If Paris can sometimes feel like France on steroids (especially down in the metro during rush hour), then Nice is France on valium. Everyone walks about 50% slower. Cars honk 60% less. And people are about 30% friendlier. (yeah, these are official statistics, by the way…) I’d chalk it up to the clutch seaside location [snug between Cannes & Monte Carlo], the palm trees, and the generally sunny weather. But what do I know?

When we arrived in the town center, my brilliant architectural mind observed “huh, this reminds me, sort of, er, like Paris, but in different colors”. I think it was the shutters and ironwork that triggered the connection. But instead of snooty black iron on white buildings, you have a happy mix of summer colors: light green on terra cotta, white on ochre yellow. It was a nice effect, and as I do in just about every city these days, I thought “hmmm, wouldn’t it be nice to own a flat here?”

With just one afternoon of time to kill, we strolled down the main drag — avenue Jean Médicin — popping our heads into the usual Frenchy chain stores to take a break from the chill: Monoprix (sort of like Target, but with food), Marionnaud (perfume), Promod (chickwear), Sephora (more perfume), and Minelli (shoes). Not much caught my eye other than some gourmet apple juice, a few bars of Savon du Marseilles (handsoap) to restock our cupboards, and my favorite French shampoo – Leonor Greyl (totally exorbitant but worth every euro!).

We arrived at the harbor just in time for a cloudy sunset. After dodging rollerbladers to get across the boardwalk, we snagged a well-located bench and literally chilled out in the 5C temperatures. When I closed my eyes and blocked out the hum of cars, I heard only the thousands of birds chirping in the trees right behind us, and the sound of small waves breaking on the pebbly beach.

On the way back, we ducked into Le Ritz Brasserie for a warmup. Glory be, they had an entire menu consisting only of gourmet hot chocolate drinks! Chocolate with orange and cinnamon, chocolate with cream and coconut, chocolate with banana, chocolate with hazelnut. The selection was overwhelming, so I tossed aside the menu and ordered a glass of champagne. Soenke got his usual chocolate crêpe and cappuccino. From the vantage of our indoor window seat, I watched the masses pass by and was surprised to note how many women were in nearly-full-length fur coats. I hope these were FAKE, ladies!

Dinner was a simple Italian spread at Restaurant Venezia; most of the entertainment was watching the elderly Italian husband-&-wife owners argue with each other, and observing their old dog hobble around the restaurant looking for scraps (high health department standards in the south of France). The husband was a fashion fireball in his burnt orange shirt, bright red sweater vest, flaming yellow tie, and red-rimmed glasses. The lady at the table behind us was stone drunk. It was all a little surreal.

At the airport the following morning, a TV was set up in the waiting room for passengers to watch a helpful documentary on the techniques of playing foosball (table soccer).

I left Nice feeling, well, a little bewildered. I’d never seen this side of “French”. It was almost startling to realize that yes, there ARE French cities other than Paris…. and this one felt good!

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Another gratuitous shot of the Alps (en route to Nice):

A colorful corner:

Soenke checks out the goods at Monoprix:

This building reminds me more of Bologna than Paris:

Nice’s Cote d’Azur:

Another gorgeous sunset:

Look, I got some tricky little things for my hair:

Everyone loves a ferris wheel:

With French-school comrade Irene back in Europe (she’s our Aussie girl), it was definitely time for another reunion! With dinner & drink plans intact, the troops converged on the city of light yet once again…

I arrived in Paris a few hours before the meeting time. On the way into the airport’s RER (train) station, I noticed an exasperated North-American-sounding man with a bunch of luggage whose RER ticket had just been mercilessly gobbled by the machine. I sort of kept an eye on him to make sure he got it back, since you can’t exit at the other end without it (and the ticket guys at the RER station are usually less than helpful). With his ticket back in hand, we chatted on the 40-minute ride into town, & turns out he had quite a story…….. French/Romanian couple invites him & wife to visit them in Paris…… he comes to Europe on business then makes a special trip to Paris just to see them….. their invitation suddenly deteriorates into “we’re busy with friends so how ‘bout if one of us meets you in town for lunch, and you pick the place”. Cordial! So here’s the dude stranded in Paris for 3 days without so much as a metro map, & me ever the party planner, I say “HEY come join the all-English-speaking Paris peeps tonight for drinks & chow!” I give him the address & go my merry way.

Hanging out alone on the Paris metro (seems like that doesn’t happen often… the ‘alone’ part), I have some time to “observe”. I recognize that there are two general types of metro-goers. The tourist who either has his face buried in a city map or is gazing intently/worriedly up at the metro route, and the local who is practiced in looking BORED and COOL. So I decide that I should try looking really BORED and COOL. I stare disinterestedly out the window at nothing in particular, I sigh deeply as if it’s been a long and stressful day of whatever Parisians do on Sunday, I raise my eyebrow disdainfully at the tourists, I check my cellphone voicemail as if waiting for an important call from Jacques Chirac. I am COOOOOOOOOL….

I coolly get off at FDR on the Champs Elysees, stroll with coolness up to the big Monoprix, and not-so-coolly-at-all exclaim “DAMN IT’S CLOSED ON SUNDAY!” So much for my urgent shopping assignment from our girl Deanna in California, who is in desperate need of “Le Petit Marseilles” liquid handsoap. What a bust.

So off to Laduree for a box of those awesome colorful macaroon cookies, which apparently every other person in Paris also was craving that day by the look of the throngs standing in line at the cookie counter. My shopping ideas are obviously failing, so why not enjoy some of the scattered sunshine over at the Tuileries? Another COOOOL metro ride ejects me right at the entrance of the gardens, & I thoroughly enjoy watching the kids float their boats around the fountain on this unusual day of Indian summer. Oddly, really colorful flowers are blooming with total disregard for the season, & my coolness deteriorates as I stare in wonder (remember, look disinterested!). The final nail in my coolness coffin comes when one of the many money-scouting Eastern European girls in the park (this one with a headscarf and a gold tooth) approaches me for money. The locals around me keep one eye on me to see if I’ll cave. I say unconvincingly “uh, non”…. She begs “s’il vous plait!!!” and I do cave, but only with one euro. You could practically hear the collective groan from my audience, & I realize I’m really just a softie American tourist at heart. So much for COOOOOOOOOL.

At 6:30 on the button, we meet up in Montmartre at “Drôle d’Endroit Pour Une Rencontre” (“A Funny Place To Meet”). Our lineup included Australian-resident Irene with her 3 traveling companions (Kate, Christine, Nyet.. .sorry I know I massacred his name..), Barry the Canadian guy from the train, British-born/Paris-resident Dani, and Australian-born/Paris-resident James. (Soenke was off flying & couldn’t join the gang). The bar included an array of notebooks with glossy singles’ ads from the patrons of the establishment, which we delightedly thumbed through and giggled at between hilarious travel tales from Irene’s gang and Barry.

Grumbling bellies eventually spurred us off in search of our designated restaurant, which was discovered to be permanently closed - unless dark windows & chains across the door are considered welcoming in France. Nearby was a welcoming-looking French joint called “O Vinea”, headed by a VERY typically Parisienne proprietress, who greeted, served, AND cooked (in the world’s smallest oven). She was dressed in fabulous accessories & perfect makeup/hair… explained the menu to us with dramatic flourishes and excitement that made you think this was going to be the FINEST meal you EVER had… and yes it was pretty darn good!

The night wrapped up with big hugs & promises of future meetings in exotic locales. It was a great night that stirred warm memories of last year’s month-long Parisian extravaganza!

I was greeted back at my hotel – the well-located and cheap (while a bit shabby chic) Prince Albert Louvre - by the French-only speaking, 80-year-oldish night deskman, who practically begged me to have a nightcap and a chat with him. I escaped, only to be greeted by him early the next morning as if I was a long lost lover. UGH! I made my escape just in the nick of time……!

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Enjoying the Tuileries fountains & boaters, with the Louvre looming in the background:

Some of our original Paris Peeps…. James, me, Dani, & Irene!

The dinner gang.. but no Barry! Where is he? Taking the picture? (if someone has a group photo including ALL of us, please email to me & I’ll add):

The Australian contingent loiters in the metro…

Totally unrelated to Paris…. a gratuitous shot of autumn off our Hamburg balcony: