Tom & Lynn's Excellent Adventure

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.

Nice was overcast and cool on departure day, the first day we have seen so cloudy. No farewell stroll down the Promenade. We left the apartment early at 9:30 a.m. so we could grab breakfast in the Air France lounge in Nice’s very modern airport.

We summoned our Uber ride, which picked us up in the plaza facing the Palais de Justice. Uber costs 18.73 euros for the 15-minute scenic drive along the Promenade to the Cote D’Azur airport. The regular taxi fare is 38 euros.

As we waited on our Uber ride, we ran into, of all people, Michael, the listing agent for the apartment we had offered. He explained a little more about the sellers. She is a judge in Marseilles who works in Nice occasionally, so they were looking for a smaller apartment to buy. That would explain the delay in responding to our offer, which would be expiring that afternoon.

Because Air France would not let me check in electronically, we needed to do it the old fashioned way at the airport, which was another reason to leave early. Our negative Covid tests had been sent to us via e-mail and were extremely small on our phones, which made them difficult to for the agent to read and verify. I pointed out that we had submitted the other forms electronically through Delta, and the agent was able to find those without problem.

And off we went to our terminal and the Priority Pass lounge for a light breakfast before boarding our Air France flight to Paris.

Which flight turned out to be packed to every seat. Air France forces passengers to wear a surgical mask, useless in preventing the spread of disease. Surgical masks do not fit tight to the face, allowing air and therefore viruses to enter through the gaping spaces around the edges. What is it about “respiratory” that Air France does not understand?

Our row was situated behind one family with a small child and in front of another family with an even younger child who never stopped making high-pitched noises for the hour and a half of the flight. Luckily, the passenger who had booked the middle seat on our row turned out to be a smallish, youngish female who gratefully took the aisle seat that Lynn offered and read her book through the flight.

Paris was cloudy, raining and cold when we landed. Fortunately, this time we walked off the plane through a conventional jetway protected from the elements.

Charles de Gaulle is one of the worst airports to navigate that we have ever experienced. After our adventure coming to France, we hoped for better on the way out. Not to be.

Our fight landed at Terminal 2C. We only had to make our way to the international gates at Terminal 2E. But that involved a walk of more than a mile just to get to passport control. There, the French officials were somewhat friendly and reasonably efficient to send us on our way to 2E. Terminal 2 runs from 2A to 2M, so nothing is close, and there are no trams. Be ready for a long, long walk.

Worse yet, directional signage is nearly non-existent in CDG. We could see signs for Terminals 2E, 2F, 2K, 2L, 2M, but none really pointed us in the right direction to 2E. In fact, I led us to the wrong direction at one point and we had to sneak past a gate to get back on track to another mile-long walk to 2E.

Once we finally reached our correct terminal, we made our way through the inevitable duty-free mall and turned down to walk toward our gate. In exactly the wrong direction. That we did not learn until we reached the end of the terminal and Gate 36. We were at Gate 42, all the way to the other end of cursed Terminal 2E. So we walked back, checking in and being rejected at two different airline lounges, one of which was labeled for Delta. I later learned that there was a third lounge for Amex card holders, but we never saw that one.

When we finally reached our gate, we were directed to the uniformed health screening authorities, who wanted to see our passports again, our negative test results again, our pass sanitaires again. Then we were told to fill out the attestation form that states we didn’t have Covid. (As if the negative antigen test wasn’t good enough.) I explained that I had already filled out those forms and submitted them electronically to Delta, which should have them right at the gate.

Mais non.

The paper form is for the French government. So we filled out and signed the simple form once again, and one of the health screener officials stamped in green ink “Valide.” I could have lied through my teeth. But the French wanted their piece of paper.

Our flight to Atlanta was mercifully empty, perhaps a third full. In fact, most of the passengers were in premium seats. The main economy cabin was virtually deserted. That was good, because the flight lasted ten hours, just about all of them in a suffocating mask.

The misery was alleviated only when drinking wine by the sip and eating wretched food by the tiny bite. I got the impression that the flight attendants were sympathetic but had to follow the rules, because I noticed that they doffed their masks when lounging all the way in the back of the plane at the galley.

It had been chilly in Nice when we left, and Paris was raining and colder. By the time we reached Atlanta, it was even colder.

We disembarked our flight and were directed down a long, long corridor to the Atlanta passport control. That walk was even longer than Paris had been. In fact, it was the longest walk we have ever experienced in an airport. We walked for a good half-hour before reaching U.S. Immigration and Border Patrol. Thank goodness for Global Entry, although the machines were too tall for Lynn to get her photo right. But as usual we sailed through Global Entry, then claimed our luggage to re-check for the last leg home.

It was so late there was no TSA Pre in the security line, but I showed our boarding passes marked TSA Pre, and we were waved through without taking off shoes or getting the full body scan. The length of the trip was beginning to catch up to us.

We had been flying for more than 12 hours, so we desperately needed a respite. Thankfully, the Delta lounge accepted us and was situated near our gate, so we could relax for a little while and have a couple of very late night (on our body clocks) drinks.

And then it was on to New Orleans and home. Atlanta had been colder than Paris, but New Orleans was coldest of all. It was nearly midnight by the time we collected our bags and walked out to the taxi stand. Where we joined a line of passengers waiting for the same thing. The temperature was in the 30s, the wind was in the high teens, and the cabs were scarce, showing up sporadically. After waiting in the cold wind for another 15 minutes, we finally got into a taxi to get us home.

At 12:30 a.m. we walked in our house, dropped the bags where they stood, turned the heat on and fell into bed. We had been in transit (and therefore in masks) for 22 hours. Travel is hard enough, but breathing your own CO2 for nearly a full day cannot be healthy and is certainly tantamount to torture.

What happened to the days when getting there was half the fun?

Our days are winding down here in Nice, so we revisit some of our favorite sites. Wednesday was Cimiez Park, a short bus ride up blvd Cimiez. A short ride, that is, if you can find the bus stop.

We walked across the Paillon to the street behind the huge Lycée Massena school building and started looking for the stop for bus #5. It had to be right around where we were, according to the Lignes d’Azur transit app. But somehow we missed the stop. We walked in circles for nearly half an hour looking for the Defly stop and finally found the next one at Wilson. We must have missed the Defly stop by no more than 100 feet the first time.

The bus ride up the hill goes through some of Nice’s toniest neighborhoods sporting huge mansions from the 19th and early 20th centuries. Most are now apartment buildings, but they are reminiscent of the cottages in Newport. When you reach the mammoth and majestic Regina Hotel, named for Queen Victoria after a visit, you are ready to get off the bus at Cimiez Park.

The park itself is small. You can circumnavigate the entire green space in no more than 15 minutes. But you walk past the Archeological Museum and the Greco-Roman ruins of the original Nice; the Matisse Museum; the Franciscan monastery that includes an expansive garden the size of the park itself; the cemetery where Matisse is buried; an elaborate children’s play area; a carousel and a pleasant outdoor cafe that on this gorgeous winter day was nearly full of Nicoise.

We visited the monastery, where a few of the side altars have paintings by Louis Brea, a respected Italian Renaissance artist whose works also hang in the Louvre and other notable locations all over the Mediterranean. In fact, the last time we visited Nice, we saw a special exhibit in the Musee Massena of one of Brea’s most famous paintings that had come from the church of St. Ambrogio in Florence, where we had just come from on that trip.

By then we were ready for a light lunch and a beer, so we found a sun-dappled plastic table and split a panini poulet, just the thing to carry us to a return dinner at Citrus again in the evening. We had no trouble finding the stop for the return trip down the hill.

As we prepared to depart the bus, a group of four gendarmes boarded and starting checking everyone’s transit tickets to make sure they had been validated. Ours were fine but as we departed the bus, I could see one gendarme writing out a ticket to someone who had rammed his way on the bus without paying. That draws a fine of 135 euros.

No day in Nice would be complete without a stroll along the Promenade, of course. The crowds were smaller than the weekend but still sizable. Kids rode their scooters, old folks ambled slowly along, younger couples walked holding hands and occasionally kissing, a solo singer performed for the crowd, another performance artist made huge soap bubbles to entertain the kids and draw a few contributions himself. And dozens more sunned themselves down on the rocks of the beach and against the stone walls.

Today’s amazing find was a series of tiny “sculptures” lined up along the wall of the Promenade. Some very talented person created recognizable forms, using the pebbles from the beach. We and others, especially a German tourist, were just fascinated.

Our Promenade walk finished, we retired to Chocolat for Covid pre-test testing. I had brought a couple of antigen tests just in case we needed them. Since we needed to officially test the next day, I figured we would take our own as a belt-and-suspenders measure that would allow me to sleep at night with less concern about the getaway test at the pharmacy.

We both tested negative, as expected, so we marched right down to Wayne’s to celebrate.

After one quick drink at Wayne’s we marched off to dinner once again at Citrus. This meal in some ways surpassed the last one. For starters, we shared the onion tantin, sort of an onion Wellington. A half onion gets wrapped in pastry shell with a layer of boudin noir, then baked at a high temperature to carmelize. The effect is stunningly delicious.

For our plats, Lynn ordered the breast of guinea fowl served over a bed of smothered, shredded cabbage with chestnuts. The breast dish actually included a little leg too. It was all rich, flavorful and juicy.

I ordered the sea bass, which was sautéed in strips, then woven back together like a basket. Not only did it taste great, but it looked so creative. My fish was accompanied by a serving of buttery, creamy mashed potatoes formed into a square with little beans and vegetables carefully placed on top like the work of art that it was. The woven fish was placed over a bed of cooked greens with a cream sauce. And it too was delicious.

Our meal was accompanied by a wine that is rare in the U.S., a 100% cabernet franc. Our waitress praised our selection, noting it would go well with both the fish and the bird. She was right. We left just a little in the bottle for the “angel’s portion.”

As we left the restaurant, we met the chef and his sous chef. I proclaimed Citrus the best restaurant in Nice, and the chef replied that no, this was not the best, there are others. I can’t wait for his recommendations next time we visit.

Our agent Florent arranged another viewing of the apartment, this time accompanied by a representative from Pebbles, the rental agency. The appointment was scheduled for 2 p.m., so we had time in the morning for another walk to Castle Hill.

No two routes through and around Castle Hill are the same. After some ten centuries of serious usage, the park has been developed so that the paths go up, down, toward the Port, toward town or just back the way you came. There is always something of interest that you just could’t remember seeing before. And everywhere you wander, there is a view to die for.

For variety, we chose to walk around on the Port side leading to the steps back into Vieux Nice near the elementary school. In doing so, we discovered a street lined with theaters and art galleries that we couldn’t remember seeing before.

Back at the apartment for lunch, we enjoyed the last of Lynn’s sausage and peppers, which by then on the third serving had really developed a deep flavor. In fact, Lynn planned to recreate the same recipe when we get home.

We met with Florent and Ian from Pebbles right at 2 p.m. Ian is a Brit who has lived here for years. He is in charge of construction for Pebbles and operates his own interior design and property management firm associated with Pebbles.

Ian proved most knowledgeable about the rental market and what needed to be done to the apartment to bring it up to maximum rental income. He saids that it could rent as it is now, but some upgrades like paint, new kitchen counter and an AC in the living room would maximize rates per night and frequency of rentals.

Satisfied that we were on the right track, we parted and returned to our apartment to prepare for dinner. After extensive discussion (this is, after all, a lot of money), we decided to make an offer on the apartment later in the afternoon. But first, we needed dinner reservations at Bar des Oiseaux, which has no online reservation service.

I poked my head into the unlocked door late in the afternoon, and I asked the proprietress for a reservation. She replied, “Thomas”? And I gleefully said “oui” and asked for our favorite tables in view of the open kitchen.

When we arrived at the barbarian time of 7:30, only one other table was occupied, and we could hear English being spoken there. No European would ever show up for dinner that early. But our advantage is that service is so fast we had to ask to slow it down. By 8:00 p.m. the place started to fill, and the dining room took on a lively vibe.

This is such a fun place to eat, the antitheses of stuffy. It was formerly a comedy club and still displays appropriate illustrations on the walls. The atmosphere is casual and just plain fun. The name is carried out in the large chandeliers above that feature dozens of canaries perched on the supports.

But don’t for a moment think this is a gimmick kind of place. The food is off the charts wonderful. We started with a shared calamari salad featuring grilled slices of squid with mesclun mixed in and just a bit of lardon for flavor. We polished that off in minutes.

Then it was plates of ravioli, the lamb for Lynn

and the truffle for me. Lynn’s agneau ravioli featured what amounted to lamb confit formed into a disk surrounded by the ravioli swimming in a curry and chick pea sauce.

My truffled ravioli were topped with a cloud of creme fraiche redolent of truffles with some seared slices of lardon to provide a bit of crisp to the dish. And the pasta swam in more truffle sauce. Both dishes were rich in flavor beyond compare. Our only mistake was ordering a pichet of the Provensal wine instead of a full bottle. But what a glorious meal. Armand Crespo is a genius.