When I awake on New Year’s morning, the sun is still playing hide and seek. So much for optimistic weather forecasts. I’m praying it brightens up for the days I have a more structured itinerary.
Before I pop out for my loosely-planned activities, my host Héloïse, informs me that her daughter, Marie has caught COVID. I let slip an expletive.
The whole household is apparently vaccinated, Marie having just received her third dose. Héloïse herself has only recently recovered from catching the Delta variant.
Christophe has offered his spare room as an alternative. Héloïse shows me the space. It is smaller than hers but has the advantage of an ensuite shower (although no toilet). I really don’t know what to do. I'm doubtful that Christophe's offer is motivated by pure goodwill. I might have scarcely interacted with Marie but it could already be too late and I’ve been exposed. On the other hand, if I do have a chance of avoiding infection, I shouldn't waste it. I don’t want to take the risk, given that even my booster shot might not entirely protect me; albeit it's unlikely I would be seriously unwell.
Héloïse and Marie are keen to assure me how lovely Christophe is and that I have no need to worry about safety. We agree that I can keep the key to their flat if I should still feel uneasy. I call mum, who is surprisingly relaxed about it all.
With few options, especially on New Year’s Day, I take the plunge and move to Christophe’s room, manoeuvring my stuff around the very lived-in, although clean, space. Thankfully, he’s out visiting family. I notice a dodgy looking sketch of a near-naked woman. I’m glad for the lock on the room door. I don’t intend to spend too much time inside in any case, which shouldn’t be too hard come the rest of my trip.
Although I suspect little will be open, I need some fresh air. I take a walk around the neighbourhood, trying to recall the route Christophe showed me to the tram stop. I ask for directions, paying too much for fruit and household items at a cornershop on the way.
I arrive hungry at Nice Old City. I look for the restaurant where I’ve eaten the night before. It’s not exceptional but it is familiar and they do have a wide-ranging menu. En route, I make a mental note of places of interest. Naturally, I get lost as I take detours into seasonal wonderlands and an open-air photography exhibition about the effects of Climate Change. Coming full circle a couple of times, I eventually find my desired location.
At the restaurant, I Skype sis to update her on the latest twists. I feel a little odd. I’m not sure if these are genuine COVID symptoms or the phantom kind I’ve had before when paranoid about being infected. They don't last but I make my peace with being tested on my return to Brussels.
I’ve come away for sunshine and respite but there hasn’t been much of either as of present. The lead up to this New Year has felt particularly heavy. I sense I'm not the only one. For several years, even before the pandemic, I’ve been glad to see the back of the previous 12 months. In my adult life so far, I can hardly- if at all- indicate a year that can be characterised as overall good. C’est la vie. With the past couple of years being more intense still, the soul is beleaguered. It feels too risky to hope; perhaps even reckless. If there’s ever a time to take each day as it comes, it’s now. Yet it’s that same dangerous hope, sly and persistent as it is, that gives any of us the will to face the day in the first place. Thank God for it.
Whilst eating I watch a video sent by one of my spiritual mentors - Vinoth Ramachandra – with lyrics penned by Christian martyr, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. It speaks to the tentative hope and reassurance of Immanuel God’s presence during such turbulent times.
After lunch, I make my way to the soon-to-close Christmas fair for some fun and frolics on the Ferris Wheel. With each ride I regret my decision, yet can’t resist them. This one is especially rapid. I then mosey my way back to the tram stop along the bay, listening to Part One of my 2020 Best Of...mixes.
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| A Nice Noël (RécréaNice) |
At least I’m able to retire before Christophe is back. I send a text thanking him for his hospitality and letting him know I’m already preparing for bed. He replies with an invitation to join him and another neighbour for an apéro in the salon. I can hear the low hum of their voices and pesky cigarette fumes creep under my door. I thank him for the invite but decline.
The following morning, as I step out of the room to join a free walking tour, Christophe’s voice sings out a greeting before we’re within each other’s eye line. My new host is bestowed with what I dare say is a whimsy particular to straight Francophone - or more generally Latin - men. In and out of their feelings in the blink of an eye, romantic notions tripping off their tongue like the nothingness that they are. Women are an idealised abstraction; mere cyphers on which to project whatever emotional need or predilection. Whether because of some early trauma, the quest for an impossible ideal, or simple male entitlement, they can't seem to commit. What's more in Christophe’s case, albeit not unique to him, there’s an air of constant tipsiness, even first thing in the a.m. It's as if an alcohol-fuelled energy never quite makes its way out of the bloodstream.
Christophe insinuates, light-heartedly, that I’m holed up in my room. I compliment him on the attractiveness of his living space, all of which Christophe personally designed. He’s working, although it’s a Sunday morning, yet desperate to show some more hospitality. He offers me coffee or tea, neither of which I’m a fan. Besides, I have to make a move. I try to be as courteous as possible whilst keeping a polite distance. As I’m about to leave, Christophe says something cryptic about remembering my reaction when we first encountered each other on the stairwell. If only he knew that I was wary from the get-go.
He follows it up with a comment implying that I shouldn’t be too much in my head. Hmm. That’s thought-provoking, I say before departing. (One good thing about my accommodation set-up so far is the immersive language experience. It’s doing wonders for the consistency of my French. I don’t have time to over-think everything).
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| Sun Fountain (ColourBox) |
The walking tour group meet at the Sun Fountain in Massena Square. Ironically, the skies remain steel grey. Our guide is a former viticulture student originally from the Ukraine. She explains key historical points at a gentle pace, by way of the Old Town, up to the high point of the gardens and man-made waterfalls where the now demolished City castle once stood (La Colline du Château).
We learn of Nice' ancient connections (taking its name from the Greek goddess of victory)-second only in Gallic antiquity to Marseille. We hear about the reign of the Savoy nobility and how the City came to be integrated into France. At the Palais de Justice, we listen to the fascinating saga of crafty Albert Spaggiari's ambitious bank robbery and escape from, well, justice before we visit the Cathedral of the Patron Saint Réparata. Our guide even squeezes in an anecdote about the infamous genius violinist Paganini’s stay in Nice, where he eventually died. It took nearly four decades for his body to find a resting place, owing to a superstition that his abilities derived from a diabolical pact. There’s also time to check out a local market en route.
As well as an opportunity to catch some of the key sites on my list, the tour also allows me to enjoy at leisure the lurid quaintness of the City’s citrus-coloured buildings. Neighbouring Italy’s influence is felt strongly; from family names and the cuisine, to the local Niçois dialect in which every street name is written alongside French. Nice is also clearly a hot spot for Italian tourists.
After swapping some tourist tips with fellow travellers heading to Marseille, it’s back down towards the Cathedrale de Sainte Réparata before lunch. Ringing in my ear is the tour guide's recommendation of Niçois churches' Baroque designs. The Cathedral is still reassuringly festive, with multiple nativity scenes and carols playing through the speakers. There are graphic depictions of the martyred Réparata of Palestine's brutal demise at the hands of her torturers. One portrait shows blood spurting from her freshly decapitated neck. Meanwhile, she wears an expression of beatific long-suffering on her haloed, disembodied visage.
Contrast this gory fixation with all the censorious, (and likely historically inaccurate) portrayals of the crucified Christ in loin cloths. It is on record that Romans preferred naked executions, to heap humiliation on the convicted. It does a disservice to the full humanity of Jesus. As if God didn’t create our reproductive organs. It calls to mind a story by the tour guide about the uproar from Conservative churchgoers over the naked Apollos statue at Place Massena. I think of the historic excessive prudishness of some Christians around genitalia; instantly sexualised and associated with the perverse. I too confess to a complicated relationship with nudity, although the reasons are more complex than a mere religious reflex.
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| Parc de la Colline du Chateau (Nice Tourisme) |
After a savoury crêpe (yes!) and quinoa salad-based lunch (I’ve missed vegetables), I have another Skype session with sis. It’s whilst I’m busy in the café, the sun finally makes an appearance; not too long before nightfall. My plans to find more places of spiritual solitude are put on hold as I get lost searching for La Chappelle de Miséricorde. I settle for a dusky beach walk, making my way to the one patch of sand on the pebbly seaside. Unfortunately, a couple of loiterers spoil the atmosphere by blasting awful techno music.
Moving swiftly on, I lounge around La Promenade des Anglais, taking another easygoing walk down towards the famous Negresco hotel. I'm admiring the palm trees in all their illuminated festive splendour.
During my ramble, I pass a couple of memorials to the victims of the Bastille Day terrorist attacks, five and a half years ago. It's with shame I admit that, despite being relatively recent, this tragedy had slipped my mind. It was sadly one of many dreadful occurrences in a period so notorious (2016/17), it took a pandemic to upstage it in global misfortune.
My aimless wandering turns into a search for the acclaimed pizzeria, Pizza Pili. I have the name, and vague recollections of the road from Google maps. However, with a poor sense of direction and no smartphone, I’m reliant on the kindness of several strangers-including a pedantic Parisian – to find the spot. As the evening wears on, I worry that I might arrive at peak time and there’ll be no room for me.
When I finally find the establishment, it’s all but hidden away on a side street and only provides a takeaway service. It might be the ‘best Pizza in Nice’ but I’m in no mood to return to Christophe's with lukewarm food, heat it up in the microwave and then eat alone in my room. Accepting that I've made a wasted journey but still in the mood for Italian, I take a chance on an appealing brand new pizzeria, reasonably-priced, with good music and great customer service. As is often the case, as a female dining alone I notice a certain incredulity from the staff (not unfriendly) and other clientele (not so friendly).
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| SeeNice.com |
Back home, Christophe greets me with his puppy-like enthusiasm. He gives me a more detailed tour of the flat, explaining how he re-built everything from scratch himself over a period of three years. Our attention turns to some designs on which he’s working; sofas in the shape of enormous breasts.
I’m visibly perturbed. The whole thing seems crass and sleazy in a Playboy-esque fashion. Not to mention the sketches around the flat of dominatrix in various stages of nudity and/or suggestive poses. I think of my loved ones and what they’d make of me staying in the home of a man with such risqué taste in art. It's a delicate issue. I don't want my replacement host to feel I'm condemning him. Neither do I want to indulge any perversity. As I back away, Christophe endeavours to explain his thought-processes.
I'm a feminist; more so than some women. He asserts, dubiously.
Christophe claims that his sofa idea is drawn from the comfort he finds in the female form. Plus, this bespoke furniture is apparently destined for some kind of boudoir rather than a living room. He wants to launch into an explanation about the connection to S&M but I put a halt to it.
He blames religion for my aversion to the images. I point out that, on the contrary, I believe God created sexual pleasure. Yet one doesn't have to be religious to take issue with crude and reductive depictions of the female body. He could have designed the sofas around the male form. To not do so is a deliberate choice.
It ends up being a winding back-and-forth about objectification, patriarchy, consent, social mores and the concept of sin, with philosophical detours into memory and the role of speech in the understanding of self. It’s extremely good language practice, not least given my fatigue. Moreover, I'm always glad for an opportunity to have meaningful discourse about my faith even when – especially when – my interlocutor and I have different worldviews.
Atheist Christophe jokes that it could well be God's plan for our paths to cross.
Soundtrack: Best of...2020 (Uptempo Mix) + 2021 (Uptempo Mix)
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