 |
| The Gardens of Cimiez Monastery, Nice (lepoint.fr) |
On my penultimate day in Nice, the sun finally comes out to play in earnest. By the time I’m awake, dressed and ready for the world, Christophe is already good to go. He informs me he’ll be out all day, as will I.
I want to visit the monastery and gardens at nearby Cimiez, before heading on an afternoon tour of local village Eze and later Monte Carlo. Christophe is his usual zealous (and a little too tactile) self when I mention my plans to visit Cimiez (Pronounced Si-mi-yeh, apparently). He explains that I can easily go to the grounds on foot, showing me the route in relation to his flat.
I try and nap before my excursion but Christophe is holding court with another one of the many impromptu (always female) guests he seems to entertain on a daily basis. When I emerge from the room, the flat is empty except for the stereo blasting R&B/Soul and Hip-Hop; a decoy for potential thieves. I’ll give it to Christophe, he has good taste in music.
However, it turns out he has exaggerated how quickly it’ll take to reach Cimiez. I have to verify several times that I’m on the right path. If I’d known, I’d have taken the bus. There’s only enough time for a jaunt around the Greco-Roman ruins and a curtailed moment at the Monastery gardens. I don’t even consider visiting any of the numerous museums in the locality.
It's worth the trek, nonetheless. The view of the Niçois landscape and coastline from that vantage point is gorgeous, not to mention serene. There are not too many other visitors around to disturb the peace. An affable older couple greet me and wish a Happy New Year. The husband lingers a little too long, taking particular interest in my necklace from Porto which, naturally, hangs above my bust.
It’s a shorter stop than I’d have liked but better than nowt. I rush back to the accommodation, fearing that I’ll miss my ride to Monaco. I take a circuitous bus route out of limited options and hot foot it the rest of the way. In the end, it’s the tour guide who’s running late.
 |
| Éze's Exotic Garden |
We’re a small group; two girls from Corsica, me and Jérémie, the guide/driver. We’re apparently the same age but he looks about 10 years older.
Although I booked the trip in English, it’s pointless to enforce it on the others when I’m the only Anglophone. The other occupants of the car seem tickled by my quaint, text-book French.
Our first stop is the picturesque mediaeval town, Eze. We have just une petite heure to explore. The village highlight is the exotic garden; a real treat for the eyes even for those of us without a horticultural inclination. The garden sits at a dizzying height above the Riviera. As well as the array of fauna and flora from across the world, there’s a superb view of the region from the top. There’s even a corner for contemplative silence, flanked by a small waterfall. Alas, I have to end this blissful pause to grab something to eat before reconnecting with Jérémie and co.
He's booked us on a short tour of Fragonard parfumerie. Given the brevity of my stay, I won’t have time to visit nearby Grasse, close to Cannes; said to be the world’s perfume capital. The Fragonard factory is thus the next best thing. It’s an interactive visit, with a test right at the start to see how well we know our scents and opportunities to sample the latest range. As a perfume fan, I’m nonetheless underwhelmed by what’s on offer. I don’t smell anything worth the eye-watering prices. The more appealing aromas already exist on the market, under a different name and at a more economical rate.
As a concession, I buy some expensive scented hand-cream.
Next up is Monte Carlo, Monaco. En route, Jérémie unhelpfully tells us that Grace Kelly met her untimely death on that very road.
There've been a few accidents round these parts, he chirps, pointing out tell-tale signs.
There really isn’t much separating us from a sharp drop off the cliff edge.
 |
| Monte Carlo, Monaco (courtesy of Ceetiz) |
Mercifully, we make it to safe ground. Jérémie parks for a moment for a photo opp. of Monaco from on high, of which the two other passengers take advantage. He has a good knowledge of the region but chooses to share it in a casual, anecdotal-style; more well-informed local than official tour guide.
It’s nightfall as we approach Monte Carlo. The vista is splendid yet, as Jérémie reminds us of Monaco’s tax haven status, pointing out the palatial bank buildings or the ostentatious yachts of Saudi Sheiks, tech billionaires and Russian oligarchs, it turns my stomach. Being a true-blood socialist, all this tax-dodgers’ opulence sickens me. I feel a similar way visiting affluent neighbourhoods in the UK. Except Monte Carlo is Sloane Square on steroids. The hardworking people truly worthy of this sort of pampering- subsistence farmers in the Global South, domestic workers, health and social care workers...I could go on – come nowhere near this privilege.
I take a begrudging meander around the bay, looking for the nearest café to put down my thoughts. I find a gourmet burger joint where the staff seem compelled to make micro-agressive faux-pas. On more than one occasion, they assume Afrodescendant customers (including yours truly) all belong to one party by the mere fact we’re standing in the same vicinity. When I spot a Franco-African woman working in that very establishment, I’m so relieved I blurt out my appreciation. She listens sympathetically as I complain that her co-workers need some educating.
Back in the car, when Jérémie asks how we found Monaco, the divergence in perspective is obvious. The other two passengers are excited by the flashy cars and casinos. They are in their early 20s. Speaking in broad generalisations (not the best thing, I know), Gen Z/young millennials seem to be torn between radical socio-economic change through collective action and the kind of rugged, champagne-lifestyle individualism promoted by social media influencers. Maybe I’m being too harsh. After all, each generation has faced those temptations in some form.
Jérémie drops me off at Nice city centre as agreed, recommending an Italian restaurant favoured by his wife. Still well within budget, I nevertheless have to fight my financially-prudent urge when I glance at the menu. It is the last night of my holiday. I should live a little.
After a very filling plate of seafood pasta, I roam once more, hoping to find a Gelateria within easy walking distance. I abandon my quest and settle for some over-priced mediocre chocolate bars and another wander around La Promenade des Anglais. I pass an ivory-coloured house -now a deluxe block of flats-which boasts Anton Chekhov and Henri Matisse amongst its erstwhile occupants.
It’s a subdued and maudlin affair at the seafront tonight, compared to the bustle of the weekend.
Even Christophe has retired to his room by the time I get back. He texts to inform me that he’ll be leaving by 8am the following morning. In case our paths don’t cross again before I leave for the airport, he wishes me well. I apologise for coming back too late to catch him before bed. I express gratitude for his hospitality and suggest we meet up for a drink if or when we’re in each other’s respective corners of the world. By now I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to Christophe’s quirks and extreme manifestation of Provence friendliness. When some friends get in touch to check on my safety, I reassure them in all sincerity that I'm fine. God is in the details.
In and out of sleep the next morning, I hear Christophe pottering around long after 8am. Perhaps he banks on me appearing before he has to leave. Once it’s clear this won’t happen, he sends me another text, which I’ll only see after he’s gone. He communicates more well-wishes for my onward journey and hopes that we might have that drink one day. He signs off the message “...from a lonely sinner”. I suspect he’s only half-joking. Moved, I respond that we’re all sinners and remind him that he’s beloved of Christ…
“...Look at the lengths the Almighty would go to show you; turning my holiday plans askew [cheeky smiley]...”
I finish packing, strip the bed and put the linen in the washing machine alongside the used towels. I open the room window to allow for some fresh air. The steel-coloured skies have returned. Once the pull-out bed is tucked out of sight and everything cleared away, all that remains is a sad bareness.
No comments:
Post a Comment