Author: tom@thomaslong.net

Up right on time at 6:00 a.m., we rolled out of our apartment right at 7:15 a.m. to walk to the tram stop. The tram was at our stop in less than a minute, and we jumped on, ready to travel.

Inexplicably, we got off one stop too early, then compounded our mistake by walking in the wrong direction. By the time I realized the error, we were several blocks away from the train station. It would have been quicker to catch the tram for that one stop, but we trudged along on foot, paying penance for our inattention. Lynn was none too happy about a walk in the dark.

Our train to Marseilles was ready for boarding well before the 8:25 a.m. departure time, so we were treated to the sight of a nearly empty car to choose our seats for the ride along the Med to Marseilles. POSH is the key to this trip–Port Out, Starboard Home, so we always have a view of the sea, sometimes right at the train tracks.

This was a true commuter train. We stopped at every little town (except our twin city Juan Les Pins) and by the time we reached Marseilles our car was full and there was standing room only for the late boarders. Most of the passengers flowed out at Marseilles to make a connection or to visit France’s second largest city.

Marseilles St. Charles is quite a large train station. Our train departed from Platform M, and there were more of those beyond M. Since we had eaten nothing so far, I grabbed a Poulet Cajun (seriously) sandwich at the stand, and we were off to catch our train. The scanner at the gate worked this time, and we marched unimpeded to the waiting train. Only the cars most forward were open and available for boarding, so we walked up to find good seats for the train ride up the Vaucluse to Avignon, the heart of Chateau-Neuf-de-Pape and Provence.

Avignon Central is a relatively small station compared to Marseilles and Nice that opens directly to the main thoroughfare in Avignon, rue de la Republique, which leads to Place L’Horloge, conveniently the same name as our hotel. Just for once, we had no problem finding our destination.

Our hotel was just off the square where the Christmas decorations were centered. This was not a Christmas market in the sense of Nice and Paris, rather a large display meant for kids. There was a walk through the lighted trees called the Enchanted Forest of Christmas, with more animated animals in little bubbles. Kids were also offered rides on a little train and a carousel for what looked like no charge. Of course, there was a small cotton candy stand, but nothing like the monstrous sweets trailer in the bigger cities.

We had stopped at the tourist office on our 10-minute walk to the hotel and picked up an old-fashioned paper map that delineated the major tourist attractions of Avignon, showing how close they are to one another and to our square. They pitch the City Pass, but we were amazed at the number of museums that are free. As in free. No charge. Just walk in.

So we walked past the massive Palace of the Popes, where a black singer was playing old jazz favorites to the crowd. Just beyond the Palace is the plaza leading to the entrance of the Petit Palais Museum, an astounding collection of mostly Italian paintings from the late Middle Ages and the early Renaissance. And virtually all of the paintings were sent over by the Louvre in Paris.

The Louvre must have been short of space, if that is even possible, so they sent hundreds of major works to Avignon. Opened to the public in 1976, the museum is housed in an early 14th century building that served as the residence of the bishops of Avignon and many centuries later became a school. Today it houses 390 paintings by Renaissance artists like Botticelli and Carpaccio, plus 600 sculptures.

And it’s free. It is one of five museums belonging to the city of Avignon that are open to the public at no charge as part of the city’s heritage.

We spent about an hour in the Petit Palace (it’s named that to differentiate it from the Big One next door), so it was close to 4 p.m. when we left. The last tourist train pulled out at 4 p.m., so we paid our 20 euros (no credit cards, only cash) and boarded in the last two seats for the 45-minute roundabout tour of old Avignon. It was well worth the price and the journey.

By then, it was approaching cocktail hour, and to reinforce our hotel’s strategic location, there is a wine store just catty-corner on the square. Needless to say, I purchased a bottle of Cote du Rhone, which was delicious, even at the low end of their selections, which went right up to three digits.

Our lovely desk agents had tried to make dinner reservations at a restaurant named L’Essentiel, whose reputation is among the best in Avignon. But they were full, so she booked us into Carre du Palais, located in a hotel of that name and less than a hundred yards from the hotel.

What a treat. Lynn ordered a pork confit that fell off the bone as soon as she touched it, and I had the duck, three pieces perfectly prepared, moist and flavorful. Both our dishes were accompanied by a medly of vegetables that included grilled onions, fried plantains, pickled radishes and fried chickpea sticks. I know the last one doesn’t sound wildly gourmet fabulous, but trust me, we had no problem enjoying them.

All in all, it was quite a productive day–a train ride, a museum visit, a roundabout tour and a memorable dinner in a most lovely atmosphere. Tomorrow promises more.

We woke up to gloomy skies and rain, the first rainy day we have seen here. It was Sunday, however, so some measures of civilization needed to be heeded. And it was New Year’s Eve, so some measure of celebration would be necessary.

We had decided before we left home that I would make Sunday Bloody Marys in the apartment rather than going out. Wayne’s makes a decent Bloody Mary, but not until after 10 a.m., and we like to start our Sundays just a bit earlier than that. So Lynn packed little tiny packets of celery salt and garlic powder, and we purchased Worcestershire sauce, horseradish (incredibly expensive) and Tabasco (universal) at Monoprix, plus a bottle of vodka at Caves.

The trick is the mix. Bloody Mary mix does not exist in Europe, or at least in France. Lynn thought she might have seen V8 Juice in Monoprix, but not to be. So we were forced to settle for tomato juice, which is thicker and sweeter than any sort of proper mix. But with enough spices and additions, we made it work. No better way to start a Sunday.

By the time we finished our beverages and ate a good breakfast, the day was starting to pass, and Lynn needed some gnocchi for dinner on New Year’s Day, when we knew nothing would be open. By mid-day, the rain stopped, so I ventured out to the Cours Saleya market, which was packed with people. Tourists and residents alike were buying with both hands for the holiday festivities ahead. I found the counter selling pasta and picked up a bag of gnocchi for 1.50 euros, about the same as the batch I had bought earlier in the week from the ravioli store which normally closes on Sundays.

On the walk back, I noticed that Caves was open past their normal closing at 1:00 p.m., so just to be safe, I popped in for a couple of bottles of wine. It doesn’t go bad.

By mid-afternoon, our brunchy breakfast had worn off and we needed to eat something to tide us over until our 8:00 p.m. New Year’s Eve feast at Citrus. I had been wanting to try the pizzas at a little stand called Pizza Pili, and it was open, staffed by the Italian owner, who was cooking them four at a time in two ovens.

The pizzas there are substantially cheaper than anywhere else in town, only 9 or 10 euros for a standard pie with a few toppings. He makes them from scratch, forming the dough in a machine, then ladling on the sauce, the cheese and the toppings by hand. This is the anti-machine-made pizza.

I ordered the Espagnole, which was topped with roasted peppers and slices of chorizo to give it some spice. And it turned out to be pretty darn good, crispy right to the center.

As I walked home with the box and a handful of napkins (a rarity in Nice–a napkin dispenser), it started to mist again, so light it was not visible but heavy enough to wet my precious napkins.

Lynn experienced none of this since she had yet to leave the apartment all day.

But by evening, it was time to venture out to our much anticipated New Year’s Eve dinner at Citrus.

Citrus did not disappoint. We were seated at one of our favorite tables, a little two-top at the window so we could watch the crowds walk down the street. Many of the mostly younger people were clearly marching out to a party, the women dressed in their finest sequined short skirts, weather be damned. The procession went on all night as we sat there enjoying the view, the setting and the food.

Inside, Citrus was equally festive. One gentleman from Denmark was dressed in a tuxedo, and most everyone, including a family of about six, filled the dining room with good cheer and wishes for the new year ahead.

We sat for more than two hours enjoying one of the most decadent, delicious meals we had ever tasted. We started with glasses of St. Germain over ice with elderberries and a lemon slice. Then the amusee bouche came out, pureed cauliflower with truffles in a tiny Mason jar type of glass with little tiny spoons to scoop out the ridiculously rich emulsion.

That was followed by an equally decadent foie gras with three thin slices of dark candied bread to deliver the goods to their destination.

The next course was perfectly seared scallops served on a large shell sitting in a bed of vegetable spaghetti. We twirled the veggies around the scallops for a flavor combination never experienced until then.

Finally, the main course was served–venison steak in a rich, savory sauce topped with an oyster mushroom and accompanied by a baked mushroom cake. The venison was dense in texture with an intense flavor that only Bambi can offer.

Some two hours later, dessert was finally served, a fancy meringue over a little cake surrounded by liqueur-infused spices of mangoes and raspberries. Uncharacteristically for us, we ate every bite.

We finally moved up and out of our chairs, among the early departures about 11:00 p.m. I wanted to go out to the Promenade to see the scene and the fireworks, but Lynn would have none of that. She was cold and did not want to brave big crowds.

So we trudged home through the wet, festive streets and watched the fireworks from Paris on TV. From what we could hear, the Nice display lasted only a few minutes. Paris went on for at least 20 minutes as the city prepares to host the 2024 Olympics. New Year’s will not be the last time Paris fires off displays of pyrotechnics.

We made it until midnight of the New Year. But not too many minutes after that.

Our daily lives here in Nice are not that much different from when we are home in New Orleans. When you have spent enough time in a city, you are no longer a tourist, perhaps not even a visitor, but maybe a part-time resident. We pay property and income taxes here, and we pay for homeowners insurance. (I won’t torture my friends with the amounts, knowing what we pay in Louisiana.) So, according to the French government, we are semi-residents, even though we can stay only 90 days within a rolling 180-day period. (Don’t ask–it’s nearly impossible to explain, much less calculate.)

We walk through our neighborhood in Old Town every day, and we finish just about every day with a stroll along the Promenade. We also walk through downtown on the other side of the Paillon to the Christmas market and shop for household items at Brico Nice and Maxi Bazaar, which are more or less equivalent to Home Depot and Bed, Bath & Beyond, respectively.

Just like I do at home when I walk the parks of Lake Vista each day, sometimes we reverse our course, because seeing the same things from a different perspective frequently creates a new discovery. We see shop windows and signs we never noticed before, even though we have passed by them literally hundreds of times.

A couple of days a week are devoted to grocery shopping: vegetables at the Cours Saleya market, other groceries at Monoprix and occasionally a visit to a boucherie or the fish market. And, of course, we plan dinners out.

My sainted mother used to say that this blog reads like a series of restaurant reviews. I suppose there is a lot of truth to that.

Friday evening at precisely 7:00 p.m., we joined the group of supplicants waiting at the door of Acchiardo to be summoned to our tables. We were escorted downstairs to the wine cellar and waited nearly a half an hour for water and wine, because the entire room was being seated and served by only one person. She finally came up, apologized, and immediately brought our drinks. Service from that point on was just fine.

Acchiardo is considered by many to be among the very best restaurants in Nice. It is nearly 100 years old and an institution in Vieux Nice. Incredibly, it is not open on weekends and shuts down most of January. It is the Nicoise equivalent to Galatoire’s or Antoine’s, a legendary restaurant that actually lives up to its reputation. The cuisine is not fancy or inventive, just expertly prepared, flavorful and consistent. The atmosphere is warm, and the stone walls are real. We have dined at Acchiardo a few times now, and we always plan to return.

This particular evening, I ordered the special steak with an anchovy paste on top, the house specialty named after the founder. The flavor was rich, savory, and memorable. The anchovies added a salty dimension without tasting like anchovies (which I love anyway). Lynn ordered the daube with ravioli, a standard dish all over Nice. This one was as good as any, without necessarily exceeding the best.

My side dish of haricots verts was truthfully pretty ordinary. Acchiardo puts their effort into the mains, and that’s just fine. The wine list offers Provencal, Bordeaux, Rhone and Languedoc selections at different price points for each, so we enjoyed a nice bottle of the Syrah from Langeudoc that was only 26 euros. (That’s me crying when we go home and order wine in restaurants.)

We decided to splurge on their creme brûlée for dessert. The Acchiardo version is topped with roasted pine nuts, which do not add flavor, but they do add a crunch that makes this standard dish a bit different from others in town. We have yet to encounter a creme brûlée in France that is not better than the best in the U.S. Lynn declares the butter and the eggs make all the difference. I just keep eating to the last rich morsel.

On Saturday, our casual weekend schedule called for me to buy daurade at the fish market, where they cleaned and filleted a medium sized one. Daurade is a version of sea bream caught in the Med, ranging in size from 12 inches to 24 inches. My “moyenne” was about 16 inches and yielded two perfectly sized filets.

The flavor of daurade is similar to pompano, and daurade stays moist because there is a thin layer of fat between the flesh and the skin. Lynn sautéed the filets perfectly, and we enjoyed our daurade with an aubergine ratatouille purchased from the little shop on rue de la Prefecture that sells premade dishes, every one of them decadently delicious.

Earlier in the day, we had made our walkabout starting at the Christmas market, where we shared a hot dog and fries for lunch, then walked all the way down rue Massena in search of shoes for Lynn. She was unsuccessful, but I saw some pairs for me that I may go back to purchase after we return from Avignon.

As quiet as our neighborhood had been just before Christmas, it is packed now, mostly with tourists. They are here in groups and individually, and there are many of them. We hear a lot of Italian spoken, along with a fair amount of American English. In fact, of the five small tables in our wine cellar room Friday night at Acchiardo at least three were American. We also see a number of large guided tours, usually in Italian, indicating that cruise ships must be anchored just around the bay in Villefranche sur Mer.

It’s a far cry from just a week ago, when the town was silent and the streets were empty. We’ll see what happens Tuesday after New Year’s.

Five hours. Five euros plus three on the city bus to get there. Ten euros on the train back plus three on the tram. The bus took nearly an hour to get to Antibes and we missed our stop. The train took 12 minutes back to Nice, and we got off with everyone else at the right station. Nice Ville was hard to miss.

Our adventure started about 10:00 a.m. with the 12 bus right in front of Lycée Massena directly across the Paillon from our location in Old Town. The bus runs west toward the airport on the Promenade, so it is a pleasant journey toward the airport. At the airport stop, we got out and waited on the 620 bus to take us along the Med through the little towns of Cagnes-sur-Mer and New Orleans’ sister city Juan les Pins (thank you, Teedy) and Antibes.

I missed our stop in Antibes because I thought we still had several minutes to travel. The Lignes d’Azur app lied to me about the time. So we jumped off at the next stop right in the center of Antibes and found the stop that would take us back. I missed that return 620 bus by seconds as he pulled away before I could get to the front door.

As we boarded the next bus about 10 minutes later, I sheepishly showed my ticket receipt to the driver and explained we had missed our stop. He smiled, nodded knowingly and thumbed us toward the back of the bus. I got the distinct impression this was not the first or only time he had heard that tale.

One stop later at Gare Antibes, which is the site of the train station, we worked our way down the stairs, through the station and out into the marina area where–lo and behold–the Antibes Christmas market was in full swing.

This market was much like the one Nice, quite a bit smaller but adjacent to the marina that was filled with very big boats, more and bigger than the Port in Nice. The market showcased a Ferris wheel with open compartments and therefore no riders, along with the obligatory trailer of a thousand lights selling a thousand sweets. Many of the booths sold many of the same foods as Nice, but there seemed to be more jewelry booths than in Nice.

In fact, Lynn actually found a pair of earrings she had been searching for ever since we arrived here. They were sterling silver, the exact design she wanted and were a bargain at only 12 euros. Delighted with her find, she scooped them up.

For lunch, we found a mall of restaurants, some closed, many open. We chose a place called the Brooklyn Cafe. It was popular and packed. The menu was French, Italian, Asian and American, offering delicious looking hamburgers that extended past the buns and a variety of pizzas. We opted to share the hamburger pizza, with a crust that was crispy right to the middle, a rarity.

After lunching, exploring the Christmas market, wandering the marina and ogling the maxi yachts, our work in Antibes was done. We walked back to the station, intending to take the train back to Nice instead of the 620 bus. I went inside the station office to buy the tickets rather than fumble through the machine, and the efficient agent printed out two tickets to Nice for the sum total of 10.40. Considering that the train would take a fraction of the time on the bus, that fare was a bargain.

And our timing was just right. The next train to Nice was only six minutes away on the other side of the station. We hustled down the stairs, through the underground passage and back up the stairs to a waiting train. I confirmed that this was the train to Nice (in retrospect, it could only have gone to Nice), and we took seats in the dining car to watch the Med go by. The train tracks are closer to the sea than the bus route, so our view was pleasantly scenic.

I ordered two wines for the trip, figuring we had about a half an hour. The wines cost 11 euros, more than the train fare. To my surprise, twelve minutes after we left Antibes, we pulled into Nice Ville train station. I gulped my red wine down, and Lynn took hers to go. Since we had no baggage or other encumbrances, we simply popped off the train, walked through the station and out on the street to catch the tram home. We walked up the set of steep stairs at 3 rue de la Condamine and into our apartment almost five hours to the minute after we had left.

As daily excursions go, this was as good as it gets–big boats, engaging entertainment, nice lunch, enjoyable transit rides and only a few stumbles along the way.

Lynn was planning to prepare her superb French chicken for dinner, so we took an evening stroll out for a glass of wine at Barrique, a wine bar similar to Crespo’s Caves de Cours just a few doors down rue Barrilerie, the same street where we stayed our first three times in Nice. We found Barrique to be sterile, a bit snobby and a totally different experience than Caves. The staff was polite but not especially outgoing, the vibe non-existent. And Lynn found the bar stools terribly uncomfortable.

We left after a quick, small glass of nondescript red wine and before Lynn’s buns became too painful.

Our wine at home was better, cheaper and more convivial. And Lynn’s chicken was spectacular.

Indian restaurants are dotted all over Vieux Nice. We have passed what seems like dozens, but are probably more like eight or 10. The largest and seemingly most elaborate is called Indian Lounge right around the corner from our apartment.

It’s hard to miss Indian Lounge. Usually they hang multi-hued umbrellas in front of their door from wires strung across the entire street, creating a dappled ceiling of bright colors. For Christmas, however, they take the umbrellas down and string lights in every imaginable shape and color across the street creating a sparkling ceiling that glows even in broad daylight.

We were given a table near the door and watched the restaurant fill up with regulars while the newcomers like us sat outside the main dining rooms. The service was prompt, and the menu was extensive. We started with a dish of six fried shrimp that were presented with three different sauces, as the waiter explained–mild, medium and spicy. The shrimp were delicious with or without the sauce. They were the first we had had since coming over here.

For our mains, Lynn ordered the chicken masala, and I had the lamb tandoori in spicy sauce. Both were just fine, nothing spectacular but more strongly flavored than the usual French cuisine that we have become accustomed to. When the bill was presented, we learned that the rice is extra, as is the large pita. We’ll know next time.

The next day we spent wandering all the way down the main pedestrian mall on rue Massena a block behind the square. The pedestrian mall went on and on until we turned to walk back to Jean Medecin, the main street where the tram runs. Without realizing it, we had walked at least a mile, and the return was even longer than that but interesting as we gazed around at the clearly high-end apartment buildings in the neighborhood.

By the time we reached back to the Place Massena mall, hunger was starting to drive our route. Since we had walked so far already, it was just a few more blocks to Iberica Comptoir, the Spanish restaurant we had noticed near Smart BnB’s office on rue Defly. We needed to go in that direction anyway, because Lynn was on a quest for something to place in the empty shelves above the microwave, and Maxi Bazaar was just the place.

Iberica was as different a cuisine as Indian Lounge had been the night before. It was like stepping into a tapas bar in Barcelona. Their tapas menu offered three selections for 15.90, so we ordered six–chorizo, patatas bravas, grilled patron peppers, marinated peppers, calamari and–just for me–anchovies marinated in oil. We ate nearly every bite of every dish.

We will come back there for dinner.

After our visit (successful) to Maxi Bazaar, it was time to head back for well earned mid-afternoon naps. We had probably hiked some five miles overall.

Dinner was to be leftover sausage and peppers with gnocchi that I was assigned to buy at the pasta store next door to Citrus. I walked over and waited my turn patiently, among the crowd ordering their various forms of pasta for dinner. When my turn came up and I tried to order in my broken and America-accented French, the girl behind the counter simply said “English?” as the rest of the customers smiled.

To make matters worse, I asked for 10 gnocchis, and she replied, “We don’t count them.” She simply scooped up a bunch, asked if that was enough and I told her to drop a few off. She dumped them into a bag and instructed me to go out to the street to pay. She weighed the bag and gave me the bill–1.35 for the gnocchis. Well worth the price. (The gnocchi turned out to be the best I think I have ever eaten–light and fluffy as air.)

Back home, Lynn was preparing her signature sausage and peppers dish, so I offered to walk back to Acchiardo Restaurant to make dinner reservations for Friday evening.

Getting into Galatoire’s for Friday lunch is easier.

On my first attempt, a gentleman sitting at a small table outside the entrance smoking a cigarette told me I was too early to make a reservation but to come back at 7:00 p.m. when they open. It was 6:45 p.m., so I decided to walk back to the apartment for a sip of wine before venturing out again in 10 minutes.

I walked back at exactly 7:00 p.m. and into a group of at least 20 people waiting to get into the restaurant as soon as the doors opened. The maitre d’ welcomed each group with a cheery “bon soir,” and escorted the ones who had reservations back to their tables. Those who did not have a reservation were politely seated in the front room until that filled up. Meanwhile, I stood there, waiting for everyone to get in so I could ask for a reservation Friday.

Later that same evening, I was eventually admitted through the sacred portal and told to wait at the bar until the maitre d’ could finish seating the last of his patrons. The bartender opened the big holy book of reservations, each page a manuscript for the entire past year, and shook his head at how many had already been made for Friday. He did not seem confident we would be allowed in. I would have to wait for the boss.

When the boss returned, I asked and he granted me a two-top for 7:00 p.m. I humbly asked about 7:30 but he insisted on 7:00. I knew better. That’s because once they clear out the British, American and Asian tourists, the locals will roll in for 9:00 seatings and stay the rest of the evening.

When I asked if we could get a table in the wine cellar, his demeanor changed perceptibly. He raised his eyebrows, gave me a smile and a nod and said, of course. He obviously recognized that we had dined there before, and appreciated our good taste in returning to their establishment. We were no longer tourists but regulars.

Up early, we started Christmas Day with the Latin Mass at the Jesuit church two blocks from our apartment. After a glass of champagne, we walked out and detoured to the life-sized creche in Place Rosetti, where–lo and behold!–the baby Jesus was in his manger. Apparently, the tradition here is to wait until Christmas Eve or Christmas to place Jesus in his manger. What Mary does for weeks of waiting as she kneels in front of an empty manger is another mystery of faith.

The Latin Mass at St. James Major Jesuit church was attended by all of 14 worshipers, including the two of us. It was as traditional as I have seen since the despised (by me, anyway) Vatican II. Unfortunately, the Latin cadences were hard to understand in the cavernous Baroque church, and there were no books to follow. But the general flow was familiar. The kneelers in the pews were solid wood, not kind to older knees.

This church is as traditional as it gets. There is no contemporary table passing as an altar facing the congregation. All Masses are conducted facing the old altar without even a passing reference to aforesaid Vatican II. And Communion is given out straight to the tongue as celebrants gather and kneel around the marble altar steps.

Interestingly, there was no creche in the Jesuit church.

As we walked down the steps to the street, we were surprised to see a group of four military personnel armed to the teeth gathered right there. As we took a quick tour down to the Cours Saleya, we were also surprised at the number of restaurants open for business and even vegetable stalls in the Cours Saleya market itself, although only a fraction of the usual number. (Monday should be flea market anyway.)

Along rue de la Prefecture, we saw no fewer than three SUVs of soldiers on patrol, at least seven individual soldiers and another contingent of municipal police officers. Clearly, Nice takes no chances of Islamic terrorism on Christian holidays.

We stood with a small group in front of St. Reparate, waiting for the High Mass to finish and the recessional to file out the front doors of the cathedral. Finally, it did, after rows of people departed the church via the side door, no doubt escaping Mass as soon as Communion was over, a time-honored and obviously international practice in Catholic churches.

Finally, the large wooden double main doors opened, and I was a bit surprised to see only the archbishop and one priest greeting the departing faithful. When we watched the St. Reparate feast back in October, there were at least 11 clergy in the group. Obviously, Christmas was not as important as the feast day. But the bells pealed for at least 15 minutes following Mass, a near deafening but thrilling concert of ecclesiastical holiday celebration.

Later in the afternoon, I confirmed that the baby Jesus had finally been laid in his manger inside the cathedral’s creche. Christmas in Nice was complete.

We spent the rest of the day quietly at home while Lynn prepared and cooked her traditional holiday dinner of osso bucco with vegetables. We had been buying groceries for this feast for the better part of three days, so Lynn was ready to jump to it.

The results were, as always, delicious. Bonnes fetes.

Although we have seen just about every museum in Nice, most more than once, it was time to revisit Museé Matisse in Cimiez Park. We had missed it last October, because it was closed for installation of a new exhibit by Shirley Jaffe, a contemporary artist whose late works emulated Matisse’s. Now the new exhibit is installed, and Matisse was open for a visit.

Admission is 10 euros, but for another five euros each, we purchased the four-day museum pass, which affords entry to 11 other museums around town, some of which we wanted to visit again. We would get our money’s worth out of those extra five euros.

The Matisse Museum is housed in Villa des Arenas, a 17th century Genoese villa at the crest of Cimiez Hill adjacent to the ancient Roman city ruins and across the street from the Regina Hotel, where Matisse lived for many years. The museum’s collection holds hundreds of his works that he personally donated. The holdings were supplemented by additional donations from Matisse’s family over the years since it opened in 1963.

Due to their sheer numbers, the permanent collections are rotated, so a visitor next year will see works that are not on display today. Except for some signature pieces like the wall-sized monumental work Flowers and Fruits at the entrance and the recreation of the Piscine just behind that, the displays change from time to time. So each visit gives new perspectives on Matisse.

We enjoyed the multi-floor tour for well over an hour, then finished our visit around the park along the walks named after American jazz greats like Lionel Hampton and Dizzy Gillespie. The gardens outside the monastery had not been changed since we last visited in October, so the roses were pretty much at the end of their cycles and the wildflowers were the same.

Like the rest of Nice, Cimiez Park was eerily quiet, with only a few of the pétanque players holding court under the trees and only one small gourd of young children playing on the grounds. Even the cafe was not very crowded, and we had no trouble finding a table for an outdoor lunch sharing a baguette sandwich with a small beer each. (Actually, they were big beers. Every time I order a small one, they give me big ones.)

Our visit to Cimiez complete, we took the bus back into Old Nice and did some Christmas dinner shopping at Monoprix, Cours Saleya and Caves, just to make all the rounds in preparation for Lynn’s festive feast.

For dinner that evening, Lynn sautéed four small filets of daurade, all of them delicately delicious. They were quite small, as I had to go back and buy another fish to make up enough for a full meal. Next time, I will buy the bigger ones. They are just as tasty but easier to cook and eat.

And then the next day it was off to more museums to make sure we got our five euros worth of our pass.

First on the list was Museé Massena, the huge mansion facing Promenade des Anglais that depicts the history of Nice from the 18th century. For some reason I decided to take the bus instead of walking down the Promenade to the Massena, which is the block before you get to the Negresco Hotel. It was a beautiful day, and the bus dropped us off at the wrong stop. In fact, where the driver let us off was not a stop at all. So we got in a bit of a walk anyway.

Museé Massena featured a special exhibit of Catherine Ségurane, the legendary fishwoman who fought off the invading Turks with a wooden club. She may or may not have existed, but she is revered in the lore of Nice as one of the saviors of the city. She joins other female heroines of French history like Joan of Arc and St. Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris, revered for their bravery in defending the country against invading heathen enemies.

One fascinating new feature in the Massena was a virtual reality program giving the history of the old casino that was built out over the Med in 1882 and destroyed by the Germans in 1944. Wars had been tough on the old Belle Epoch place–after WWI , it was assigned to the American YMCA and used as a reception center for American troops waiting for their return to the U.S.

The short VR tour was fun, although Lynn was less impressed by technological treats than I was.

By now it was early afternoon, so we grabbed lunch in a little place off the Promenade where Lynn finally found her onion soup. Unfortunately, this version consisted of a weak, light broth with some onions swimming it. The cheese was served on the side in a little bowl and consisted of nothing more than shredded parmesan. The croutons were served up the same separately. My bruschetta was much better.

We didn’t make the same mistake twice, and walked back along the Promenade past the Negresco and then the splendid Art Deco hotels built between the wars to attract well-heeled British, Russian and American tourists to the casinos and the beaches of Nice. The Palace de la Mediterranee is a particular example of Art Deco architectural artistry.

Ever onward on our museum quest, the next day we started with a walk around the corner from our apartment to the Palais Lascari, a mansion built in the 17th century and now dedicated to a museum of musical instruments. We’d seen the instruments before, and we were not really all that interested in them. But the building itself is something to behold.

It was owned by the same family until 1802 and eventually purchased by the city of Nice in 1942 specifically to create a museum. (You have to wonder what they were thinking in 1942 about creating museums when WWII was surrounding and ultimately consuming them.)

It was cold that morning, and the huge stone building was not heated. We moved through the galleries of musical instruments quickly in search of the special exhibit of art by the Trachel and Rothschild families that depicted scenes of Nice from more than a century ago. The viewpoints of the paintings were interesting, mainly because we could see them even today. But the cold of the old building invaded us, and we retreated to the relative warmth of the winter climate in Nice.

After another shopping trip to the Cours Saleya market, we walked over to the Charles Negre Photography Museum, which we had just visited in October. This is really two museums in the same building. Armed with our museum passes, we walked into the paid side first to view the current exhibit of Robert Doisneau, who ranked with the greats like Cartier-Bresson, chronicling the people and the streets of Paris in the 20th century.

Doisneau traveled to the U.S. only a couple of times in his life, but one notable visit was to photograph a series of scenes in Palm Springs (incorrectly identified ss Colorado in the museum narrative) as it was being developed in 1960. The color photos are stunning and somewhat whimsical in retrospect. But the striking aspect is that they could be shot today in South Florida.

The other side of the museum was dedicated to the nature photography of Robert Forte, an interesting story if there ever was one.

Robby lost use of one arm and a hand in a traffic accident but has since devoted himself to nature photography. His work is truly remarkable, especially for someone shooting with one hand. You have to see it to believe it, but here is a sampling: www.focus-nature.fr

As we gazed in wonder at these incredible photographs, a very friendly gentleman in a blue jacket asked Lynn if we liked them. It was Robby himself.

Indeed we like them a lot.

Besides the festive Christmas market at Place Massena, holiday decorations are sprinkled discretely all over Old Nice. But just about all of them are in small doses, none over the top like we are accustomed to in the U.S.

Christmas or not, Nice is extremely quiet at this time of the year, as quiet as we have ever seen. The narrow streets here are uncrowded, and most conversation we hear is French, with a smattering of English, meaning few tourists. Remarkably, a number of stores are closed, despite the holiday shopping season. Some are out of business just since October when we were here last. Many restaurants are on vacation or getting ready to shut down for the holiday.

Fenocchio, the hugely popular gelato stand on Place Rosetti, has yet to open while we have been here. (Strangely, its smaller sister location near Cours Saleya is open.) The two main restaurants on the other corners of Place Rosetti, Claire Fontaine and Le Clocher, not been open either. And all of Armand Crespo’s half dozen restaurants–our favorites–are closed for the week. Overall, there is a sense of serenity and quiet as we go through the first days of winter.

Sparkling LED Christmas lights are strung across the streets all over, but the decorations are generally low key except, obviously, for the Christmas market at Place Massena. Most Christmas trees on display in front of retail stores are small, no more than four feet tall.

Most churches have elaborate creche displays, none more so than the life-sized, semi-animated creche on Place Rosetti facing St. Reparate Cathedral. Interestingly, none of the creche displays large or small include the baby Jesus. Perhaps he will be put in place Christmas Eve.

The nights are silent, and for the most part, the days are quiet. Joyeux Noel.

Life here has settled into a normal routine unless we have a special destination for the day like a park or a museum. We try to alternate eating at home and fine dining out as much to save our systems from rich food as to save our budget from living too richly.

Wednesday was a fairly typical day. We started with a light breakfast of a croissant from Multari and bananas. Then it was off to Maxi Bazaar, the household store with everything, looking for pegs to fit an extra shelf in the bathroom closet and some other sundry items like a multi-plug so we don’t have to use one of the kitchen counter outlets to power the TV. We found everything we needed there except for the shelf pegs. They would have to wait for a visit to Brico Nice on the other side of the Paillon Promenade behind Lycée Massena, the huge high school facing the park and Vieux Nice.

Since we had eaten such a light breakfast, by noon it was time for lunch. The weather was chilly, so Lynn wanted a nice, warm bowl of onion soup. Off we went, looking for what in Paris is a staple of every restaurant and bistro you pass on the street. But not in Nice.

Incredibly, we could not find a single establishment that offered soup of any kind, much less onion soup. We walked and we walked and we circumnavigated Vieux Nice in a futile effort to find soup. Finally, it was approaching 1:00 p.m., Lynn was getting hangry, and we settled back to where we had started–Wayne’s.

At least Wayne’s offered chili. Lynn ordered that, which came out with nacho chips, guacamole, salad, a bowl of rice and a bowl of chili that bore no resemblance to any sort of soup. It was solid meat, vegetables and spices, meant to be consumed with the rice. It was unlike any chili we had ever seen. But it was quite tasty.

I was less committed to soup, so I ordered Wayne’s basic but excellent cheeseburger without fries, since I knew Lynn’s dish would supply more than she could eat. Indeed, I sampled her chili, nacho chips and guacamole to supplement my simple but hearty cheeseburger. The idea was not to eat too heavily at lunch because we had reservations at Citrus that night.

Citrus is, in our mind, the very best restaurant in Nice. The setting is warm, soothingly quiet and comfortable, reminiscent of La Forge in Paris. And the service is attentive, although this particular night, it was a bit slow to begin, because several tables showed up at the same time, including us. But once we got started, the dinner was nothing short of excellent and the service was exemplary.

We started with the tempura fried octopus, a dish we have never seen at Citrus. It was among the best grilled octopus we had ever enjoyed, right up there with Ristorante St. Ambrogio in Florence (now tragically gone, a victim of Covid). The octopus came out in a bowl, large tentacles crisply fried and full of flavor, served on top of lettuce and a light cream of celery. We gobbled it up, enjoying every morsel.

Then our main dishes came out after a welcome interval while we enjoyed our 100% Cabernet Franc bottle of wine. Lynn ordered the porcelet confit, three discs of delicious pork pieces swimming in marchand de vin sauce and little potatoes.

My dish was duck magret, two perfectly prepared duck breasts on a ruby potato puree with figs and persimmon for the fruit accompaniment. I ate every morsel.

We loved our meal so much that we made reservations for their New Year’s Eve feast Sunday night. That menu is going to feature braised deer fillet in a cognac sauce with chestnuts, flan and beans. And that’s just one of the choices. But it will be mine.

Our return home from our short stay in Paris was relatively uneventful, not even arduous. When we checked out of the hotel, I noticed that we had been charged about 15 euros a night more than what my Expedia reservation had promised. We didn’t have time for discussion, so I would have to deal with the overcharge when we got home. (It turned out that Expedia had not included taxes in the booking they confirmed.)

We walked out of the Hotel St. Christophe in about 34 degrees for the short two blocks to the Cardinal Lemoine Metro station where the 10 line would take us two stops to Cluny, where we transferred to the RER B on the way to Charles deGaulle. The walk from the Cluny station to the St. Michel transfer is long, but nowhere near as long as the miles-long trek through Chatelet just one stop ahead. We boarded the RER B and did not use our 11.90 euro tickets until we got off at CDG, where a guard simply looked at our tickets and waved us through.

Deposited at Terminal 2 of the airport, we walked another mile or so to security, where we and everyone else were forced to shed layers of clothing, electronic equipment, luggage and liquids. The lines moved reasonably well until we actually reached the x-ray machines, where there were not enough trays for all the impedimenta that everyone flying in the dead of winter must carry. And they make you take everything out and place in trays–computer out, iPad out, phone out, belt off, jacket off, vest off, scarf off, bags in the trays. No wonder they kept running short of trays.

At no point in the entire security process did anyone ask for our passport, any ID or boarding pass. I could have been Osama bin Laden’s little brother, and they would never have known.

Finally passed through security, we started the walk through Terminal 2 to what was listed as Terminal 2B on our boarding passes. Except our gate was D50, soon changed to D51. At CDG, Terminal 2B and 2D are the same. Go figure. Another reason this is my least favorite airport. It’s huge and the signage is simply miserably bad.

Despite a strike by the air controllers, our easyJet flight was only a half hour late landing from Belfast and 45 minutes late taking off down to Nice. I don’t think I have ever taken an easyJet flight that was on time. In this case, I suppose I should give them a pass because of the ATC strike.

EasyJet’s boarding procedures once again were primitive. My boarding pass gave me “speedy boarding,” because I had paid for a large carry on bag. And for once, the Speedy Boarding lane was clearly marked. I walked in at 11:35 as the second person in line as the overhead sign reported boarding at 11:40. As soon as I looked up again, the sign changed to 11:45. We actually walked through the gate and had our boarding passes scanned about 11:55.

Then we walked down the jetway and stopped for another 10 minutes.

After 10 minutes we walked a little farther and stopped again for 10 minutes, this time past the conditioned air and in the cold between the jetway and the plane.

By now it was well past noon, and this plane was not taking off anytime soon. I could see from our jetway some passengers still departing the plane. What gives?

Finally we actually boarded the aircraft, and I heaved our carry on bag above the wrong seat on Row 18. I saw December 18 on my boarding pass and read Row 18. Lynn boarded behind me and noted we were actually in Row 15. How embarrassing.

Now I was seated on the aisle instead of my preferred spot on the window, but it was easier to let the passenger in the middle move over instead of moving out. I suffered through the hour and a half flight getting jostled by everyone walking back to the bathroom and not being able to cross my legs or watch the Alps go by below us.

Happily the flight landed almost on time, we deplaned, walked through the delightfully quiet and civilized Nice terminal and right on to the Tram 2 that would take us home. It was uncrowded until we left the airport area and filled as we moved into town. One poor American tourist and her elderly mother were escorted off the tram by the ticket police because the younger woman could not prove she had validated her tram pass. Personally, I thought she had tried, but the gendarmes took her off the tram where hopefully she could talk her way out of the 40 euro fine.

Back in the apartment, we unpacked, started laundry and showered before heading back out again to the Nice Christmas market. Unlike the jammed experience in Paris, the Nice market is more open and flowing, attracting young and old alike. We went straight for the oyster bar and enjoyed a dozen #3 sized (19 euros) on the half shell, so transparent that it was easy to miss digging one out. Briny they were and delicious.

Then it was back to the other side of the market, where the churros, the sausages, the frites, the mulled wine and all the other festive holiday treats were sold from booths scattered about the area with the Ferris wheel and other kids rides sprinkled throughout. Much more fun, much more open and much more relaxed than the harried experience in Paris.

We had so much fun, in fact, that the night was not over. We left the Christmas market and walked into Wayne’s for a nightcap. Of course, we stayed for a second round to listen to the acoustic trio playing there, a Swedish rasta on lead guitar, a beautiful young woman singing and playing rhythm guitar and the percussionist seated on a box that he pounded to the tunes. Our wine was good, the price was right. Why not stay?

About then, a group of five very tall young men rolled in, loud and boisterous and having a great time. They struck me as Barcelona’s basketball team and proceeded to drink Jaegerbombs, Guiness, strong lemonades and finished eating a huge bowl of ultimate nachos and a separate plate of fish and chips. They were in Wayne’s for a good time, and didn’t mind if everyone in the place knew.

We escaped at the band’s first break to wander home in the otherwise empty streets. No alarm would be set for tomorrow.