Tom & Lynn's Excellent Adventure

By sheer happenstance, our visit to Nice this summer also coincided with the U.S. women’s soccer team’s first Olympic match. This was to be our ultimate double-header: a day at the Tour de France, followed by a night of Olympics at Stade de Nice. This would rank with our U.S. Open tennis day in New York that was followed by a Mets game that same night across the tracks.

It was also Michelle’s last day in Nice, as she had a pre-dawn flight back home. So the plan was to take the hour-long water tour of Villefranche-sur-Mer, then have dinner at their apartment, capped by a late night excursion to the stadium for the game.

The boat tour, as always, was thrilling. A Norwegian Cruise Lines ship squatted at anchor in the Villefranche-sur-Mer harbor, but even its ugly mass could not mar the stunning beauty of this village and bay. We watched as Elton John’s modest gray yacht of about 50 feet glided by, dwarfed by the mega yachts that cruise around the Med during the summer.

The boat ride was over all too quickly, so Lynn and I took the complimentary navette across the harbor in search of lunch while Michelle and Jeff went off for last-minute shopping, packing and cooking her dinner at their apartment.

Dinner at Michelle and Jeff’s apartment was early and excellent. Michelle prepared superb salmon with baked tomatoes and a mango-and-avocado salad sans avocados. Even so, the mango mixture was the best I have ever tasted, and I don’t particularly love mangoes.

And then it was off to Stade de Nice to cheer for our American women. As we boarded the L2 tram on the way to the airport, we quickly realized we were not the only Americans following our women’s team. The cars were full of Americans, mostly adolescent girls and their parents/chaperones. We were all headed to the same place.

The stadium is the anchor of a large retail complex dominated by Ikea that is the biggest big box I think I have ever seen. It was closed as we approached the stadium for the 9 p.m. kick-off, but we marveled at its massive size to Michelle and Jeff as we walked to the stadium.

Stade de Nice is an ultramodern design, opened in 2013, that seats about 32,000 people. It looks like a diaphanous mirage landed on the far side of Nice, where the city is growing rapidly with new construction everywhere. It’s easy to figure out what Ikea decided to locate there.

Once inside the stadium, past the initial screening for tickets, the secondary screening and wanding for contraband and finally the ticket scan, we took in the scene.

As crowded as our tram cars were, the stadium was all but empty. The cheering American contingent was by far the largest group on the stadium, which was not one quarter full. The Zambian contingent was all but non-existent, except for a tiny scattering of fans wearing green on the other side from us.

Our tickets were essentially at the 45-yard line, with great sightline across the field.

Never having been to any soccer match, much less one at this level, we didn’t know what to expect. The stadium was so empty that we could hear the ball ricochet off he players, and for the first time, I realized that soccer is also a contact sport. In fact, there was so much contact, that one of the Zambian players was given a red card and tossed from the game.

The US team pounded the Zambian goal relentlessly, firing at least 15 shots at point blank range and finally racked up three goals before halftime. We had seen enough. As it turned out, like most soccer matches, the leading team went on defense the entire second half, and the final score remained 3-0.

We retreated from the mostly empty stadium to take the tram back to the city. The L3 pulled right up and we boarded along with a few denizens of the evening, feeling very fortunate on our timing. But when we reached the end of the line, the next L2 to take us into the city was more than 15 minutes away. We and our traveling companions fleeing the stadium waited in the dark. You would think Lignes d’Azur would have known there was an Olympic soccer match at the stadium and added a couple of late trains.

Just to grind in our plight, no fewer than two empty trains pulled up, stopped in front of us but locked their doors with the lighted sign up front saying “sans voyageurs,” to make sure we understood. Finally, right on the 15-minute mark, our L2 train pulled up, and the weary crowd boarded for our 25-minute ride back home. It was just short of midnight when we walked up the stairway at Condamine.

Mission accomplished. We had completed our historic double header.

This was at least our third trip to Monaco, and honestly I can do without another one.

We found the 600 bus at the head of the Port at a nondescript bus stop on rue Arson. It wasn’t without some effort. Lynn had looked up comments on finding the stop, and they proved accurate. The stop has been moved, it is hard to see and the bus is easy to miss if you are not right there at the stop.

Still, the ride is beautiful. Sit on the right side on the way east and the left side on the way back to Nice. You will be treated to some of the most spectacular views in the world as the Mediterranean coast unfolds bay by gorgeous bay. The maxi yachts swing on their anchors in cove after cove from Villefrance-sur-Mer to Beaulieu to finally Monte Carlo itself.

Problem is, once you arrive in Monte Carlo, it’s hard to find your way around, especially if you don’t get off at the precisely correct stop. The Lignes d’Azur app does not accurately list the stops by name, and Google Maps is no better. In our case, we alighted from the bus in more or less the right place, but didn’t really have a direction in mind, other than to see the Monte Carlo Casino. Once we walked past that landmark, as well as Monte Carlo Yacht Club, there really wasn’t much to do except to search for lunch. And it was hot.

We found a place called La Pattaya on at the marina that offered salads and warm beer at prices well in excess of what we had become accustomed to in Nice. The view of maxi yachts was just fine, as we watched fairly heavy traffic of two inbound and three outbound just while we sat there. And the awnings overhead sprayed a fine mist to deal with the heat.

And then it was time to head back and find the stop for the returning 600 bus. Neither the Lignes d’Azur app nor Google Maps showed any information that would save us a long climb up the street, around one of the many five-star hotels, and back down to what we hoped would be the 600 stop. And did I mention that it was hot?

After a roundabout walk in the blistering sun, we found a stop that was confusing but seemed to be the correct one. Or so we hoped. The stop was just on the other side of the Steak & Shake that we had passed earlier when we disembarked from the 600. We could have saved ourselves the hike up and around the hill and just headed across the fast food joint. Or so it seemed. None of our maps showed such a route.

Indeed the 600 bus pulled up and stopped right there to carry us back to Nice. And thankfully it was air conditioned.

The 600 brought us across the Med again with the view from the left side this time. Lynn was so overheated that she had to move across the aisle to avoid sitting next to my equally warm body. And then we were back at the Port, walking back to our apartment guided by shade. Did I mention that it was hot?

Dinner was at Bistro Antoine, M. Crisp’s more formal restaurant, where we were seated upstairs for the first time ever. Lynn was not happy with our placement, but I found it pleasant, less frantic and cool as we were seated at an open window.

Our meals were, as expected, wonderful. The only disappointment was the Sons of Guns were not playing at Wayne’s as expected. Lynn the Groupie was most put out. So we ended our evening like so many others, but the first time for Jeff and Michelle, with a stroll down the crowded Promenade as we paused to watch some truly dreadful beach volleyball played down below us. It was no longer hot.

For the first time in its 111-year history, the Tour de France would not finish in Paris due to the security and logistics of the 2024 Olympics there. Instead, Nice was the choice. In fact, that was our main reason for coming here in the middle of the summer and the peak tourist season, compounded by the international popularity of the Tour.

The Tour’s visit to Nice filled an entire weekend, as the penultimate stage started Saturday from Nice up the mountains to Col de la Couillole before the final leg on Sunday from Monaco to Nice along the Mediterranean. We scouted Place Massena at the finish line and were ready to cross over to see the Fan Fest when the gendarmes abruptly slammed the barricade shut, with Michelle on one side and us on the other with no way to meet up with her unless we walked all the way back to the Promenade, around Albert 1 Park where the Fan Fest was located, and found her on Place Massena.

Which we did. Our little detour cost a few minutes but we were able to catch the “caravan” aka parade that precedes the race each day. The caravan consists of trucks and assorted vehicles representing all the sponsors of the race whizzing by at 30 mph tossing samples of their wares into the crowds. I was able to snag a La Vache hat and a sleep mask from another sponsor I couldn’t identify. Sadly, no beads.

We finally were able to work our way up and over the Promenade, and Jeff went ahead to fetch Michelle. The Fan Fest was pretty much the same as the parade–all sponsor exhibits, tents and promotions. We were hungry and thirsty and would gladly have paid for water or any sort of food. But there was nothing to be had. So off we went in search of lunch.

Since we were on that side of the Paillon park, Lynn suggested Iberica, a “few” blocks down the street. It was more than a few blocks, but we arrived in the nick of time and shared six tapas dishes, all excellent, with refreshing glasses of wine, before the small restaurant filled with eager diners.

From there, we took the route up to Castle Hill to scout our location for the next day. Jeff and Michelle needed to see Castle Hill anyway, one of the absolute great city parks in the world. How many towns have a city park that includes a medieval Romanesque church ruin, a huge manmade waterfall, two cafes, Homeric mosaics everywhere, an expansive children’s playground and walks up, down and around the old castle where Nice was first settled?

In the early 18th century, Louis XIV became so frustrated with having to conquer the place from various Italian principalities that he finally conquered it, destroyed what he could and forced the inhabitants to move to Bas Nice, known now as Vieux Nice. Perhaps he did the city a long-term favor, because what is left is an urban marvel.

We viewed the spot that I had scouted days before, and Jeff agreed this would make a perfect lookout over the race in case the crowds on the ground were too heavy.

We walked down the opposite side of the hill along the Port, and made for Cave du Cours, M.Armand Crespo’s wine war. As ever, the wine was tasty, and the knoshes were wonderful–and still free.

Oddly, however, considering how crowded the town is, there was hardly anyone in Cave du Cours. After a few glasses and several plates of sausage, eggs, pate, cheese and prosciutto, we decided to head out for dinner at Acqua & Farina, a very good pizza place in Old Nice. Acqua & Farina lived up to our memory, with an excellent pizza, as we chatted with couple from America sitting at the table next to us. In the “it’s a small world” department, they live now in Cleveland, but the wife graduated from both UNO and Loyola. We ate, drank, chatted and wandered off to our respective apartments, ready to launch into the final day of the Tour de France.

The last day of the Tour was to be a time trial, which is a long day of watching one racer after another fly by your spot along the line. We knew the finish at Place Massena would be packed, so we walked up to the perch from Castle Hill overlooking the turn around to the Promenade from the Port. We would bring our beach mats, Jeff and Michelle would bring a bottle of wine, a baguette and some hummus and tapenade to spread. Not a while lot for a full day out, but we would be right near the cafe, so food, drink and the all-important potty would not be far away.

We met at our apartment about noon and walked to Castle Hill and our hopefully available viewing spot.

When we walked up to the ascenseur (elevator) inside Castle Hill, we were pleasantly surprised to see that the line was not long at all. Even better, when we arrived at our spot, there very few people there and no one with a blanket or picnic provisions.

As we staked out our spread like the Mardi Gras veterans that we are, we looked over the precipice and surprisingly saw very few people below on the grass under the trees. Too good to be true. So we packed up again, took the elevator down and staked out our territory right along the race course.

And then we waited. First the “caravan” aka parade whizzed by. After our experience Saturday, we knew what to expect. Some 150 cars, trucks, specialty vehicles of all types whizzed by, with the riders screaming rap lyrics into huge amplifiers, some tossing samples of their ware out at 30 mpg. And then they passed. And then we waited again.

The first rider left Monaco at 14:40, and all 141 of them were spaced about a minute apart. So the first rider to reach us arrived about 15:15 or so to be followed by another 140 of his competitors. The crowd went crazy for Mark Cavendish, the retiring British rider who was the second to pass our way. At that point, we realized we were going to need additional substance, aka a drink and a bathroom for the women.

So I walked around the bend to La Shounga, a Cuban themed bar that was packed with customers but selling mojitos to go for a most reasonable seven euros each. They were cold, tasty and refreshing, and gave the women leave to stand in line to use the single facility inside the bar.

Another hour went by. More riders whizzed by, escorted by motorcycle police, their individual campaign cars bearing the team logo and colors with extra bikes mounted on the roof in car of an accident. After another hour of this, we were most certainly hungry. So we walked back to La Shounga for more substantial sustenance than mojitos.

After finally locating a table outside, we dove into pretty good pizzas and a vegetarian burger for Michelle. Meanwhile more riders whizzed by.

Properly fed, by now it was about 17:45, and only about an hour from the time the leading rider Tadej Pogacar was preparing to leave at 18:45. So we walked back to our spot under the trees at the base of the WWI memorial and waited.

About 45 minutes later, the crowd erupted as Pogacar flew past. The 25-year-old Slovenian would go on to win the stage, his sixth of this year’s Tour, and take his third overall title in the Tour de France to go along with his victory this year in the Giro d’Italia. The last time anyone took the double victory in the same year was 25 years ago, before Pogacar was born.

And then it was time for us to pack up and leave. Just like that. No more caravan, no more motorcycle escorts, no more riders. Our parade was over, some seven hours after we first planted ourselves.

We followed the streaming crowds down the Promenade toward Old Town with thirst in mind. There was only one place for us–Wayne’s. There we celebrated a most successful day with a toast to the Tour as we watched the trophy ceremony carried live on TV from just a few hundred yards away at Place Massena.

Mardi Gras veterans that we are, we had conquered the Tour de France.

We finally arrived at our apartment about 10:30 p.m., walking through the dark in Vieux Nice among the cheers and groans of soccer fans watching Spain eventually eke out a victory over England. We’ll keep that to ourselves when Michelle visits at the end of the week.

We found our apartment almost exactly as we had left it, except for a couple of minor issues like a large shop vac in our closet, a piece of metal molding loosened from the entrance floor and a hot apartment, which cooled down nicely once the AC was turned on. I had trouble getting the TV to work properly, and it took until the next morning to figure out the problem, which was nothing more than the wrong input selected.

After a week of escorting Georgia all over London, our first morning in France dawned late and lazy for us, so it was all of 10:00 a.m. before I ventured out to Multari for the first croissant of our stay. Walking the familiar streets and the route to Multari all but brought tears to my eyes, as I explored our ‘hood for the first time in six months. It felt like a homecoming.

Most everything was the same, except for three new establishments right down the street from us, all three selling wine by the glass. Simone’s little cafe is now a wine bar, and the atelier that was being built out in January across the street is now open as a–you guessed it–a wine bar/atelier. Both sell wines by the glass for five euros. Life is good.

The beer emporium that we noticed at the end of our winter trip is now all gussied up and serving craft beers apparently made on site, along with–mon dieu!–wines by the glass. For five euros.

We’re going to like it here.

As always, the first chore of the first day is grocery shopping at Monoprix. By the time we arrived, the place was crowded with young people buying their lunches, so I waited in the cashier line instead of plunging into the self-serve section. Groceries bought and stocked, we started out for our initial exploration of Tour de France finishing sites and, of course, lunch. We strolled the Promenade along a large tent being erected, obviously for VIPs and followed the yellow signs to Place Massena.

The TdF will finish, as I expected, right at Place Massena. We walked up to the official swag trailer to check prices (25 euros for a t-shirt, about what the price would be for an SYC regatta t-shirt) and a chat with the young man inside the trailer. He confirmed that the finish would be right there and that the large canopied stands on the opposite side would be for VIPs.

We peeps would be able to watch from the Paillon, but he cautioned us to get there early. Considering the last leg will not start until about 1:30 p.m., an early positioning may be somewhat challenging. (However, I would not question Michelle’s willingness to get there at 7 or 8 a.m. and stand there for six or more hours waiting. She has done that for British royalty.)

Our preliminary scouting complete, we started to think about a proper lunch. We had not eaten a real meal for more than a day, typical of a long travel day. There was only one choice for a first-day-in-Nice lunch–Wayne’s.

And Wayne’s did not disappoint. After hugs of greetings with our favorite bartender, while the new summer employee Kate looked on, we sat down for a cheeseburger and fries with two beers. I need to remember to specify the small ones, because they automatically pour the full pint otherwise. But the cheeseburger was paradise, to coin a phrase, the fries were hot and the beer was cold.

And then it was back to our apartment for naps and a late afternoon exploration of the neighborhood. The new hotel right behind us just opened last month, and we had to see it.

Hotel du Couvent is a 5-star hotel that we have watched built over the past few years. The outer shell of the building is a 17th century convent, with a huge courtyard that was cleared out and a brand new building of rooms constructed within the old walls. They are still in the punch-list phase, as the bistro that will be immediately behind our apartment readies to open on the street level, and the restaurant inside the hotel is setting up for their early arrivals. We checked out the menu, and it is five-star pricey.

The street rue Rosetti above our apartment has been completely rebuilt, obviously in anticipation of the hotel entrance, and we could see a parking lot with brand new six-passenger golf carts ready to transport guests from wherever they alight along the edges of Vieux Nice to the front desk. No walking while dragging luggage to this place.

Lynn checked the rates, and tonight was 735 euros, with the weekend rate rising to 808. Later in the summer the price in September will drop to 500-600 and in the fall and winter will plummet to 300+ except for holidays when it will pop up to 500+. You can rent our apartment for an entire week for that kind of money.

By the way, it’s a Marriott.

By evening, it was off to dinner at L’Escalinada, one of our favorite restaurants and one that is open on Mondays. Our reservation was for 7:30 p.m. and we arrived at 7:33 to find all the outside tables already taken. Our friendly proprietor gave us the inside table nearest the open doorway, so we were “sort of” outside. Lynn was disappointed about that, but at least we were near the exterior and nearest to the AC overhead that moved the inside air around so the effect was somewhat like sitting outside.

The interior of the restaurant filled up within minutes after we sat down. Summer is busy here, so don’t be late for dinner.

Our dinner of meatballs with pasta for Lynn and the octopus stew with ratatouille for me was just fine, if not outstanding. Accompanied by a half bottle of delicious local wine, we were quite satisfied with our first dinner in Nice. As we departed, the proprietor offered us the ultimate parting gift–lemoncelo. We wandered home through the crowded street marveling at the number of people out, just happy to be here.

We had not straddled the Prime Meridien for some 40 years, and Georgia was excited to see it as well. For our first full day in London, it seemed like a good idea to have a relaxing trip down the Thames to Greenwich with a stroll past the Cutty Sark and up the hill to the Royal Observatory and the Prime Meridian. For the most part, I was right.

I just didn’t account for a steady London rain.

Georgia and I went upstairs for the open-air ride down the Thames while Lynn enjoyed the view from inside and out of the wind. As before, the commentary along the way was informative and humorous, with unvarnished comments about the Tate Museum and other architectural wonders of the London skyline. For a first-timer in London, this is the perfect tour.

The drizzle picked up the pace a bit as we walked through the village in Greenwich and bought tickets to the Royal Observatory, where the Prime Meridian is located. We walked up a fairly steep hill to reach the Prime Meridian and the museum there.

The Royal Observatory building is an interesting museum, explaining that there were no fewer than four prime meridians over the centuries, before settling in on the one recognized today.

The meridian itself is a thick line along the concrete with a sign on the wall of the building telling visitors exactly where they are. We joined the large group of visitors taking photos of ourselves straddling the east and west hemispheres. Then we toured the small home of the royal astronomers, one of whom raised no fewer than nine children under the roof.

Our meridian mission accomplished, we carefully walked back down the hill as the drizzle became rain. For lunch we ducked into a pub on the street whose menu was exactly the same as Paxton’s down Knightsbridge from the Royal Thames. It seems that most British pubs in London are owned by the same company. They keep their historic names, but they have become one large chain. That’s progress, I suppose.

As we enjoyed another pub lunch from the same menu as the day before, the rain picked up the pace, getting heavier at times, then slacking off, then picking up again. We all had jackets of some sort, but Georgia’s Patagonia was not waterproof. We ducked down an alley to find what was billed as a market, but turned out to be another commercial block of Greenwich, so we plodded back to the boat landing through the rain, getting wetter as we walked.

We joined a crowd of similarly soaked visitors waiting for the 3:10 p.m. boat that would take us back to Westminster. The rain finally slacked off as we disembarked from the Thomas Claggett, but by then, none of us had any desire to explore Westminster. It could wait for another, drier day.

We jumped down the Tube station for the ride back. The station entrance is right at the pier, except you have to walk up three steps and go around another stair rail to reach the opening to the station. It would seem simple to make the entrance a direct walk rather than the slalom through the stairways. But the station was dry and we were glad to tap my cards for the ride back to the club.

Dinner that night was in the Britannia Room, where we enjoyed the cuisine of the Royal Thames. My roasted pork chop was quite good, and Lynn enjoyed a duck confit salad which she deemed excellent, better than the lobster bisque that she declared had a bitter taste. Georgia ordered the tortellini and obviously enjoyed it, as she finished it off.

It had been long day, and no one expressed a burning desire for a late excursion out into the still-damp streets and park. Harrod’s could wait for another day.

Our graduation gift to our granddaughter was her first trip abroad, and London is the perfect introduction to Europe.

Travel arrangements were a bit complicated, since we were planning to head to Nice to meet friends after a week in London, and Georgia would return home. So I had to make two separate reservations on British Air, one for her to return in a week, the other for us to return from Nice two weeks later.

British Air did not distinguish itself. The flight, which was scheduled to leave at the ungodly hour of 9:55 p.m. was late arriving New Orleans and not scheduled to depart until 10:36 p.m. That meant we were not to eat until nearly midnight, throwing any normal human rhythm off, even more from an overseas flight.

And British Airways is no bargain airline. They charge a premium for the non-stop flight from New Orleans to London, then charge another premium for Economy Plus. But in their rapacious avarice, even though you have paid for Economy Plus, British Air charges for seat selection. And it isn’t cheap–upwards of 90 pounds for a seat on the side and more than 40 for a middle section seat (!). Even EasyJet gives you free seat election with the option of upgrading your seat for a price.

Not BA. So I waited until check-in 24 hours before the flight and was rewarded with two seats for us in the middle section, with Georgia seated four rows up on the middle aisle. Luckily the Economy Plus section is very small, only 25 passengers, so separate seating was not too distantly separate.

In truth, however, BA’s Economy Plus is a significant level above what Delta and the other U.S. carriers offer. The seats are much wider, more comfortable with more space between them. Unfortunately, they recline way back with no middle ground, so we had no sooner taken off when the rude redneck wearing an LSU t-shirt sitting in front of Lynn cranked his seat all the way back so she could not even squeeze out of her seat. Luckily there was an open seat on the aisle next to me, so I moved to that, and Lynn took my seat, leaving her middle seat scrunched behind the LSU redneck.

The flight proceeded without further drama, although dinner at nearly midnight is not so good for the system. And the breakfast snack before landing was as inedible as the ones Delta serves.

After landing, we taxied to nowhere and waited. And waited. We were not at a gate. We were somewhere in the outskirts of Heathrow. The crew announced that we were waiting on a bus to take us to the terminal. Our Paris adventure was to be repeated.

We finally boarded the second bus that took us through the bowels of Heathrow to a ground level entrance, where we marched off the bus and up to Passport Control. There we were ushered into the U.K. politely, efficiently and quickly using facial recognition. What a wonderful modern invention.

Our luggage came through quickly, and within another few minutes we were off to the Heathrow Express for the pleasant, smooth and fast ride to Paddington Station, where we took a taxi to the Royal Thames for nearly 30 pounds despite being only a few blocks around Hyde Park. London remains an expensive city.

Once checked into the Royal Thames, we were disappointed to be assigned a room with a view of the roof of the building instead of Hyde Park, as we always had enjoyed in the past. But the desk attendant explained that all the parkside rooms were taken through Friday with full occupancy due to Wimbledon and a host of other events in town. Oh well.

Georgia’s cabin was down from ours but at the end of the WiFi signal, so she had difficulty picking up a working signal to be able to text home. The lobby worked better, so she will spend quite a bit of time down there.

Since we had not eaten a full meal all day, Lynn suggested an early dinner down Knightsbridge at Paxton’s Head pub. We were able to find a seating for three at the height of their early evening about 5:30 p.m. and wolfed down a burger for Georgia, a roast beef ciabatta sandwich for me and chicken tenders for Lynn. The food was not to write home about, but filling and just what we needed.

A bit of London rain was falling, just enough to merit a hood, so Lynn retreated to the club while Georgia and I wandered into Hyde Park and a close-up look at the rose gardens and the Wellington Arch. Truly, in all the years I have visited London, I had never really explored that end of Hyde Park, and we both found it beautiful and fascinating. The rose gardens were in full bloom, and I taught Georgia the iPhone trick of taking a photo and getting the information about the flower or bird.

As we walked through the Wellington Arch, Georgia used her new knowledge of architecture to identify the various details and elements of the classic arch and statues scattered all over our end of Hyde Park.

It was still only 7:30 p.m., broad daylight and light drizzly rain, so we kept walking to Harrod’s. The July sale was on in full force, and we walked inside out of the rain to explore. The ground level of Harrod’s is like any other department store, a spread of cosmetic counters from every brand in the world and a few that looked like they had beamed down from some other planet.

But cosmetics were a mere way station to our primary target of the Food Halls. I showed Georgia through the various halls of every type of food available. And then we wandered into the Chocolate Hall. Georgia found her nirvana. We lingered, we pondered, and Georgia promised we would return.

Out from our apartment overlooking Place Rosetti down to the Cours Saleya flea market on Monday, along the Cours to the end where the flowers usually are sold, then across to the Promenade heading west all the way to Hotel Negresco, then through the Museé Massena gardens and the 2016 memorial, and on to rue de France, which turns into the pedestrian mall of rue Massena, then to Place Massena where the Carneval stands are growing ever higher, and on down the Paillon to Place St. Francois and finally back to our apartment.

Two hours, about 3.8 kilometers.

That was the last Big Walk of our stay.

After a quick lunch at home and a short nap, we took off again for the last Short
Walk, across the Cours Saleya as the flea market closed up, then east on the Promenade to the #ILoveNice sign and back. The day was nearing the end, and so was our winter on the Med. Packing and a light meal before an early bedtime to be up at 4:00 a.m. awaited.

Up early (is 4:00 a.m. ever not early?), we were out of the apartment at 5:03, on the tram at 5:15 and walking into Terminal 2 at Nice airport before 6:00 a.m.

And thus began our odyssey home.

Delta had arbitrarily and without notice changed our selected seats on the Nice flight so that we were not even sitting in the same row. I asked at the counter how this could be fixed, but the agent said there was nothing he could do and blamed Air France.

No big deal. The flight was only an hour and a half. And it left on time. How about that?

We arrived in the despised Charles de Gaulle airport and walked a couple of miles to passport control, then to our departure terminal (it’s never the same as your arrival terminal at CDG) and found our gate. No lounge was available because the nearest lounge was in another terminal. But we didn’t have that much time anyway.

Inside Terminal 2E Concourse K, headed toward Gate 52, we walked, and then we walked some more, and then we walked to the end of the terminal, where we were directed downstairs to our gate, which was at ground level. I didn’t need to ask what that meant–it meant buses to our plane parked somewhere else.

Upon arriving, we first asked why our seats had been changed on this flight as well, moved from Row 32 to Row 36. The agent shrugged his shoulders, muttering something about Air France, computers and four rows didn’t really make a difference. (It actually does make a difference–32 is ahead of the wing, so the noise of the jet engines for eight hours is a little less.)

The boarding process here was the most unorganized, chaotic cluster I have ever witnessed at any airline in any airport in the world. Waiting with the goats and chickens in St. Vincent so many years ago was nothing like this. There were at least five different Delta agents trying to figure out where we should line up to check in. Two of them told us two different locations. Another just shrugged her shoulders. We followed whatever direction we were given, including those from the five bored, disaffected third-party security guards who by now had been taken out of the equation altogether.

The only answer from Delta was something to do with Air France, even though this was a Delta flight, not code-shared with Air France. And apparently their computers had either been hacked or the crew didn’t know how to use them (more likely), because the Delta agents were circling around like hens in a barnyard trying to figure out whether to send us through security one more time to show our passports.

At this point, we had already shown our passports three times–once at Passport Control, once to gain entrance to Delta’s area and a third time to check in. But now they wanted to see our passports again. Or not. The next agent, who seemed to be more or less in charge, just waved us through the door to board the dreaded bus.

Once our bus loaded to capacity, we were given a drive through the bowels of CDG, taken on a magical mystery tour to a mystery gate in a mystery concourse. Then we were herded off the bus and out into the cold to climb up a tight circular set of concrete stairs to a jetway that magically led to our plane. Nothing like that good old first class treatment from Delta Airlines, who is always telling us that passengers’ safety and comfort come first. Sure. Right.

The flight itself was relatively painless. However, I have noted lately that they start serving the main meal as soon as the wheels are off the ground, with no time for a pre-dinner cocktail. I can come up with two reasons for this: 1) they want to save money on booze and/or 2) they want passengers eating and not drinking to avoid unpleasant encounters from over imbibing. In the middle of the flight, I finally just took it upon myself to walk all the way back to the galley and request a Bloody Mary. It was actually pretty good even if four hours late.

By comparison to Paris, JFK in New York was a breeze. We walked through Global Entry without even producing our passports, took our headshot, which was transmitted straight to the Border agent, and we were off to grab our luggage, recheck bags and go through security again.

I have often wondered why we have to clear TSA upon entering the U.S. when we have already gone through much more stringent security screening in Europe. Does the U.S. not trust security in Britain, France, the Netherlands? But TSA Pre Check was quick and painless. We had exactly 30 minutes to get to our gate.

Which, as good fortune would have it, was right down from Delta’s lounge. Knowing we would not have a meal on the final leg home, we ran into the lounge, gobbled a plate of food and a glass of wine and prepared to leave.

Not so fast. On my way out, I discovered a Nathan’s hot dog stand. I couldn’t resist.

And then we were on our plane in our originally assigned seats for the last two and a half hours in the air. Signing off our winter on the Med 2023-24.

Au revoir, Nice. Until next time.

Our time in Nice this winter is growing short. We are in the last week, so each day brings the last time we will enjoy our favorite restaurants or see our favorite sights or walk our favorite paths.

Wednesday started the first of the last. It was a rainy, gloomy day, by far the worst we have encountered in our sty this winter. Lynn was not in the mood to step out at all, so I ran our few necessary errands in the steady light drizzle. Rain or not, our dinner that night was our last at Citrus. The dinner was exquisitely delicious as always, but we were disappointed not to see our favorite server there. She lives just down the street from our apartment, and we occasionally get a glimpse of her walking to the market. We had hoped to wish her au revoir at the restaurant, but business that night was so light she probably chose to stay home.

After our delicious plats of veal confit for me and a seafood stew baked in a casserole for Lynn, we ordered dessert, a rarity for us. It was a black chocolate lava cake with ginger ice cream. The cake surrounded a molten center of chocolate, too hot to eat at first, but once cooled was so decadent, set off with the flavor of the ginger ice cream. Citrus makes their desserts as exquisite as their other dishes.

Thursday dawned with much better weather. The sun came out and the temperature rose to comfortable levels, so off we went for our last visit to Cimiez. The gardens were still colorful with the wildflower plantings, but the roses by then were completely gone, just a few petals left from the season. After a quick visit to the church to gaze one last time at the Brea paintings, we clambered down a set of stone steps to pay one last visit to Matisse’s tomb to say au revoir. His tomb rests all by itself in a green space separate form the rest of the cemetery on the way to the graveyard of the nuns in the convent above. I suppose a giant of art like Matisse merits his own private grave.

After our brief visit to Matisse and his wife, it was back on the 5 bus for lunch at Iberica following a long walk from our bus stop. We still haven’t figured out the best stop on the way back from Cimiez.

We had made reservations at a new place for us called Chez Palmyre, which serves traditional Nicoise fare in a tiny, rustic family-style room. I say family-style, because everyone sits elbow-to elbow on two long tables on either side of the narrow room. The menu consists of four entrees, four plats and four desserts, all for 22 euros. Chez Palmyre turned out to be a find, with delicious food served expeditiously, because the entire place only holds 25 diners. They offer only two seatings, one at 7:00 p.m. and one at 9:00. It’s a very efficient place, and has been there since 1926, so it is a fixture in Vieux Nice. Who knew? We do now.

Our companions at our table included a British couple visiting from Hong Kong where they work, then a French couple who obviously knew the place well, then on our other side three young French, two girls and a guy. All three couples sitting on our side ordered the same dishes–the osso bucco for me and trois frommage ravioli for Lynn. For my entreé I ordered the bouchée à la reine, a baked puff pastry filled with seafood–crawfish, of all things. Not as tasty without Zatarain’s, but it was a true crawfish. Dessert was what they call tiramisu, which is actually rich pudding topped with chocolate sauce and chocolate powder with a small crust on the very bottom of the container.

And we all three of the couples at our table ordered the same wine, a delicious Cote du Rhone for all of 17 euros. We’ll be back.

On Friday for our stroll, we headed west all the way to the Hotel Negresco and a visit in the next block to the memorial for the innocents who were slaughtered by a crazed Islamist jihadist while celebrating Bastille Day July 14, 2016. Nearly eight years later, it is still a sobering sight and doleful memory.

On the way back, we walked around to Place Massena, where the Christmas market was long gone and the stands for Carneval were in the first stages of construction. Mardi Gras is not far for either us or Nice, where the theme this year is King of Pop Culture.

Dinner Friday was farewell to Bar des Oiseaux, where we both ordered the veal confit, falling apart and melting in your mouth. I tried a different wine this time, but was somewhat disappointed. I’ll remember to stay with the Charme-Arnaud next time. Regardless, we had our table, the restaurant had the vibe, and we hated to leave.

Since Wayne’s is still under renovation and will be, we have been informed, at least to the end of this month and maybe into the first week of February, we decided to stop off at Snug & Cellar, an Irish bar just two bocks down rue Rosetti from our apartment. We found a most friendly place, tiny with enough room for only a few chairs and nothing else. We struck up a conversation with a friendly gentleman from England who is now a Canadian citizen but full-time resident of Nice. He just lost his wife less than a year ago, so is still grieving. We shared his story while Lynn petted his little dog.

During our conversation, one of our servers from Wayne’s walked in, bouncy and effervescent as we had always enjoyed her. She told us she no longer works at Wayne’s, which is why we have not seen her there the last several months. But she still stays in touch with her friends there and told us to tell them hello when we return, which sadly will not be until July.

Saturday was a last circumnavigation of Castle Hill before meeting Florent for lunch at L’Escalinada, which has also become one of our favorites. We walked through the very busy Cours Saleya to the Promenade and up to the base of Castle Hill, where a group of Palestinian supporters ignored the concept of slaughter and demonstrated against the war in Gaza. Most people just walked by without giving them the credit of notice. I refused to take a photo of people who can’t or won’t understand the meaning of barbarism.

We made it around the Port, where there were no boats of interest any more, then when on to meet Florent for lunch at L’Escalinada. Florent, ever the expert on all things Nicoise, explained the meaning of the gnocchi dish that he and I were interested in ordering. He explained that the literal translation of the dish is duck poo gnocchi, and by golly he was right. It was like nothing I had ever seen before–green elongated pieces that looked for all the world like….

Between the look and the texture, I decided not to order that again, although the flavor was just fine. Next time, I’ll find something else to accompany the daube, like Lynn’s pasta.

Florent was, as always, entertaining, funny and engaging. As we walked out of the restaurant, a very attractive young woman walked up and greeted him, apologizing that she spoke very little English. We left, and they walkedaway together. We weren’t sure whether they had planned to meet, and perhaps planned to leave together or had any sort of relationship. With Florent, nothing would ever surprise us.

After such a late lunch Friday, we planned to have a much more modest evening meal at Cave du Cours, where we could basically eat free while we drank a few glasses of wine. Saturday night, they outdid themselves.

We arrived just a few minutes after they opened at 6:00 p.m., so we were able to snag two seats at a counter in the back of the room right under the heater. In 15 minutes, the room was full with a lively vibe. At least three different small groups sat at the long table that dominates the middle of the wine cellar. We could hear American accents and French spoken in an American accent. I hope I don’t sound like that when I try to speak my pidgin French, but I probably do.

They were most generous with the knoshes that night. First we had plates of sausage and hard cheese. Then they brought out two more plates of chorizo and country paté. Then two more plates of sausage and hard cheese. All this for four glasses of delicious wine, the Charme Arnaud, the label I prefer at Bar des Oiseaux. It all amounted to a large charcuterie board anywhere else. We needed to eat no more that evening.

And then, the Last Supper out. A Sunday steak at L’Atelier du Carnivore.

This is purely a steakhouse. No other choices on the menu. They grill the steaks on a Big Green Egg, a really big one. And the choices are from a selection of Irish and Argentine beef, Black Angus from the U.S. or a tasting menu of huge hunks of meat for large group.

We chose the Argentine entrecôte, essentially a 400-gram rib eye just the right size for us to share. The first rendition came out too rare for even me; their idea of medium is all but barely singed on the outside. We asked them for a few more minutes on the Big Green Egg, and the result was just perfect.

We split the steak with some sides of tiny fingerling potatoes and a little salad, just the perfect Sunday dinner and a fitting Last Supper before our Last Day.

Parc Phoenix is a multi-modal park near the airport in Nice that we like to visit when we are here. The park includes a primitive zoo of interest mostly to kids; a large open area for picnics (not now); the Asian Art Museum (closed one day a week, of course Tuesday when we went); and a huge greenhouse of tropical flora and a little bit of fauna.

We have visited there in better weather when families turn out in force, but we like to visit at least once no matter the season. Tuesday was to be our day.

Despite the closure of the Asiatic Art museum, Parc Phoenix is still interesting and enjoyable for us. There was no line at the ticket window, and we walked right in to find the closed museum. Then it was off to the little zoo where we watched wallabies, ducks, geese, pigs, and goats hang around in their pens. We looked for a few other animals on display but they apparently had hidden themselves away for the winter, like the porcupine.

Then it was off to the huge 7,000 square meter tropical greenhouse to wander through the various climates ranging from Australia to Florida. Even in the dead of winter, the flowers were brilliantly colored, and many of the plants were in full growth in the humid warmth of the pyramidal greenhouse. We even found the snakes and bugs in what is called the salle lineé, or linear room. It was on the way to the bathroom, so we were destined to find it anyway.

Parc Phoenix is good for a morning if you don’t have kids, and we decided to forego lunch in the little cafe for a more substantial feeding back in town. Rather than alight from the tram at Place Garibaldi, we decided to go all the way to the Port and walk around to the far side to explore for lunch. There we found Ma Nolan’s, an Irish bar, where we dined on cheeseburgers that we had been craving the last several days.

Ma Nolan’s cheeseburgers were satisfying if not great, and the fries were delicious. For some reason, the French serve ketchup and mayonnaise with burgers and fries, but we always have to ask for mustard. The jar that came out was at the very end of its contents, but it was just enough to slather on both our burgers. With a couple of 1664 beers, sitting out in the sun enjoying cheeseburgers was just a wonderful mid-winter experience.

We could see from Ma Nolan’s to our surprise, the Peruvian barque Union was still in Port. As it was mid-afternoon by the time we finished dining, we walked off our lunch around the perimeter of the Port to see if the ship was still open for visits or might show signs of leaving anytime soon.

Indeed it was the latter. And it was quite the show.

Shortly before 3:00 p.m. the cadets scrambled up the rigging to take their positions on the yardarms, ready to cast off. A young woman on the dock sang two songs sending the ship off, one of which must have been the Peruvian national anthem, because it generated a round of applause from the crowds lining the Promenade and the parking lot overlooking the Port and the ship.

The pilot boats approached, and they began their job of towing the Union ever so carefully away from the dock. Once clear, the ship began to turn around very slowly with the aid of the pilot boats, one on the stern and one on the bow. As the Union separated from dry land of France, the ship’s PA system played La Marseillaise at full volume as the assembled crowd burst into wild cheers, applause and singing along. It was a thrilling moment. I hummed along, but I really need to learn the words to La Marseillaise.

We walked up the Promenade slowly, watching the majestic tall ship move out into the Mediterranean to be met by two groups of Optis, the Union sailors still standing in the rigging, where they had been now for about an hour. We felt personally attached to this group, because we had talked to so many while they toured Nice and we toured their ship. And now they were leaving. We waved good-bye one last time as the ship motored out to the southwest, bound for Malaga.

Menton is the last town in France before reaching the Italian border at Ventimiglia. We had passed through Menton a few times on the way from or to Italy, but had never actually visited. Monday was to be the day.

Lynn and I both declared simultaneously in the morning–it was time to explore eastbound. We briefly discussed going to Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild, but we had been there more than once, and the extensive gardens aren’t so lush in the middle of winter. So I suggested Menton. Lynn agreed.

Menton is known as the Pearl of France, likely a term that originates with the Office of Tourism. It is, however, a pretty little town perched in the rocky cliffs that run down to the always beautiful Mediterranean. If that is possible, Menton has a milder climate than Nice, tucked as it is in a corner of the Ligurian Sea adjacent to the Italian border. It is known for lemons, and its Lemon Festival is held in February. It also boasts of a number of botanical gardens dotted throughout the little town. Clementine trees loaded with hundreds of fruit line many of the streets in the old town.

Menton is also famed for its beaches, although after we have seen the ones in Nice and all the other little towns sprinkled to the east and west, we know they are all beautiful but none so much as Nice.

We took the tram to Gare Nice-Ville, the main train station, where I purchased two round-trip tickets for 25.60 euros from one of the many machines standing around the cavernous lobby. As I collected my tickets and receipt, I realized that the machine had been set to Italian. I could have dialed up French or English, but just stumbled my way through the process in Italian. How multilingual we have become.

Of course, the scanner was not linguistic at all and would not recognize my tickets when we started through the gate inside the station. The helpful SNCF agent tried to scan the QR code to no avail either, then just waved us through. It was obvious we had tickets after all, and the conductor would check them on the train anyway. The internal gate is useless. Someone had a contract…

Our train nearly filled up in Nice, but then nearly emptied out in Monaco. By the time we reached Menton two stops away, there were very few passengers left. Just about all of them were bound for Ventimiglia and Italy, because we were the only two to disembark at Menton.

Gare de Menton is under major construction. We followed the directions to the exit that led us to walking through a private tennis club, a pretty impressive affair but also private property. Oops. No one seemed to object.

Following Google Maps on my phone we managed to reach the Tourism Office, where I grabbed an old-fashioned paper map that the helpful agent circled the major points of interest. He directed us to the pedestrian mall along Avenue Felix Faure (same Felix Faure as in Nice–he was president of France during the Third Republic at the end of the 19th century), then up to the Basilica of St. Michael, and to the waterfront.

The pedestrian mall was pleasant if nondescript, lined with the same retail names we have seen in Nice and all over western Europe. A few souvenir shops were open selling their wares emblazoned with names of Cote d’Azur, Menton and the usual t-shirt wisdom.

By the time we reached the waterfront, we started looking for a lunch spot and found Bar du Cap, one of the few spots open for business. Off season is no different in Menton–restaurants along the waterfront are closed for congé or construction.

Lunch was fairly nondescript as well. Lynn went for her standard, a chèvre chaud salad, and I ordered mine, a salad Nicoise. With two glasses of delicious rosé, the salads were just fine and a real bargain, 13.50 and 14.50, the lowest we have seen anywhere. Nevertheless both salads were large, generous with the chèvre for Lynn and the anchovies for me. Our only problem was the pigeons that kept flying around as the servers tried vainly to drive them out of the place. The pigeons won.

After lunch, we started up the multiple stairways that led to the basilica, which–not atypical in old France–was right next door to another church. Both looked historic and both were closed until late in the afternoon, so we worked our way down the stairs and on to the waterfront.

Menton has its own Promenade, not as wide but quite attractive in its own right, starting along the marina, where a string of restaurants operate during high season. At the end of the marina is the Bastion of Jean Cocteau, a museum to the famous painter housed in the old fort built in 1636 when Menton was ruled by the Grimaldi family of Monaco.

Just down the street from the Bastion is another Jean Cocteau museum, this one a very contemporary building opened in 2011 to display the huge collection of Séverin Wunderman, one of Cocteau’s most prolific buyers. A number of vintage hotels line the street facing the beach, all of them impressive and oddly all only three-star. And just down from these is the large, elaborate Casino Barriere de Menton that faces the beach at the very end of the boulevard where we turned to walk back up to the train station.

The train back had us home by 4:00 p.m., a pleasant and quiet ride in a newer (but not new) regional train. We decided to forego our stroll along the Promenade since we had just accomplished the same thing in Menton. Tomorrow would be time enough.