Tom & Lynn's Excellent Adventure

Club Nautique Nice (CNN) has been around since 1883, so is not some start-up yacht club. We have searched for it several times in previous visits but never quite made it around the Port for a visit. This time I was determined.

The trip turned out to be fairly simple, a single ride from Monoprix on the 38 mini-bus around the perimeter of the Port and to the opposite end, where the clubhouse stands like a fortress guarding the entrance to Nice.

CNN is an active organization offering sailing, rowing, motor boating and swimming. It has its own little beach open to the public where sunbathers and scuba divers alike gather on the smooth stones at the entrance to the building.

Inside, CNN is anything but formal or stuffy. It is known as a pretty popular public restaurant overlooking the harbor with a splendid view out to the sea. Patrons can dine inside or on the wind-shielded balcony watching the Opti classes go out to practice in the Mediterranean. We walked in without a reservation and were given the last table on the balcony, as none were available inside. No one ever asked for a letter or a membership card or even if we knew what a boat is.

And the place was indeed full. Several large tables of 30 and 40-something adults carried on loud, happy conversations, lubricated by bottles of rosé. These people were not going back to the office on a Friday afternoon.

We ordered salads, a Caesar for Lynn and the Nicoise for me. Both were large, both were excellent. Lynn’s was unlike any Caesar salad either of us had even seen. It offered all the requisite ingredients, including slabs of bacon, strips of chicken, slices of cheese, but in large portions of each. And all of those were served up over a bed of lettuce and tomatoes with the liquid dressing liberally ladled over the entire affair to give it the appearance of a regular salad unlike the traditional Caesar we are accustomed to. Regardless, it was quite tasty and more than Lynn could finish.

My own salad Nicoise was as good as these get in France. They use canned tuna, likely because the real thing is not available on this side of the Atlantic at any reasonable price. And the typical salad Nicoise in France layers on plenty of anchovies, much to my liking. I finished every last morsel.

But before we left for Club Nautique, we had met up with Florent at 10:30 in front of the Opera for a cup of coffee to discuss and make a formal offer to buy the apartment. We were taking the plunge.

Buying real estate in France could not be more different from the U.S. The entire offer sheet is barely three pages long. We simply filled out by hand our names and the amount we offered, with the contingency that the apartment be approved/authorized for holiday rentals. That’s it. In the U.S. the disclosure pages alone are the size of a small town telephone book.

Nowhere in the three printed pages is any mention or reference to a down payment, deposit or earnest money to be paid. But it will take anywhere from two to three months to complete the transaction, and at some point we will have to pony up some cash. But not now.

Florent took the signed pages to make a copy for us and predicted the owner would counter by the end of the day, as we planned to meet at 2 p.m. Saturday for another quick look at the appliances and some measurements for additional furniture.

And then he was off, and we were off, all of us somewhat confident that we would be making an agreement to become homeowners in Nice the next day. Club Nautique Nice awaited.

We had no fixed agenda for the day, just trying to find relevant documents on the apartment in order to make an offer. That meant much of the day needed to be spent not too far from my computer to be able to open documents and read them easily instead of on a tiny phone screen.

Our plan of the day was to have “dinner” of wine and munchies at Cave du Cours, which required a late large lunch somewhere in town.

We took a stroll around Vieux Nice to see that the Promenade du Paillon has been fully opened, with all the soccer viewing staging and screens completely removed. The splash fountain was back in operation, and a toddler showed no fear of water as he marched right into one of the gushers before his parents grabbed him from a thorough soaking.

For lunch, we decided to visit Mia Casa, a small Argentine restaurant we had noticed last time here. Inside, it looks like someone’s living room with unmatched tables and chairs scattered across the small floor, a sofa on one side, a small bookshelf over the counter that separates the tiny kitchen from the dining area and a cooler of drinks.

Their ´11.50 lunch includes a salad, rice, potatoes and either a pork chimichurri, baked chicken breast or paneed beef Milanese.

This is strictly a family operation. We later talked to the wife, who is from Finland. She said she and her Argentine husband have lived all over the world, but they plan to make Nice their final, permanent home. She thought Buenos Aries was way too big, and Nice is just the right size to have everything a person could need but on a more manageable scale.

We agreed on that, and agreed that the beautiful and convenient Nice airport connects you to anywhere you want to go.

We enjoyed our home-cooked lunch washed down with a glass of Chardonnay for Lynn and a delicious Argentine beer, Quilmes, for me. And then it was off to more wandering.

Our dining plan for the day was to eat our large, late lunch, then stroll around the corner to Cave du Cours for a few glasses of wine and their taste treats. After a short walk along the Promenade, we arrived at Cave du Cours right at 6 p.m. when they opened.

Within an hour, the place was packed, both inside and out. The smoking crowd took all the outdoor tables, and the indoor crowd filled the room. We sampled a few of the house offerings of both red wines, accompanied by plates of sausage slices; a small roll of chèvre; a large slice of a different French cheese (we forgot to ask) wrapped around another slice; a helping of country pat´´e and finally little squares of croque monsieur, a little sandwich of ham between slices of toast with cheese melted on top.

The wines were 5 and 6 dollars per glass. The food was nothing. Nada. But filling. By regular dinnertime, we were stuffed, so we rolled out to leave the Cave for the younger, later crowd. We made our way up the stairs and finished the night off watching Nadal lose in three sets in the Italian Open.

What a wild life we lead in Nice.

We had one more apartment to view, but by now, we were pretty much convinced that the one on rue Condamine is The One. But we have also learned that rules and regulations governing holiday rentals in Nice were changed a year ago and are much more stringent now.

We need two documents. The first is the Syndic de Coproprieté, which is permission from the other owners in the building for an owner to rent out the apartment for short term. It takes only one other owner to kill the permit.

The other critical document is the Reglement de Coproprieté, which is the permit or license itself for an apartment to be advertised for holiday (aka short term) rentals. Otherwise the apartment can only be rented to students, full-time residents or friends and family off the books. No rental agency will touch it without the reglement.

So we visited Smart BNB, the rental agency that handles the Condamine apartment for the German owner. Everything seems to be in place–a motivated seller (he is renovating a home up the hill in Cimiez) and a motivated buyer (us), assisted by a motivated selling agent and a motivated rental agency. All we need is the help of the local government.

Marina, the manager of the rental agency, was most helpful and informative when we visited. She noted that the apartment is fully rented through August. It would be highly unlikely the transaction could be completed before then anyway, so the current owner would be able to keep all the rental income as he renovated his new house in Cimiez.

On a related matter, we noticed that her firm now holds the listing for our old apartment on Cours Saleya where we stayed twice. It was sold two years ago right after we stayed there last. The new owner moved the listing from Pebbles to Smart BNB, which is why we could never find it again.

Marina and our agent Florent were trying to collect all the necessary paperwork currently at hand, but there doesn’t seem to be much current. The latest document we have in hand is from 2020, which was the change of usage approval when the apartment was first rented short-term.

Everyone agreed to continue searching for the relevant documentation. In the meantime, we planned to head up the hill to Cimiez Park for lunch at the little counter there.

In January, Cimiez Park was all but deserted. Not so much in May. The place was overrun with scores of children obviously on school outings.

Like all 6-10 year-olds, they were boisterous, energetic, noisy and fun. They ran through the open spaces, they bounced on the trampolines, they ate under the trees, they ran through the lanes named after jazz greats that surround the park.

We found a semi-shady table for a lunch of pissaladerie and a chicken pannini washed down with delicious cans of cold Kronenbourg beer.

Our objective on this tour of the park was to view the gardens to see the difference from January, when they were mostly bare of flowers except for the stands of wildflowers along the sides.

In May, the only real difference–but a big one–is the roses are now in full bloom. Every color, all sizes, all types from climbing to bushy. Some of the individual blooms were among the largest we have ever seen since Jardin des Plantes in Paris at the same time of the year.

After a quick visit to the monastery church of St. Francis to view the invaluable La Brea paintings, we took the 5 bus back down the hill to Vieux Nice, flaunting the obligatory mask rule posted on every window of both the bus and the tram. A number of locals did the same thing, and at least half of those actually wearing a mask did so with it drooping down around their lips or even under the chin. The rule is dumb and unenforceable, despite a threatened 135-euro fine. We found it universally ignored in the Nice airport, mostly ignored on public transit and completely ignored on Uber.

That night, the French government and the EU announced the end of all mask manatees on public transit effective May 16. That’s the day we fly from Nice to Lisbon. Praise be.

Dinner was back at Bar des Oiseaux, this time in our favorite table facing the open kitchen. We shared the cold veal salad, which was large enough to be a full dinner for Lynn. The veal was prepared in slices accompanied by horseradish sauce, lettuce and crispy gnocchi as only Bar des Oiseaux prepares.

Lynn ordered the bourride, which is a lighter, Nicoise version of bouillabaise, three different kinds of fish swimming in a savory sauce with a smattering of beans and orzo pasta. My order was Lynn’s ravioli agneau from the last time, confit of lamb surrounded by ravioli in a rich cream sauce.

We splurged for dessert, a rarity for us. I ordered the lemon tart, thinking it would be a nice small circle of lemony custard. Instead, the dish came out with little curls of lemon accompanied by equally little curls of toasted meringue over tiny pastries.

What a find. But that is typical of Bar des Oiseaux–inventive takes on the best ingredients.

Okay–we’ll come back for a third time before we leave.

On a rainy day earlier this week, I came upon a winery based in the northeast part of Nice that was accessible by the new Tram Line 3. Who knew? In fact, who knew there was a Tram Line 3? Tram Line 2 just opened a couple of years ago.

The directions looked easy enough–Tram 2 transfer to Tram 3 just before the airport, then Tram 3 all the way up to the end of the line in St. Isidore. Then a walk of about a half mile to the winery.

The transit part when fine. Not so much the walking part.

Apple Maps described a winding route up the mountain, so off we started. We walked up a couple of hundred yards and saw two conflicting signs, one pointing to the left downhill and the other pointing to the right uphill. We started walking on the downhill direction until the sidewalk ran out and the road worked through the woods with no sign of a destination.

So we turned around, walked back up the hill to the other sign and kept going up until essentially the same thing happened: the sidewalk ended and the highway kept going. Clearly this was not a walking path, so we retreated to the safety of the town center and took the Tram 3 back to the airport.

It had been an interesting excursion, even if unsuccessful. We were able to see the western suburbs of Nice (you know you are in the suburbs when you pass the line of car dealerships) and up the hill toward very tony residential areas.

On the way back to the apartment, we stopped at the St. Francois Boucherie, which is always busy, and spent all of 2.40 euros on two huge chicken leg quarters. The butcher cut the legs apart from the thighs with one whack each, then wrapped them, stuffed the package into a plastic bag with a metal number skewered on top, and tossed it up to a conveyor belt running above his head, which conveyed the package to the waiting cashier where we paid our 2.40 euros. What an efficient system.

Chicken in hand, we walked back to the apartment thirsty for a glass of wine. Lynn’s baked chicken with onions, garlic and lemon rivaled anything any restaurant could offer that evening.

We have a higher purpose on this trip, besides merely enjoying the exquisite charms of Nice. We are hunting for an apartment to purchase to be our European base that hopefully will pay for itself and for the airfare to get us here and back to the U.S.

Our appointment with our agent Florent had been set for 11:00, and he was there to meet us as we walked up rue Rosetti. He had a bit of difficulty getting through the front door, but eventually succeeded, and we climbed a very steep set of stairs for one floor to the apartment.

Inside, everything was sleek, modern, European and obviously purposefully designed. The kitchen appliances were best brands, and like so many we have seen (including our current apartment) the machine is hidden behind the cabinet facade to enhance the clean look. No surprise here–the place is owned and was designed by a German.

The living room featured a shaggy Barcelona chair and a pullout sleeper-sofa near a small dining table and chairs on the kitchen side of the room. The bedroom is tiny, with no more than about 9 inches on either side of the bed. The bedroom is separated from the living room by a wall with a window for light, but that sacrifices any sort of privacy.

The bathroom was similarly designed and similarly elegant. The washing machine was tucked into a tiny closet. It was the type that spins a cylinder of clothes around in a vertical orientation, which saves space and is quite efficient.

Overall, we were impressed. The only drawback to the place is that it has no storage space, and we could not access the owner’s closet to see what might be inside. Some sort of furniture will be needed to create a desk and some hanging closet space, because the only type of clothes storage is in the washing machine closet adjacent to the bathroom.

The neighborhood is extremely quiet, despite being only two blocks off the busy Place Rosetti, the hub of Vieux Nice activity. Art galleries dominate the surrounding streets, so the traffic is hushed and rare. A large luxury 5-star hotel is being built from a series of 17th century buildings a block away, so this area will not go undiscovered for long.

We parted from Florent, who promised to look up and confirm the rental license later in the day. After walking around some more to get the feel of the neighborhood, we made off for our first visit to Castle Hill.

Despite the large number of beachgoers and crowds strolling down the Promenade, the elevator up the fortress was waiting for us, empty and available. We walked up the switchback lanes to the top where the concession stand offered two cold beers and a large pannini sandwich, a version of a Nicoise po-boy. The weather was beautiful for the moment as we sat under an umbrella so new that the tag was still affixed.

Our intent was to walk down the side of Castle Hill that emptied into the same neighborhood where we had just seen the apartment. That didn’t happen. We wound up on the beach side anyway, so just descended the stairs to the Promenade and into the Cours Saleya flea market teeming with booths displaying items of every sort.

At that point, we decided to walk back to the apartment we had just viewed to get an idea of the time it took to go from our current apartment to the prospective one. Five minutes. Vieux Nice is very, very small.

Dinner that night was at the remarkable Marcel, a wonderful restaurant we had found in January. The interior is most elegant, with large paintings hanging from the ceiling of the main dining room to hide the AC vents. Most customers chose to sit outdoors this particular evening, but we chose a small interior two-top which allowed a view of the kitchen and the street scene as well.

Our dinner was exquisite. We started with escargots, rich and very hot in their shells. Then we moved on to our plats, scallops with lemon risotto for Lynn and the entrecôte with grilled vegetables for me. Lynn’s dish was richer than truffled mac and cheese, while my entrecôte was among the best I have ever tasted anywhere, accompanied by grilled vegetables with smaller grilled vegetables spread over the top of the steak.

I couldn’t resist splurging on a bottle of Pic St. Loup (36 euros!), a rarely seen Langeudoc. It happens to be one of the house wines at LaForge in Paris, and we don’t pass up an opportunity to down a bottle when it appears on the wine list. (I’ve only seen it once in my life in New Orleans.)

After nearly two hours of obscenely rich dining, we had no room even for the rest of our LAC dessert back home. It will wait for Tuesday night.

Sunday dawned cloudy, cool and drizzly. It was the perfect climate for a post-coupe hangover among the Nicoise soccer faithful.

But weather conditions were not going to stop us from our appointed rounds. We were in no rush to dart out into the mists, so we lingered in the apartment, as I tried to get the cable TV working to no avail.

Brunch awaited at Wayne’s, and we ventured forth about 11 a.m. around the corner in the drizzle and presented ourselves for our Sunday ceremony. We were actually a bit early for the kitchen, but the staff agreed to send in our order for a “small” English breakfast and a smaller order of eggs and bacon for Lynn.

My “small” English breakfast consisted of bacon (really ham slices), sausage, beans, mushrooms, black pudding (basically boudin noir), toast, potatoes, a broiled tomato (ugh) and one egg. Lynn’s tiny breakfast offered two eggs and two large slices of bacon, plus toast, more than she could eat.

Our Bloody Marys were expertly prepared and fairly spicy. Not Milk but as good as it gets in France. I asked for a heavy hand on the Worcestershire sauce, and she applied that as well. As we began eating, Sarah and her husband entered with their small child, who was in no mood to be restrained. Growing up in a bar gave him leave to run around in the bar. They were accompanied by someone’s parents, who sat down behind us to enjoy a Wayne’s breakfast as well.

All the families enjoyed a happy meal, to coin a phrase, and we left Sarah’s Irish brood to finish up their Sunday morning treats.

We retreated to our apartment for the rain to pass, then headed out again to find Gare du Sud, a 19th century railroad station that has been renovated and converted to a food court. It is located up Jean Medicin, the great boulevard of shopping that cuts through downtown Nice.

This is the same concept as Covent Garden in London and the old railroad station in Lisbon where we have enjoyed many a meal. Many other cities have repurposed old stations the same way.

But the same concept is not the same result.

Gare du Sud needs some work and some time to catch on among locals. On this Sunday it was pretty much deserted, most of the restaurants closed. The atmosphere was bleak. There was no vibe at all. We walked through in then minutes or less and turned around to take the tram back to Place Massena.

Lynn continued her quest for socks, so we finally stopped in at a Foot Locker, where entire racks of them were on display. Happy with her find, we walked back through Place Massena, where the soccer stands and screens were already being taken down.

By now, the sun had come out, as the clouds rolled off to the west, so we walked down to the Promenade for a stroll back toward the apartment. But this being Mother’s Day, we had committed to buying a decadent chocolate creation from LAC on the corner and eating it after our first home-cooked dinner in the apartment.

What a triumphal Mother’s Day for Lynn–socks and chocolate, plus cooking her signature sausage and peppers at home for the evening. Oh, the sentiment. Oh, Nice.

Nice’s football (soccer) team made it to the finals of the Coupe de France, the country’s championship, and the whole town was prepping for the Big Game.

Huge stands had been erected at the end of the Paillon Promenade, and workers were busily erecting solid metal walls along the surrounding streets, presumably to hold the crowds in (or out, who knows?).

Security guards were out in force along entrances on the Promenade des Anglais to control the entries.

The team’s red and black colors were on display everywhere, even among the blue chairs and the #I Love Nice sculpture at the base of Castle Hill.

The atmosphere all over town resembled a major college football game in the U.S. like Ohio State-Michigan or LSU-Alabama. The Nicoise, like all Europeans, take their football (soccer) seriously. It’s a matter of civic pride.

We spent our morning searching in vain for socks for Lynn. We walked all the way down rue Bunico, the deepest part of Old Town, visiting shoe stores all along the way. None of them sold socks. So we walked across the tram tracks to Monoprix, the Target of France, knowing that they would have socks, because they have everything else. But no, no socks. Maybe at the other Monoprix on Place Massena all the way on the other end of Old Town.

So we walked the length of blvd Jean Jaures to Place Massena, where the stands and screen had been erected for the match that night. But that Monoprix is mostly groceries. No luck finding socks.

As we walked back into Old Town, we spied the Bain du Soleil athletic shoe store on the circle behind Poseidon’s statue in the now-dry fountain. (I surmised that the fountain had been emptied as a precaution for the huge crowds expected that night.) But the athletic shoe store had no socks either. At that point we gave up, because we had just circumnavigated Vieux Nice and could not find socks. Where do the Noicoise go for socks?

Along the walk back home, we stopped by Wayne’s to slake our thirst and chat with the bartenders about the upcoming game. They expected a huge crowd.

Speaking of which, Nice is much more crowded in general than what we experienced in January. That wasn’t surprising, considering it’s well into spring and people are traveling again. We heard many American accents, which was a bit surprising to us, however, because school is still in session in the States. The Cours Saleya market is packed with people, most of whom are clearly there to see and not to shop.

Dinner reservations were at Bar de Oiseaux, our favorite Crespo restaurant. We even have our favorite table, T-8, that faces directly to the kitchen so we can watch the show. Even though I witnessed our table reservation written down for T-8, when we arrived, another couple was sitting there. We were given the nearest table, still with a view of the open kitchen but not the one we preferred. And the couple at our preferred table did not look like they were enjoying themselves at all. I’ve seen people less glum at funerals.

Regardless of the table, once again Bar des Oiseaux lived up to culinary expectations. And then some. Their calamari salad is the best rendition of squid anywhere, lightly sautéed so that each bite has just a hint of crunch and a lot of flavor. My duck breast was truly the best I have ever tasted anywhere, any time. It was perfectly medium, still pink on the inside and tender.

Lynn’s ravioli agneau was more lamb than pasta. The lamb is confit, pressed into a mold and just falling apart in the rich sauce that it sits in with the delicious ravioli. With a most tasty Provensal wine, Couer de Raison, our meal was five stars. We passed on dessert and coffee so we could go around the corner to Wayne’s to catch the crowd as the soccer championship began at 9 p.m.

Wayne’s was packed both inside and out. We miraculously found two standing spots at the bar, where we congratulated Sarah on another baby, this one due in September.

We chatted with another patron from Hungary who is working in Nice and did not appreciate the city the way we do. He was not a happy person, despite being in a most happy location.

I am not a fan or an expert in soccer, but from what I could see on the TV inside the bar, the match was not the runaway for Nice that our Argentine bartendress had predicted earlier in the day. Since watching soccer to us is about as exciting as watching paint dry, we finished our drinks (a delicious 7-year-old Havana Club for me), and walked out through the cheering crowds and back home.

Later that night, just before we retired for the evening, I looked up the results of the match. I sort of suspected the result was not what the locals wanted, because there was no singing, shouting, cheering going on in the streets around us.

C’est tragique. Nice lost 1-0.

Our first full day this trip was like most others, devoted to shopping for essentials and a little exploring among the narrow streets of Vieux Nice. After our exertions the day before, we slept in until 9 a.m., scandalous but rejuvenating.

First order of the day was a walk through the Cours Saleya market for vegetables. Lynn picked out her selection of red, yellow and green peppers; garlic; onions (one of which was deemed unsatisfactory by the proprietress and exchanged for a better selection); lettuce and tomatoes. Then it was off to the counter that displayed various pastas and patés for another meal and our evening snacks.

As we walked down the long aisles, much more crowded than in January, Lynn marveled at the fresh fruit, especially the strawberries. Given the choice between Italian strawberries and French strawberries, she chose the French for their color and taste. They were pure sugar, perhaps the best strawberries we have ever encountered.

After walking up the three flights to our apartment to deposit the goods, we walked back down again and off across the Old Town to Monoprix for the rest of our provisions, including eggs, lardon, olive oil, canned tomatoes and paper towels. Our bags stuffed with groceries, we wandered back through the crowded narrow streets and up the three flights again to our apartment.

I was not quite in shape yet for three floors and 45 steep steps multiple times a day. The first two flights were no problem, but the third left me huffing with burning thighs. I’ll get in shape in the next couple of days. But for now, the third flight is a stretch.

We were up and out too late for breakfast, so grabbed a slice of pissaladerie at the market, along with a sausage brioche sort of pastry that needed to be heated and a quiche for Lynn. Pissaladerie is a local Nicoise version of pizza that is topped with grilled onions, olives and anchovies. If you like those ingredients, it is delicious. Lynn, however, will not so much as taste an anchovy, so I was free to eat the entire slice myself.

For our afternoon diversion, we walked a block down our street to the Photography Museum to view an exhibition of portraits by the famous Studio Harcourt, the photographer to the stars for most of the 20th century.

Harcourt was known for a particular style of glamour that was most popular during the last century and is still practiced to this day. What used to take hours of painstaking retouching and enhancement in a head shot is now accomplished in minutes using Photoshop and similar contemporary tools.

But dramatic lighting was and still is Harcourt’s signature. The studio, founded in 1934 by Cosette Harcourt, whose original name was Germaine Hirschfeld, became, as the brochure says, “a thoroughfare for the famous personalities making up the so-called ‘Tout Paris.’ “The Harcourt style was close-up head shots punctuated by dramatic lighting and shadowed background. It seems dated today, but still in use.

Beyond the photography, the exhibit included a photo booth that simulates the Harcourt portrait style for the paying patrons. It was all part of the 5 euro admission, but the line was long near the end of the day, so the manager gave us leave to return first thing the next morning for our own portraits, which we gladly accepted. The experience is purely analog, and it results in a high quality black-and-white print self-portrait in the Harcourt style. We will have ours framed when we get home.

Dinner Friday night was our new found favorite from January and first choice this time, Citrus. It lived up to our memories, although the dishes we ordered didn’t quite present the astounding surprise we enjoyed in January. We had hoped to see the spectacular grilled onion Wellington style and the woven fish that we had found back in January, but neither was on this week’s menu. Perhaps another day. Still, our high expectations were met, and the service was once again personable and attentive.

We started with a grilled octopus salad, which was not at all what I had expected. It was a mixture of vegetables and small pieces of octopus swimming in a rich tomato sauce. My only objection was that the tomato sauce overpowered the taste of the octopus. But overall the dish itself was splendid.

Lynn ordered the guinea fowl, and I had the pork shoulder. Both were expertly prepared and artistically presented. And both were equally delicious. And the pichet of Provensal wine was most pleasant.

All restaurants always seem to have their feelings hurt when we pass on dessert and coffee, but we just can’t eat that much, and we never see the need or desire to ruin the pleasant buzz off a bottle of wine with a cup of coffee late at night. (Maybe it’s the reduced tab.) By now the late seating was filling up the handsome dining room, so off we went around the corner and back up the three flights of stairs for a last sip of wine. We are now officially on Central European Time.

Despite catching every red light along the Promenade from the airport, our ride into town took only 15 minutes.

We hauled our luggage out as Alicia from Pebbles welcomed us to the apartment on the third (fourth American) floor. It was about 10:30, which was 3:30 a.m. on our bodies.

Alicia explained the usual instructions, showing the complex password to the WiFi and how to operate the television. She also noted that the windows in our bedroom could not be opened, because the shutters were broken and allowed pigeons to roost between the exterior closures and the windows. If we open the windows, the winged rats will invade.

Our apartment is very spacious, but the bathroom is tiny. For some reason, the owners retained a large, full size tub instead of ripping it out and installing a shower enclosure half the size.

And, as I discovered the next morning, there is no outlet inside the bathroom to plug in a hair dryer.

The apartment also has a few missing items that are head-scratchers. First is a microwave. That means all cooking and warming will have to be done on the hob, which most certainly uses more electricity than a microwave. And there is no American-style coffee maker, so we will need to use a French press. The coffee is not a big deal, but the microwave could be.

Other missing amenities include a lack of coasters to protect the nice wooden coffee table and no hat rack at the door to hang coats and bags. That means if it rains (and the forecast is for rain every day through the weekend), we will have to drag our wet jackets through the apartment with no place to hang them.

But microwave notwithstanding, the kitchen sports a huge refrigerator and a full-size dishwasher, both welcome conveniences. And a bottle of fine rosé stood on the table as a welcome gift. Pebbles knows how to greet their guests.

As soon as Alicia walked out the door, we flopped down for a jet-lagged nap. It would not be the last of the day.

After a quick run to Carrefour Express for coffee to make the next morning, then to Caves du Caprioglio for wine, we dragged ourselves out again for a late lunch and first visit to Wayne’s, where we were greeted as long lost friends. We compared notes about how long it has been. Even though is has really been only a little more than three months, it seemed longer.

We ordered hamburgers, and I added fries which we really did not need. And beers. We didn’t need those either, but they sure tasted fine.

Then it was back to the apartment for yet another nap before going out for an early, light dinner at Cave du Cours, Armand Crespo’s wildly successful wine bar around the corner.

The Cave was especially hopping Thursday night, with a large going-away party for a reporter from Paris working for Radio Bleu who had been stationed in Nice the last 16 months. He was being transferred to another region, and his colleagues sent him off with magnums of wine and multiple plates of hors d’oeuvres served over the counter.

By the time we arrived, the place was SRO, and we were directed to a spot on a shelf right at the corner of the celebratory table. The wine is up to seven euros a glass, and we happily downed a couple each of a very tasty, rich red that turned out to be from Slovenia. It was delicious. And so were the plates of eggs in a mustardy aioli, a fistful of burrata cheese and a pile of finely sliced Iberian ham.

That was enough for dinner for us, so we retired and left the packed, partying house for our first good night’s sleep in Nice. Armand Crespo has hit another home run.

Nice awaits. Perhaps an apartment for us too, although the one we were really excited about has already sold. Someone else obviously got really excited too. But we have others to visit.

Uber hit us for $42 to go to the airport, but it’s worth the extra six bucks for a decent ride that showed up on time. Our driver this day was an engaging young man who related interesting tales of his recent visit to Puerto Rico and his suffering on the return flight. We could only empathize. And pray that our experience would be more tolerable now that masks are optional on U.S. flights.

The New MSY experience was as painless and efficient as possible for a government-run entity. The access road that was conveniently overlooked during the billion dollar-plus construction phase is making strides. Our driver, who spends quite a bit of time picking up and dropping off passengers at the airport, confirmed all of our complaints about accessibility and signage. You’d think for $1.3 billion they could have designed better access and spent a few bucks on signs. Of course, this is the same project that didn’t bother to include an access road.

Inside, we passed through TSA Pre without major disruption, although one passenger who had been standing by, confused at the Southwest baggage check-in, appeared again at the security line and was escorted away from TSA Pre, presumably because he didn’t qualify. We later saw him near our gate, still looking as confused as ever.

The flying public has by and large ditched their submission masks. Only a minority of airport employees still wear them and even fewer passengers. The ratio seems to be about 90-10. Whatever survey indicated that less than half of people are in favor of ditching masks must not have included any flying passengers in the questionnaire. There is a reason that when the announcement was made in mid-flight, passengers cheered and ripped their masks off that day.

Breathing is a wonderful experience after more than two years of torture.

Our Southwest flight to LGA was pleasant, as the plane was less than half full. We grabbed two exit row seats with offered plenty of legroom–in fact a bit too much, as I had to lean over to reach the tray. And there was no armrest on the window side to clear room for yanking the exit door open.

And the plane was a brand new 737 Max. I didn’t breathe easy until the wheels touched the ground ever so softly.

If you have not been to Laguardia lately, it’s worth a visit. The airport had been completely rebuilt and looks better than the brand spanking new boondoggle of New Orleans. But the traffic….

Our luggage took nearly a half hour to get to us, and the taxi line took about as long. Once we jumped into the cab, the traffic stopped, as a LGA police car pulled up and forced all traffic to move to the left instead of exiting to the expressway to the right. That meant we had to circle around the airport in choking traffic to reach Grand Central Parkway and on to JFK. It took fully an hour to extricate ourselves from the Southwest flight out away from the airport and on to JFK.

Of course, we had a four-hour window, so we had little reason to worry. But to save $600, even after accounting for the $50 taxi ride from LGA to JFK, it’s worth going through security twice. And as we walked through TSA Pre, we were sold a free three-year subscription to Clear, which claims to speed the security process even more. I am a little dubious, because Clear doesn’t avoid the regular security screening process, but I suppose on a really busy day, it will come in handy.

Masking at Moisant was about 10%. At Laguardia it was about 30% and at JFK a good 40%. The higher percentage at Kennedy was probably due to the huge number of international travelers. But we were assured that no mask would be required on the flight, and that indeed turned out to be the case.

The flight to Nice was as pleasant as it can be, and mercifully short at just more than seven hours. We actually landed a good half-hour early. About half the passengers aboard were masked to some degree or another, but many dropped theirs during the flight. Delta was a bit off on their service, as they never did pass out the customary travel kits for a long flight, and the beverage service came after the meal rather than before. This may have been due to turbulence early in our flight after the pilot had just announced that we would enjoy smooth skies the entire way across the Atlantic.

As we landed, the pilot announced that masking is officially mandatory in France, but not widely enforced. Then another announcement in a French accent told us that indeed masks were required in the airport. But as soon as we walked off the plane, it was obvious no one was enforcing any sort of mask mandates. Even the passport control officers were unmasked at their kiosks. And so were the security guards. We gladly joined the crowd and pocketed our masks before we made five steps through the jetway.

If only all airports were as nice as Nice. (Sorry, but it had to be said.) The airport here is considered France’s second largest even though Nice is only the fourth or fifth largest city in the country. Nice’s airport is relatively small, easy to navigate and pleasant to travel through. The airport includes two separate terminals, the first one mostly for a huge squadron of private jets and the second, ours, for commercial airplane service to just about anywhere in Europe.

Our only misstep was that the Uber pickup is upstairs in departures rather than downstairs, which is not indicated by any signage. But it’s a very easy and quick walk through the terminal and back out to the departure level. Our driver Moise was a rather (no, really) large man who squeezed himself into his tiny Renault and whisked us off from the airport down the Promenade and to our apartment.

We were home again.