Tom & Lynn's Excellent Adventure

Sunday, May 25

After traditional Sunday Bloody Marys and a sumptuous breakfast, we took the 5 bus up the hill to Cimiez Park to discover that a party had broken out.

This was nothing like the quiet park we expected to stroll through watching the old men play pétanque.

Thousands of Nicoise families roamed the park among dozens of food trucks, two stages, games for kids and booths selling Nice crafts and t-shirts. It was not only Mother’s Day in France but the Fete des Mai, a series of festivals each Sunday inside Cimiez Park surrounded by the Roman ruins, the Matisse Museum, the monastery and its gardens, now in full bloom.

We heard no English spoken anywhere around.

We took in the sights, walked through the gardens, now in full bloom, grabbed a plate of socca fresh from the wood fired oven and sat under the shade sharing a cold beer from the permanent concession stand. It was a perfect way to enjoy a perfectly beautiful Sunday in late May in Nice.

No need for narrative. Just gaze and wonder.

Grasse, historic perfume capital of the world, was on our list of day trips, so we walked over to the train station, where I attempted to purchase tickets on the self-help kiosks. But my C-A card would not work on any machine I tried. This was a sign that the card was going bad for some strange reason.

So we walked into the SNCF office where the agent punched out two round-trip tickets for 25 euros, less than the machines or the Internet quoted. The agent himself noted the lower price with raised eyebrows. Somehow he was able to get my C-A debit card to work, but clearly I needed to visit the bank for help.

The ride to Grasse takes an hour and seven minutes. The route goes along the Med coast then turns north at Cannes for the quick climb up the hills to Grasse. Just outside the train station is a bus stop where the shuttle takes visitors straight to the International Perfume Museum, just around the corner from the huge Fragonard factory, the last major perfume factory still operating in Grasse.

The museum also overlooked the Grasse Christmas market, which resembled the one at St. Jean Cap-Ferrat, so we had no interest in visiting that. Perfume was our ambition this last day of 2024.

The museum covers the science and the history of perfume from samples of actual plants used to make the stuff to a well organized historical tour from antiquity to the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, 19th century and right up to our own centuries. It is interactive for both kids and adults, offering displays where we could smell certain plants and their fragrances that go to make perfumes. There is an actual garden of orange trees and other perfume-generating plants on the first level, all within a climate-controlled greenhouse.

Some of the historical displays included Marie-Antoinette’s travel kit that consisted of nearly 100 tiny bottles of potions; a mummified hand from ancient Egypt that somehow related to perfume; and a working still that demonstrated modern perfume manufacturing.

The museum also covers the business of perfume, including the design of bottles, the marketing of the most famous brands, and a host of objects that relate to the decorative arts and industry. In fact, the museum its quite a bit larger than we had anticipated. We spent nearly three hours there and were quite hungry by the time we walked out.

After a desultory lunch at a bistro called Bella Napoli near the bus stop, we took the shuttle back to the train station earlier than we really needed to, skipping the tour of Fragonard. The town deserves a bit of exploring, and now that we know, we will give it more time next visit. Including a tour of Fragonard.

Delta managed once again to guarantee us a miserable, torturous trip home. We rose at 6 a.m. Nice time and would not get home until midnight Central time, a transit of more than 24 hours.

Our original reservations were on a Delta flight from Paris to Atlanta with a two-hour layover before the final leg home. But, as Delta is wont to do, the schedule changed at least three times. 

Delta overseas flight 85 became Air France flight 32. The layover in Atlanta went from two hours to three hours to four hours, so our flight home would not leave until 11 p.m. and arrive in New Orleans about midnight. No matter how many times I looked for alternative arrangements, nothing showed up without taking a 6 a.m. flight from Nice, which was worse.

The Air France flight from Nice actually left on time and arrived on time at a real gate in Charles de Gaulle airport, as opposed to waiting for 30-45 minutes on the tarmac for a gate to become available, the usual procedure.

Charles de Gaulle Airport is truly a wonder of the world, the most inefficient airport ever designed by man, in this case mad French architects. The mile walk from our arrival gate was just the beginning. We arrived at Terminal 2E  but that means nothing, as we had to walk at least another mile to the central transfer point and through passport control. Then we walked another mile to—of course—board a shuttle bus that drove through the bowels of CDG for at least 15 minutes before arriving at Terminal 2M, where we walked another half mile to our actual gate.  From the time our boarding passes were printed in Nice to the time we boarded our flight to Atlanta, we had been assigned to three different CDG gates, finally M28, which of course was all the way at the end of the concourse.

The boarding process was reasonably sane, but as usual we were passed through the inside gate to walk down the jetway only to wait another 10 minutes or more to before we could actually board the plane.

I had upgraded our seats to Premium Economy on Delta, which on Air France is more or less the same thing. The seats were pods that had adjustable footrests, leg support and sliding recline, as opposed to the usual lean back recline that crushes the poor sods sitting in the row behind.

We took off only about 15 minutes late, and we found two bottles of water waiting for us at our seats. Once airborne, we were offered a glass of champagne, a nice gesture. Within an hour, our first drinks were served, and the wine was reasonably good.  It was about 4:30 local time.

Dinner came out, and I had to admit it was pretty good by airline standards. We both had beef and pasta, and both of our meals came with a dish of potatoes and peas. Camembert and a delicious chocolate torte rounded out the meal.

All the food and beverage carts rolled out from the front where Business Class was seated, so naturally, we figured that the 32 of us in Premier Economy and the 16 or so in Business were sharing the same facilities. Not so.

When I walked forward to return my wine glass, I was told to march all the way to the back of the plane, because this galley was strictly for Business Class, as was the bathroom. Now remember, all the carts and service had come from the front, so naturally I assumed the dishes should go back where they came from. Not to be.

The pretty French flight attendant did graciously let me use the bathroom up there in the hallowed space, since she noted it was empty. But I still had to work my way through more than 200 passengers on a completely full flight all the way to the tail of the airplane to give back the empty glass that had originally come from the front. Go figure.

For our pre-landing snack, they passed out boxes of multiple items: a tasteless soft cake, a another cake with chocolate chips, liquid yogurt in a tiny plastic bottle, a squeeze container of applesauce, a piece of hard bread wrapped in plastic, carrot puree that looked like baby food, all of it unpalatable after six hours of flying.

And then we entered the U.S. We found that Atlanta’s passport control has improved, and we whizzed through the four Global Entry machines in no time. You don’t even show your passport anymore. And then you wait on luggage to arrive. 

Despite what I had been told by Delta, there was no way to try for the 8 p.m. flight back to New Orleans, even though we had time to get there. So we were forced to wait nearly four hours in the Delta lounge. At that point he had been in transit nearly 20 hours, and we were approaching exhaustion.

After a few stiff drinks, I started to feel somewhat human again, and soon enough we were at the gate to board our final leg home. Of course, the seats I had originally selected were no longer there, because Delta had switched aircraft (“equipment” in airline lingo) to an ancient, cramped Boeing 757.

Instead of a two-seat row at the exit, we were directed to a three-seat row in front of the bulkhead where a sailor in uniform was sitting in my seat. Rather than argue, I just squeezed into the middle seat and listened to him sing out loud the entire flight home.

Once back in New Orleans, as cold as it had been in Nice, we jumped into the taxi that we were directed to, whereupon the driver tried to scam me by saying a trip out to the Lakefront cost $36 plus the meter. When I called BS and threatened to get out of the car and alert the dispatcher, he quickly corrected himself, and off we went into the darkness of midnight.

Welcome home.

Another gray, cold, misty day in Paris, so we were ready to pack up and head to Orly airport early to catch our flight back home to Nice. I could understand why Hemingway abandoned Paris for Key West a century ago. We had to check out by 10:30 a.m. anyway, so the desk called a taxi for us, and off we went into the choked traffic of central Paris.

But it didn’t take long to clear out of the central Paris traffic and head toward Orly, which we reached in less than an hour. Since we had never flown out of Orly, I wanted to have time to scope it out anyway, in case Orly turned out to be a smaller version of Charles de Gaulle.

Orly is anything but. The departure lobby is spacious and quiet, so the queues to the EastJet check-in desks were empty. A helpful agent pointed us toward security, since we could go straight there with only our carry-on bag.

And lo and behold–something I have never seen since 9/11. A completely empty security line. We were waved through so fast, I forgot to take out the clear plastic baggie of toiletries. No one said a word. We walked through in seconds.

And then there we were in Section B adjacent to C, D and E. Just like that. We had not been inside the airport a full 30 minutes, and here we were, past security with nearly three hours to kill. On to the Priority Pass lounge for some free snacks and wine.

Except that Priority Pass lounge is in Section A, and we would have to leave the secure space, find A, then go back through security twice to get to the lounge. As fast as our first encounter was, I didn’t want to press out luck. So we stayed in Section B, where we ordered late morning brunch warmed in a microwave. And actually, it wasn’t bad. (Later I would learn that our bank, Credit-Agricole suspected fraud and deactivated my card. I would have to visit the bank to make the fix.)

Still with some two hours to wait, we found a “relaxation station” one floor above, a lounge in every aspect except the food and beverages. But it was comfortable, quiet and offered a nice view of the airport below. We settled in.

The flight was also a first–EasyJet was on time. We boarded with the Speedy Boarding swells, settled in our seats and soared over a solid bank of clouds that did not break up until we reached the Med.

Once again, a 90-minute flight pretty much took up the entire day. By the time we got off the tram at Garibaldi and walked home, it was 4 p.m., and we had left our hotel at 10 a.m. We vowed to take the train next time. It also takes six hours, and we would save nearly 100 euros on taxi fares, since train stations are in the middle of cities.

Back home, I searched for a restaurant where we could make reservations, but at 5 p.m. nothing was open yet. I did make a reservation for Saturday at Atelier du Carnivore as I made the circuit all around Old Town from Comptoir du Marche to Casa Tua to the Indian Lounge, all of which were still dark.

Unable to make a reservation in advance, we struck out about 6 p.m. for Casa Tua, where the proprietor welcomed us and reserved a table for 7:15. Then it was down the street for a pre-dinner cocktail at the Sailor’s Pub.

Casa Tua turned out to be a find. Lynn ordered the aglenotti with ricotta and I had the ravioli with rich, meaty daube. With a delicious bottle of Cotes de Provence (all of which we really did not need), and a dessert of excellent creme brulee, we agreed that Casa Tua is now on our list of favorites. We’ll be back.

The next day “dawned,” to extend an expression, cold, gray and rainy, a more typical winter day in Paris.

Fortunately we had made our visit to Notre Dame and our walk through the Tuileries the day before into cold sunshine, so a rainy day would not kill our plans. But it would prevent us from standing in line at major museums like L’Orangerie or Musee D’Orsay, so I opted for a smaller, less popular museum, Musee de Cluny.

Cluny is the medieval museum of Paris, housed in what was once a 1st century AD Roman bath and a late 15th century mansion built as the private residence of the abbots of Cluny. Apparently, it was good to be an abbot a half millennium ago.

Established as a museum to the Middle Ages in the 19th century, Musee de Cluny offers 22 galleries of sculpture, paintings, stained glass, gold, tapestries and illuminated manuscripts organized in chronological order. All of the rooms have English language explanations, and many of the individual exhibits themselves do as well.

Cluny was extensively renovated two years ago and is definitely not the same place we visited back in 2015. It is now much brighter and more organized. Best of all, they have added two full galleries of objects from Notre Dame cathedral, the first (Room 5) showcasing the statuary remnants that have been discovered ever since the French Revolution right up to 20 years ago. The second gallery, Room 22 at the very end, displays manuscripts and books from Notre Dame that survived the French Revolution, mostly by being hidden in private homes and far away from Paris.

It’s almost worth going to Cluny before you visit Notre Dame, because you see so many fragments of the church that are long gone or have since been reproduced over the last couple of centuries. The 19th century architect Violette-le-Duc plays a key role in the discovery and reconstruction of many of the fragments. He, of course, is also the architect who designed the Notre Dame spire in its 19th century renovation.

The layout of the museum is also very well thought out, with the cafe situated at the end of the first level of galleries, so foot-weary visitors can relax with a light lunch and a glass of wine before launching upstairs to see the second half of the museum. Musee de Cluny is the perfect way to spend a good three hours or more on a rainy day in Paris soaking up history.

From our hotel, it was only a short walk to the Cardinal Lemoine Metro station, so we were able to navigate without getting too wet in the light drizzly rain. Our room at the St. Christophe was a blessed, warm refuge from Paris winter.

After a reasonable rest, I walked out to find a small bottle of wine and make dinner reservations at a little place in the next block, Cafe du Marche. It is strictly a neighborhood place that served solid food, a very good hamburger for Lynn and passable fish and chips for me. And like any decent French restaurant, they offered an attractive wine list from which I ordered a delicious bottle of Cotes du Rhone.

All in all, we felt like we made the best of a dreary, wet cold day in Paris.
Our quest had been fulfilled.

It’s cold in Paris. But not as cold as it is in New Orleans, which is little consolation.

But I had scored reserved tickets at 11 a.m. to see Notre Dame, and the temperature was not going to be an issue.

We walked down rue Monge to the Seine, crossed the bridge behind the cathedral, and turned up the north side to view the souvenir shops and the large panels that still stand explaining the monumental process of saving and restoring the world’s most famous church.

And then we reached the plaza in front of Notre Dame and found the lines to enter. They were separated into reserved lines and non-reserved lines. It was about 10:30, but there was no one in the reserved line at all, and we were waved right through. At that time, there was hardly anyone in the general admission line either, so effectively there was no wait for anyone to enter at 10:30 a.m.

And just like that we walked in.

The first sight almost brought tears to both of us. The cathedral soared above and ahead of us, brilliant in new paint, cleansed stone, light pouring through salvaged stained glass windows, a glorious impression of renewal and restoration. We joined the hundreds of fans gazing upward and forward taking it all in at first blush and taking photos as fast as we all could.

The tour runs clockwise from the main entrance, so the crowds are directed down the north side toward the transept, then the ambulatory around the rear and back down the south side toward the entrance.

I splurged 12 euros for the audio guide, which offered short histories of the major elements of the church, from the exterior entrances and gargoyles to the interior side chapels, transept, nave and ambulatory. The guide was a bit distracting but most informative. We worked our way around the cathedral, stopping at the main points where everyone else did the same. The rose windows at the transept, the altar, the creche, the crown of thorns display (now encased in a brand new golden reliquary), the Pieta were all choke points for movement. We carefully worked our way through and around the throngs, but once past those, the tour was relatively easy to walk, and there were plenty of chairs to sit and gaze.

We made the circuit, but I wasn’t ready to leave. So we delivered our audio guides back to the desk and started the tour once again, this time paying more attention to the side altars (always my favorite parts of old churches) and avoiding the traffic jams at the choke points. We found chairs for sitting and gazing, then walked around to complete our second circuit before passing through the doors again and to the cold outdoors.

We agreed that an SYC burgee photo inside the church might be a bit tacky aka profane, so we hailed a fellow tourist to do the honors outside. She turned out to be a well dressed American tourist who had just left Notre Dame, so language was not a barrier. In fact, we saw them later outside the Louvre, walking in the same direction as we were.

And did we walk. Now it was time for the long trek from Notre Dame across Isle de la Cité to the Right Bank and on to the Louvre where we would access the Tuileries and the stroll down to Place de la Concorde, about a 2.5 mile stroll.

We found the Louvre and stopped for a moment and a photo of me in front of St. Germain-l’Auxerrois, the exquisite relatively small Gothic church where my ancestor Anne Francoise Rolland was baptized in 1699 (or so) before she was shipped off to Louisiana by her father for being a rebellious girl. Her tale is told in a history called “Mutinous Women,” which I heartily recommend.

But onward for us.

As we walked down rue du Rivoli, we slowed down at each of the dozens of souvenir shops for Lynn to search for earmuffs that she left behind in our hotel a year ago. We had seen none on rue Mouffetard where she bought the original pair, and we had seen none in any of the shops we searched. Until the moment when one small rack of earmuffs appeared in a souvenir shop run by Asians. (Actually, most of them are run by Asians, so that in and of itself was not a big deal.) And for five euros, the same price we paid years ago. Apparently Bidonomics has not affected the Chinese souvenir economy the way it has the U.S.

We entered the Louvre at the Pyramid, where the queues were completely empty. At first I thought everyone had gone to Notre Dame until I realized that the Louvre is closed (like most museums) on Tuesdays. Inside, however, was a film crew shooting something or other, so the Pyramid itself was not empty.

And then it was down the windy Tuileries and lunch at the cafe where we could sit inside out of the breeze and in the warmth of the floor heating. Lynn and I shared a charcuterie board, and for some unfathomable reason I ordered a side of frites, even though the board came with a large serving of roasted potatoes. Don’t ask.

Musee L’Orangerie was closed, because it was Tuesday, so we simply walked out to Place de la Concorde past the crews de-constructing the Christmsas market and down to the Metro for a ride home.

But wait, there’s more. After a quick afternoon nap, we walked down rue Lacepedes to Jardin des Plantes for their version of Celebration in the Oaks sans oaks. They do this every year, and this year was Jurassic. What fun, even in the cold.

Terronia had confirmed our dinner reservation, so we felt confident that it would be open. We walked in to hugs from Lino, who directed us to a small table near the front, but we asked for the table nearest the kitchen so we could enjoy the show. And they put on quite a show.

Unfortunately, Lino was working the entire front of the house in a full restaurant because his staff called in sick after a week off for the holiday. So while the kitchen worked, Lino scrambled around trying to take orders and serve tables at the same time. It took us several minutes to get water and several more to get wine. They were all ready to take our food order, but we refused until we could get our wine and relax.

In the meantime, they served us a small amuse bouche of scallop over a green sauce, then another serving of salami. As time went on and we still had no wine, the kitchen came out with yet another amuse bouche, this one a tiny morsel of langoustine, just delicious. Finally Lino dashed out with a bottle of Sangiovese, which just happened to come from the little village of Montalcino. That meant it was a little brother of the glorious Montalcino wines, and it tasted just splendid.

Finally, our plats came out. Lynn had ordered the tagliatelle with veal, and I had the linguini with calamari. Both were hearty and delicious. The food looks small in the deep pasta bowls, but it was all I could do to finish my order, and Lynn left some behind.

In the meantime, while we all waited, a mother and her son sat down next to our table, and we struck up a conversation. It turned out that he is a golf coach at a huge 64-hole resort in Paris. His name is Gregory Buisson, and he spoke fine English. His mother, considerably older but likely younger than us, tried her best to speak English and wanted to, but it is very hard to learn a new language at a more “mature” age. We can speak to that ourselves.

Nevertheless we enjoyed a friendly conversation and exchanged contacts. I offered to host him at the Zurich Classic, and he offered to host me at his club.

As we finished our dinners, Lino came out with a plate of his special Christmas cake, a soft cross between sponge and angel food cake with fruit and chocolate mixed in, then covered with powered sugar. It should be illegal.

January 6–King’s Day

Why is it that no matter how long or short the trip, it takes all day to get there?

We got up early and left the apartment at 11 a.m. for the short 90-minute flight to Paris. By the time we closed the door on the apartment, we knew our EasyJet flight was late. I’ve never taken one that was on time.

First is was a half hour late. By the time we reached the Nice airport less than an hour later, the flight had picked up time and was only 15 minutes late. But by the time we entered the lounge, the flight was 45 minutes late. And so it was.

So we ate the light lunch, had a couple of glasses of wine and waited. Finally, we walked down to our gate once it was posted, only to find long lines already standing and waiting. So I stood and waited while Lynn sat and waited.

EasyJet’s boarding procedure consists of two extended lines of passengers, one for “Speedy Boarding,” the other for the peeps not so privileged. For some reason, I was assigned Speedy Boarding, but Lynn was not. The agent at check-in said Lynn could board with me regardless.

The boarding procedure is this: first you wait in line, then you are summoned to pass through the first entrance to scan your boarding pass, then you wait in another line in a room adjacent to the gate. Then you are called into the plane, half through the rear and out in the weather, the front half thought the jetway. For this boarding, everyone went through the jetway, perhaps because the weather was foggy and misty.

The flight itself was uneventful, and we landed 45 minutes late in Paris, right on time EasyJet style. The walk from our gate to the exit was a good mile, even though we did not have to go through passport control. Finally, we were out in the gathering darkness and jumped into a waiting taxi. The taxi fare from Orly to the Left Bank is 36 euros, the same as New Orleans. To the Right Bank, it is 44, and that is what the driver punched into his meter.

When we arrived at the hotel, now in darkness, I pointed to the diagram that clearly marked our fare to be 36, to which he apologized and changed the meter. I strongly suspected he had punched in 44 deliberately, figuring two stupid Americans would never notice the difference.

Our hotel is fine, a three-star with tiny rooms and bare service. But the location is great, and the desk clerk was most friendly. And the price is right.

I walked out to Nicholas to buy a bottle of wine for the room and found it closed. It was Monday. So I turned the other way down rue Monge and found a nice little independent wine shop open. The friendly, English-fluent proprietor directed me to s bottle of Chinon, 100% Cabernet Franc, that was somewhat over my price point but I bought it anyway to celebrate our short Parisian stay.

And then it was off to dinner, or so we thought. As we were leaving the room, I received an e-mail that our reservation for Wednesday at La Forge had been canceled. No reason was given.

Regardless, we walked around the corner a few blocks to Terronia to find it closed and mostly dark. The little sign in the doorway listed closed days as Sunday and Monday, and today was Monday January 6. Later I found their web site that stated they were closed for conges until February 7. We were striking out. And we were hungry.

I later learned via e-mail that the father of the La Forge owner had died, and the restaurant would be closed all week. I offered my condolences and promised to come back when we return to Paris in May. But that didn’t help for dinner Monday January 6.

So off to rue Mouffetard we went, in the hope and expectation that Tournbride would be open. And it was. I had the hearty beef cheeks and potatoes, while Lynn enjoyed their excellent duck confit. As we ate, a family four Americans sat down next to us, and we started a conversation about what to order. The parents had the same dishes we did, and their boys wanted hamburgers.

They related that they are on a two-year round-the-world trip with their sons. They live in Austin but are both from Florida so we had plenty to chat about. They are home schooling the boys, who are gaining an inestimable worldwide education that cannot be duplicated in a classroom.

We walked back home all the way up to Place Contrascarpe where the restaurants were packed with students enjoying an evening of fun before classes begin again the next day. The street is being torn up (a familiar sight to us), as the government greens it up with large planters to one side and the auto lanes restricted to a single lane. From what we could see, it would be a very attractive conversion.

December 31–New Year’s Eve.

Other than errands–Monoprix, fish market, Cours Saleya–we spent a quiet day in anticipation of our dinner at Citrus.

But first, we visited our bank to discuss my dead or at least dying bank card. Our young, enthusiastic banker couldn’t figure out why my card wasn’t working, so he gave a temporary card–15-minutes!–to retrieve a bunch of cash from our account while we wait on the replacement card to arrive. Unfortunately, the timing is bad-the replacement card will not arrive until we are in Paris, so he set me up with a virtual card on my phone. And it worked!

Our dinner at Citrus did not disappoint. We started with a glass of sparkling St. Germain to accompany the amuse bouche of cauliflower compote and a perfectly fried shrimp tempura.

The next course followed, duck liver with ginger, apple and lime, served with a fruit bun. And not to be missed was the scallops in a shell, vegetables and butter thaï spices that were served as a separate appetizer.

Finally the plats came out, for me braised deer fillet (back strap), cognac sauce, ruby mashed potatoes, and for Lynn turbot fillet braised with saffron beurre blanc sauce, black rice and soybeans. Both were delicious, although Lynn found one of her fish sections underdone to her taste.

And then it was dessert, three different tastes: a custard with a small cake embedded and colored red on top with tiny sparkles; a scoop of pistachio ice cream and a third element that was equally wonderful.

As we walked out, I tried to make our reservation for 2025.

Part of the enjoyment of Citrus was sitting at the window watching people walk back and forth, all dressed up for a festive occasion. Women were in their finest, some without bothering to wear a coat over their spangly outfits. The atmosphere was a celebration.

We walked out toward the Promenade to view the scene and were somewhat surprised to see that it was relatively quiet compared to the streets where groups of young people in their finest were gathered at bars and clubs celebrating the start of the new year ahead.

January 1–Very quiet day, naturally. Lynn fixed eggs for breakfast and we took a long walk down to the Christmas market to find it closed a day early. That was disappointing, because we wanted one last visit, our fifth this season. But not to be.

So we walked down rue Massena, a pedestrian mall lined with shops and restaurants, the latter of which were open and doing a brisk businees, the former of which were almost universally closed. Then we turned and walked the other way toward MAMAC to find Monoprix surprisingly closed as well. By then we were ready for a late lunch about 1:30, so we stopped at Pitadine, which I had predicted would be open.

Indeed they were open and crowded. We took a small table upstairs one space removed from a couple with a very large dog sitting under their tiny table.

As we waited for our order to arrive, both our phones buzzed with the message about the terror attack in New Orleans. The restaurant had poor reception, so we could pick up only the barest of the news. After sharing a meaty assiette, we hustled home to read and watch the tragic news. It was all over the television stations, BBC, Sky, CNN, even the English version of France 24 News. And it was all depressing.

For dinner, we had planned to cook the daurade I had bought earlier at the St. Francois fish market. But when Lynn opened the bag, she discovered that the fish had not been filleted and was whole except for the head that I had specifically asked to be cut off. It was my fault for not being more careful, but out went the un-filleted fish. Instead we ate leftovers from our New Year’s dinner. Still, the leftover steak from Atelier du Carnivore was pretty good, especially with the potatoes dauphinoise gratin from the rotisserie next door to LAC.

We didn’t starve.

January 2

We started our day catching up with the tragic news from home. The death count rose, the perp was identified and profiled, the Sugar Bowl was postponed by a day, the investigations hinted at others involved, the bollards were revealed not to be in place. The Wall Street Journal ran an editorial comparing New Orleans to Nice. Welcome to 2025.

We took off for Monoprix (still no small containers of milk), and Lynn went shopping for clothes on the way back. She bought a sweater on sale for 20 euros and two pairs of pants for 31 each, claiming great bargains on both purchases. Since I have no basis for comparison, I could not disagree but hoped we could get it all in our suitcases when we go home in two weeks.

On the way home, we made dinner reservations at Le Palmyre. We were excited.

We bought two links of sausage from the store next door to Caves de Caprioglio and went home, where Lynn added them to the leftover pasta that we have been eating for more than a week. It was a delicious and filling lunch.

After a short rest, we decided to walk along the Promenade toward Negresco, where we have yet to visit.

For our last Christmas market visit, we took the train to Antibes, where the market its situated alongside the marina. Our day was gorgeous on the Med, sunny with temps that punched well above 60. the train ride was smooth, quick and pleasant for 22.60 round trip for the both of us.

Antibes’s Christmas market did not disappoint.

In fact, it may have surpassed the one in Nice. The Antibes version is adjacent to Port Vauban, the marina that houses hundreds of boats ranging from normal size to gargantuan. The market itself includes a few rides for kids, an open air Ferris wheel and a line of booths on two sides offering perhaps more food options than Nice.

The food booths featured offerings of various types of hot dogs and sausages, cheese plates, foie gras, burgers, roasted pork, escargot and sandwiches with wide selections of beer, wine (hot and cold), champagne and soft drinks. It was a true smorgasbord of holiday indulgence. I couldn’t resist the hot dog avec fromage, the French version of nacho cheese similar to camembert drizzled over a tasty frank nestled in a slice of baguette. Magnifique.

We shared a high top table with a gentleman living in the ski country just north of the Cote d’Azur and his daughter, who seemed about 11 years old. She was old enough to be learning English in school, and her father encouraged her to speak English, but she was too uncertain and hesitant. He, on the other hand, was quite fluent. He explained that he had spent a good deal of his career opening and running restaurants in the French islands of the Caribbean. We enjoyed comparing notes, because we loved all those islands ourselves back in 1995 when we lived on our boat down there.

We took a selfie, then separated for more walking and a ride on the Ferris wheel, which cost seven euros as opposed to 10 in Nice. And they happily accept credit cards, unlike Nice. Lynn, who is not fond of heights, was terrified in the open car as we slowly rose and fell to see the market and the marina from on high. I loved every minute. The view was spectacular. The ride was over all too soon.

And just like that, it was time to walk back through the marina to gaze at boats, then back through town to the train station, where I foolishly waited on the wrong track for the train back to Nice. I realized my mistake just in time for a crowd to board across from us, and the doors closed just as we made it to the other side. No problem, though. The next train was only seven minutes later, because the earlier train had been running late. So our train though much older, was also much emptier. Oddly, we found the seats in the old car to be much more comfortable and padded than the ones in the new cars.