arrived and we had the pleasure of watching her joy at finally putting her feet in the Mediterranean Sea.

All would be well.

Did anyone notice how nice my pedicure still looks?

Brain Farts from the Beach

As Mom and I lay here on the beach, soaking up the sunshine and enjoying the salt water droplets drying on our backs, my mind slowly starts churning. Not the kind of hurried explosion of jumbled thoughts that normally crowd around in your brain when you pause to think, rather a lazy wallowing of one half formed thought sliding into another half-baked idea.

#1 Random Thought
Nice is white. No, I don't mean it in a racist way, I just mean that everywhere you look you see white. More specifically in the clothes. It seems that everyone, including the Locals wear white - from the standard vacation wear floaty Egyptian cotton white ensembles, to white polo shirts and white khaki pants, to full blown white suits. I guess that nobody's grandmother told them about the rule about not wearing white after Labour Day. Hey, maybe it's because they didn't have a Labour Day weekend, or maybe they just don't care because it is STILL summer hot here!

I've seen more Men From Glad around here than you would see in the psych wing at 99 Queen Street East (really old reference). Most of them really should not wear white, but I guess they think it enhances the look of their tan - it does, but only to accentuate the resemblance to Corinthian leather (another really old reference). They should also not wear patterned underwear (gentlemen, please take note) under very thin linen pants, I don't care if you are coming out of Hugo Boss for a smoke - not cool.

Another place you are blinded by the whiteness is on the beach, usually Monday afternoon or definitely on Tuesday morning. That's when the new crop of sunbathers arrive. They come in all sizes and from all Northern countries, pasty-white (Mom calls them sun virgins), sporting Speedos or the smallest bikinis imaginable, and hunker down for a good sunburn. Every once and a while, they'll roll over and groan as the stones dig into their tenderized flesh. And Then they decide to go in for a swim. Woefully unprepared for the shifting stones and the rolling waves, they quite often slip in knee-deep water and fall on their keesters, once again eliciting incomprehensible utterances. You don't often see them the next day.

We've decided that September must be "Be Nice. Send a Russian to Nice" month. (Couldn't help it, sorry.) Russians seem to outnumber all other nationalities, including Aussies and Japanese. And they love it! Russians are very exuberant about seeing the sun. Get two together and it's like having Big Dave at the Canada Day celebration - nonstop. They also, at times, remind me of Winnie the Pooh when he was eating honey; some are even just as hairy.

The ultimate 'White Russian' gentleman arrived at our little beach complete with his beach mat, beach towel and his special Speedo. It was more-or-less black (more less than more) except for a band down the centre front that looked like a ribbon on a present. Both Mom and I were NOT going to open that little bag of goodies! Except he kept swimming toward Mom, even as she was trying to get out of his way. I guess he was attracted to her big pink worm. Anyways, I managed to shove her to one side, and he trolled by. We quickly exited the water, more because Mom was laughing so hard, she was swallowing water, than from a chill. Don't think I'll ever order a White Russian drink again.

So many other white stories to tell, including the woman from Finland who didn't bring her water shoes that she used for winter swimming (?????!!!!! Yikes) to pinky young newlyweds, but that is enough for now.

#2 Random Thought

They say the traffic in Nice is terrible. all travel guides and personnel keep emphasizing that fact. As a result, all visitors constantly watch the cars expecting them to suddenly jump the curb and run them down. The "newbies" will wait patiently for 5 minutes for the light to change even though there long gaps in traffic; when it is their turn, they quickly run across the road and stand on the other side gasping, trying to catch their breath. That's when they are most at risk.

When you are warned about the traffic, it's not the cars, you have to be careful of, it is the BIKES (who have a dedicated lane just on the other side of the road) that will mow you down. And what is even more confusing is that while the roads in Nice are usually one way, the bike lanes are both ways. So you still have to do your gopher twist look before you step on the opposite side of the road. Running a light is not always a good idea.

Nice is where I have had the dubious honor of being cursed at by an elderly lady on an old fashioned bike. All because I didn't want her to run Mom over as we were trying to cross the road. Bikers can be quite aggressive here. Claire, I'm sure you saw that in Denmark.

In any case, enough of the thinking, I am beginning to get a headache.
I leave you with a lovely picture of a Bird of Paradise bush in full bloom.

Also, I've posted more pictures. You can ignore the first couple of pics, you have sen them before.
Check out the pic of the ferry from Corsica/Sardinia (toward the bottom). That huge ass ferry came into the port, did a 180 degree turn in that small enclosed area, and then backed into the spot with nary a chopped tire or squeak. Shortly after that, it disgorged a load full of camper vans and cars.

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Musings from Nice

It is very difficult -- relaxing. Society programs us to be always striving towards a goal, to always be on the go. And then you hit Nice and everything stops, proverbially dead in the water - and what a lovely body of water, the 'Baie des anges' or Bay of Angels, is. As you float along, checking out the tiny fish at the bottom of the sea, all of your stress seems to dissipate.

The cold rainy weather of Toronto seems to be very, very distant and of absolutely no importance.

We've been here almost a week now, and It's becomingly increasing more difficult to sit in front of the iPad and write down our escapades. It's not because we haven't had any, it just because we've been trying to enjoy them. Every day we have felt the need to have a plan, even though we are on vacation. So one day, we decided to do laundry, the next was finding the various bus station scattered throughout the city centre (not as easy as you would think) and the following day was culture day (visiting museums, etc.) as well as visiting the daily fruit market (Mom's personal favourite). Regardless of what was planned, unspoken was that we had to have our daily sea soak- returning to the womb, as you could call the sea. Bobbing in the sea like contented sea cows, admiring your feet is a fabulous way to spend your morning.

Laundry poses it's own difficulties. While our apartment has a washing machine, it creates a problem of how to dry the clothes without a dryer. At times, our apartment is strewn with assorted articles of clothing, ranging from tee shirts and pants right down to granny panties and bras. The temptation to hang the clothes on the balcony has been hard to resist but so far there are no intimate lingerie decorations. Towels are also problematic. Did you know that towels dry hard and scratchy as sandpaper. Rather rough on your tender parts, such as cheeks (I'll let you decide which cheeks).

The next day we visited the Matisse Museum, after figuring out the maze of bus lines. Bears a striking resemblance to spaghetti with nary a straight line to be found. Rocketing up the foothills of the baby Alps (les alpilles maritimes) we got off at a lovely villa surrounded by a grove of olive trees. A beautiful sight. Check out the photos. The exhibit of Matisse works was underwhelming but our lunch in the olive groves was lovely.

Entertainment was provided by a group of retired gentlemen who were playing a game called petanque (or bocci ball??). As we watched, we speculated that the game was really an excuse to get the men out from under their wives' feet. There were no women in the park, except for tourists but these men were enjoying their time outside. Petanque bears a striking resemblance to curling, Ann. You have two teams. The opposing team throws a tiny yellow ball down the playing area. If the ball doesn't go far enough, the thrower walks over and kicks it into the proper position. The objective of the game is to try to place your metal balls as close to the little yellow ball as possible. You are allowed to smash your opponent's balls out of scoring position. Please, no pee-pee jokes. However, Ann, as far as we could tell, there was no cussing or drinking involved, unlike some of the bonspiels about which you have told us. In fact, quite often, when this specific man missed his shot (which was quite often), the others were all very encouraging. Maybe it was because he held a heavy metal ball in his hand that he used to smash other balls, I can't say. You can decide.

Wandering down the boardwalk (Promenade des Anglais) also provides hours of entertainment. In the evenings, after dinner, we often wander there, watching most often the honeymoonin' couples, or as Mom says "love like dove". However, in the daytime, you see all kinds of sights. Shortly, after we arrived, we were walking down the boardwalk when the following unrolled before us. There is a company that rents Segways ???? Not sure of the spelling but they are the two-wheeled vehicles. Typically, they hire pretty young men and women to zoom around, demonstrating how easy it is to manoeuvre these machines. This time, a young woman was trying to convince this middle-aged man to rent the Segway. After a brief explanation, she let the man try it out. the first thing he did was run over his wife's foot and then proceeded to tip the machine over almost on top of the young woman. His wife was not amused, and in no uncertain terms, by hopping on her uninjured foot and slapping her husband on the arm. The end result was the young woman taking off on her Segway into the evening sun while the dutiful husband was listening attentively to his wife, probably wondering how much it was going to cost him.

I leave you with one final picture that Mom took. She's up to her old tricks again.

Photos of Nice

For more pics of Nice, see following link



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More to follow.

Nice - Relaxation to an Art Form

There's something about the sunshine, crystal blue sea and sky that lifts your spirits and makes your cares go away - just like a shot of Demerol. The problems are there, in the distance, but you don't give a damn.

After all, is this not the image of a perfect apartment?

What else do you need?



With our apartment so supplied, we were ready to embrace the Nice lifestyle. Off we went to the Monoprix to get the more mundane supplies, such as milk, butter, bananas. As usual, we bought more than what we'd gone for; however, this time we took Mom's wheelie bag for the heavier items. We can learn from our earlier mistakes.
We decided to buy a roasted chicken (a la Swiss Chalet) and a salad for our first "at home" meal. We were just about to check out when I went to get the chicken. As I turned back, there was Mom, with the same look as a kid who's been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Clasped to her heaving buxom was a bar of nougat. One glance at the stubborn look on her face and I gave in. What was one more bar of nougat when we already had four other bars of chocolate. I don't think that Mom believed my easy capitulation, because she wouldn't let go of the nougat bar. The poor cashier almost had to pry the bar from her clenched hands just to scan it. The nougat bar was then quickly retrieved and stuffed into Mom's purse, without a word.
I must add that Mom did share a piece of her nougat bar with me. Nanny taught her well.

The next day, we went out on a quest. A quest that proved almost impossible - to find Mom some worms. A word of explanation is needed, I suppose. Mom refers to the pool noodles (long styrofoam floaty thingies) as worms. She wanted one so she could float in the sea for her sea soak (and expend minimum energy). Anyways, we had checked out all the touristy stores along the newer part of Nice and not found them, although I'd found a pair of water shoes, a beach coverup and 2 towels.

To cheer Mom up, I took her to the market in the Old Nice, where she could touch the fruit. Apparently, the French are not as possessive about their peaches as the Italians are. We were wandering back when all of a sudden, my arm was almost wrenched out of my shoulder as Mom did a 180 degree turn and loudly exclaimed, "Worms!"
Nearby people jerked their heads around and then down before realizing that Mom meant the styrofoam version, not the squishy slimy ones. With a big grin, she handed two pink worms to me and proceeded to pat herself on the back (figuratively, not literally). Only four bystanders were in danger of being decapitated by a pink piece of styrofoam. Quick reflexes were all that stood between them and razor burn. As another piece of useless trivia, I have discovered that the French call them "frites" (fries). Leave it to the French to make a food reference to a piece of styrofoam.

We trotted off home with only a few near misses. I tried to keep to the open areas. Once home, we decided to have our sea soak. We were ready.

Off we trotted to the beach, worms in tow. Upon arrival, we settled in the only "sandy" beach in Nice. Some of you may not be aware, but Nice's beaches are not particularly nice. They are made of big stones, very uncomfortable stones to lie on. No sand here. Just smaller, screening-sized stones.

The large stones also make it very, very difficult to get into and out of the sea. Especially, when the sea is a bit rough and there are waves. Which happens every afternoon. We quickly discovered that with the incoming tide, there was also a good undertow. As Mom and I struggled to maintain our balance in the churning water, it quickly became evident that someone was going to get hurt, either by tumbling into the water as the tide sucked the feet from under you, or when you attempted to get out, the waves would spit you back on to the rocks like the rejected olive pits so liked by Nicoise cuisine. With visions of beached and bloodied whales, Mom and I reconsidered our options and decided to retreat.

Our first sea soak had only reached our thighs.

Disappointed but resolute, we gathered up our pink worms and assorted paraphernalia and returned home.
A Kir drunk under a canopy helped reduce our disappointment.

The next morning, bright and early, we returned to the beach and successfully launched the worms. Our sea soak in the azure blue sea was everything we had been dreaming about.

Just chillin' in Nice

Arrived safe and sound in Nice. Managed to (1) get on the right bus into downtown Nice; (2) make contact with rental agent, Jane, using a MOBILE phone; and (3) not lock myself out of the apartment.

You may laugh, but, as you can recall, it's not impossible.

As it was, we almost missed our rendez-vous ('cause we are in France , you know) with Jane. Her instructions were to get off at the Promenade-Congres stop. Apparently, French bus drivers are competing for the same record as their Italian counterparts, and cars, pedestrians, and scooters only add spice to the attempt. Bus stops whizzed by faster than lingerie on a honeymoon but we persevered and descended at the correct stop.

We were told to look for a woman in white with blue rubber sandals, carrying an umbrella. I, in turn, told her to look for a woman wearing a fedora. Not really that difficult seeing as it had been raining and Mom and I were the only ones on the boardwalk with suitcases. Apparently, it was, as I spied her looking at the bus, without noticing us. What really drew my attention was the baby blue CROCS she was wearing. The new symbol of the American invasion. Really didn't go with the white cotton ensemble and huge English umbrella that could have provided protection for an entire soccer team.

The apartment is quite different from Venice, all modern, white, grey, and beige, with red accent pieces. Apparently, ithe owner is a fashion designer who works out of Milan. but doesn't have the Venetian flair for "fine art". It is just up from the main drag, and is quieter than most areas, not as quiet as Italian countryside quiet, but quiet for Nice standards.

And it is just around the corner from a boulangerie shop where we can buy our fresh bread and croissants.
And is is just off a street that has the most amazing (aka expensive) shoe shops. Sigh.
And it is just over a Peugeot scooter agency!

Will tell you more and provide pics next time. And if you haven't seen the rest of the Venice photos, check ou this link

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A teaser for next time --- Mom got worms.

Venice - The finale, Part Deux

The fat lady hasn't finished singing, so we haven't yet left Venice.

Our bags were packed and off we sailed to the bus station. We needed a ticket to the airport, kind of. Our overnight hotel was closer to the airport BUT where was the the burning question. Off we started, after having a discussion about whether we should go directly to the airport and then "rent a car". At least it was daytime and we could see where to go. That, was not necessarily a good idea. Our driver was obviously more interested in surpassing the fastest land speed record for buses. After the requisite hairpin corners that flung the occupants around like bowling pins and luggage being strewn around like rice at a wedding, we left the limits of Venice and headed down a country road which doubled as the main route to the international airport.

The bus continued down the way, and completely by accident, we saw the sign for our hotel. A screeching halt and we were left by the road, abandoned without even a "Ah, there it is" or even an "arrivederci".

Luckily there was very little traffic and we crossed the road and up the gravel driveway to our bed and breakfast inn. The absence of noise was quite deafening even though we had thought that our garden house was quiet. We were now in the Italian countryside, complete with a mixed up rooster that kept crowing throughout the day. But it was beautiful.
If only we had a car.

As intrepid adventuresses (?????), we rested and then headed back into Venice (aside - Did you know that you have to flag down the buses in Italy? Felt like Scarlett o'Hara waving at the cotillion to one really big suitor.) for one final dinner and to meet up with Liz and her mother. Don't you just love the symmetry?

A couple glasses of wine, great food, fabulous desserts and fantastic company in magnificent Venice made for a very good evening indeed. It was somewhat surreal, meeting Liz in a place so totally opposite to School, but we remained strong and steadfast in our determination to enjoy ourselves under such adverse conditions. Liz and her mother also have had some adventures, but that is for Liz to recount. Suffice to say, I only managed to lose a hat and an adaptor.

Back on the bus we toddled. It sure was a different experience in the evening. It was dark, really dark, dark as in no-streetlights-dark. Luckily, we had memorized some landmarks - before the town limits of Tessera, after the Avis car rental place, and across from the Jeep dealership. Try saying that in Italian. However, our second bus driver proved to be a bit more proficient and once again we were deposited by the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere.

The next morning we were up bright and early. Interestingly enough, the rooster didn't crow. As experienced travelers, we flagged down the proper bus and headed off to the airport.

We flew Darwin Airlines, or as they are more commonly known as "Fly Baboo". I don't remember the last time that I flew in a turbo prop airplane. Only about 60 other brave souls accompanied us into a small plane that was decorated with bright orange flowers reminiscent of the VW camper vans from the 60's. Talk about reassuring. However, it did the job quite nicely and even provided a good lunch (fresh ham and cheese sandwich, drink and cookie). I thought only positive thoughts and never once considered the condemned man's final meal allusion.

Thus ended our Italian portion of our journey to enlightenment.

So far, we have discovered:
Wine can help survive anything.
Chocolate in the morning is a good thing.
Strong cafe con latte can brighten any day.
People survive on pure dumb luck every day.
The sun shining in Venice and Nice is very, very nice.

On the road again

Just a quick note to let you know that we have left Venice more or less intact and have settled in Nice for the next couple of weeks. We'll bring you up to date with our earth shaking adventures and careening through the Italian countryside in the dead of night. Will also, hopefully, upload more photos in the next few days.
Until then,

Doing quite nicely in Nice.

Venice -the finale

Our last few days in Venice were less eventful, maybe.

The weather continued to shine on us, so much so that we had to have afternoon siestas (yes, I know, that's a Spanish tradition) but we are quite flexible. In fact, we had to in order to make it to suppertime. After getting a number of disgusted looks and resigned sighs, we quickly learned not to ask for dinner before 7:00 p.m. So we just had to go to a neighboring square or cafe and start pre-drinking. Youngsters will know what that custom is.

Mom quite enjoyed her sip of Muscati or Reciotto and watching the world go by. Although, the Reciotto did give her a very rosy outlook on life. We played our favorite game of guessing who came from where and who was the most ridiculous-looking. We saw a woman wearing beige leggings that bore a striking resemblance to that fine piece of art on the wall of our apartment, only less agreeable - talk about 20 pounds of potatoes stuffed into a 10 pound bag. I am sure that Dave could have given us the stress stats if he'd been able to look at her long enough. We couldn't, but we giggled.

And how about this fine specimen.

While wandering through the campos, I got Mom to sit down beside three other ladies. I then asked if they minded me taking the picture. They were very enthusiastic and one even mentioned that she had a nephew in Montreal. Then one pulled out a pen and paper and wrote down her address - her postal address, not email. Not sure it will get there, but I'll try. Here it is:

Bet you can't tell who is who.

All this is not to say that there was peace and harmony in the Gardener's house. Quite the contrary. Mom was up to her tricks again. First, she tried to feed me granola that came with extra protein - ants. I guess you couldn't leave sweet things out. Mosquitos weren't the only insects around. she did admit that she tried to pick them out, however, there were too many. That's when I decided to have breakfast at the cafe just outside our front entrance.

And then there was the time she took my eye mask and put it in the freezer, to cool it, down. Ever had an icepack slapped on your eyes, then have to try and bend it to the contours of your face? When I protested, quite vocally I might add, she excused her actions with "Oh, I was wondering why you could have the frozen mask on your eyes for so long, it would have hurt me". I advised her through gritted teeth that you put the eye mask in the FRIG, not FREEZER to cool it down. I think that I must have been the only person in Venice to be suffering from frostbite that night. She just laughed, "Ohhhh".

And this is even after I was rubbing her feet and legs every night as well as putting frozen toilets on her ankles. Some gratitude. That's my mom.

But revenge is sweet, even when not intentional. Or, Karma is a bitch.

Did you know that Mom is very uncomfortable in tight spaces? The only way up the bell tower at San Giorgio Maggiore, is in a little elevator that holds six people. Add four Frenchmen and you have a very nervous Mommy. I could tell by the certain wildness in her eyes and the way she kept looking around for an exit. She did survive. The view was magnificient. (Of course, the battery in my camera died.) And we did not have to share the elevator with anyone else on the ride down.

Did you know that Mom doesn't like going on boats in rough water? I didn't .... honestly. The next day, we decided to visit murano, the island where they make the glass. After shoving her on the Vaporetto, I then realized that the trip would take us around the tip of Venice, past the Lido island, into open sea. It got a bit rough, but she survived. As a reward for not getting sick all over me, I fed her gelato - Mom will do just about anything for a gelato.