The Festive Interstice- Une Pause Niçoise (3)

 Part 1 & 2

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.

The Festive Interstice- Une Pause Niçoise (2)

 

 Part 1 & 3

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.

A Nice Noël (RécréaNice)

I plan to dine at the local pizzeria that evening, hoping to return before Christophe is home. When I arrive mid-evening, the restaurant is already closed. They keep peculiar hours, even for this time of year. I have to make-do with a Kit-Kat and diet Fanta from the same over-priced cornershop, with their decrepit looking stock. Some of it has flagrantly been bought in bulk from Lidl and resold under sketchy circumstances.

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).

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.

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).

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)

The Festive Interstice: Une Pause Niçoise (1)

 

 Part 2 & 3

There are a few predictable elements to this time of year. I’ll be reminding anyone who dares to make the mistake that Christmas only starts on 25 December and doesn’t end until the Epiphany, 12 days later. It’s a bête-noire when folk start to speak of it in the past tense from Boxing Day. 

On a more serious note, as much as I enjoy the build up to Christmas, there’s a melancholy that can attend the arrival of the New Year. This goes way back, although I recall years where there has been some respite.

Yet since relocating from the UK and living on my own, I’m increasingly aware of an early onset; in that interstitial period between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day. At least this time, I’m not nearly as alienated as I was in December 2020.  A few of my close Brussels-based friends have left for the season but others have remained. I’m able to attend service offline and take advantage of the Christmas programme at FWM, including the Boxing Day Raclette after church. 

After being largely ignored by a group of Dutch-speakers where I’m seated, I join Pastors Talia and Mike at their table, with my Nigerian older brother-in-the-Lord, Chris whom I affectionately call uncle. It’s a fun time of Pan-African in jokes (Mike and Talia are of mixed-heritage from Durban) and complimenting professional chef Chris on his delicious Joloff. Before Coronavirus put paid to his culinary ambitions, he had a thriving Fusion restaurant in central Brussels.

That evening, I take a ride on the seasonal Ferris Wheel located in Sainte-Catherine. All around, the Brussels Christmas market stall holders are packing down; one week earlier than scheduled owing to COVID-19 concerns.

I’m enjoying my early evening ramble so much I stumble into the old Béguinage, only realising where I am once inside. It is now a refuge for undocumented migrants. The space is eerily dim. I’m the only female as far as my eyes can see in the poor light. A man starts a conversation at the door. Strangely, and carelessly on my part, this doesn’t make me turn right back around. 

I tell the man I'd like to see if there’s a nativity scene and move further in. I don’t want to automatically criminalise those of irregular migration status. Mainstream media and politicians do enough of that. At the same time, I’m aware dehumanising circumstances can make people act in inhumane ways. Women shouldn’t have to curtail their behaviour for fear of their safety. Alas, it’s the sad state of the world whilst change is painfully slow, if happening at all. 

I have a delayed reaction to what could have occurred. On exiting, it hits me how foolish my actions potentially were.

Raclette

During the week ahead, I lap up any opportunity to be in company and/or useful. Monday, I spend with Sylvia and Steve’s clan, playing charades and watching A Charlie Brown Christmas for the first time since it was removed from YouTube a couple of years ago. A few days later, I’m invited round to Karin’s for talk and Christmas cookies before we head out to pick up her kids from holiday camp. 

 I continue my now weekly shifts at the Red Cross, serving teas and coffees with an affable co-volunteer and fending off advances (to us both) by one or two of the majority male beneficiaries. Inappropriate overtures from users (and occasionally staff) aside, such a simple task is nonetheless incredibly rewarding. We’re meeting the most basic of needs; material and, in our conversations with beneficiaries, interpersonal. These are small gestures amidst their complex needs but important in their own way.

When I’m not active, it’s unnerving how quickly that melancholia returns. It’s particular to this time of year. Speaking to other single women, I realise I’m not alone (no pun intended). I can’t complain about lack of opportunities to socialise. I’m used to my own company and cultivate moments of conscious solitude. And yet. And yet...

..Isolation works its way inwards from the peripheries of my brain.

It doesn’t help that the Belgian weather is intent on being relentlessly miserable. If it’s not cold and damp it’s mild and damp; with that non-committal rain that coats everything with a patina of bleakness and dirt. Despite the continued spread of a potentially deadly virus, people (usually, if not always, men) insist on spitting; not just in the street but also indoors. I’m convinced it’s all part of a misguided notion of machismo. I wonder if they spray phlegm on the carpet or lino at home.

I need a change of scene as January rolls around. Thank God, I am in a privileged enough position to be able to afford a brief, if modest, break somewhere south and sunny. Having still not yet journeyed to the French Riviera and hearing only praise from acquaintances about Nice, I have the ideal excuse to visit. I never did manage it that far South whilst I was living in France.

I book a very reasonably-priced non-direct flight on New Year’s Eve. After carefully reviewing my options, I book a few nights at a popular and clean-looking AirBnB for a long weekend. Alas, I can’t postpone the reality of long winters and job searches forever but I can ease my way into it.

As is my usual precaution, I head to the airport the evening before my morning flight. For some reason, I pass a sleepless night, not feeling the lull until long after I’ve checked in five hours early (half-past 4am), have gone through security and am waiting at my departure gate. It’s still dark when I drift off after 7am. I awake to a dazzling fuchsia and orange dawn.

Clear blue skies greet us when we land in Zurich for the layover, to my great and pleasant surprise. From the departure gate, I see the hazy silhouette of mountains in the distance.

My flight is delayed. I’d hoped to be able to sneak in a pre-sunset ramble on arriving at my accommodation, after a nap and a shower. Not at this rate.

On board the connecting plane I’m sat next to a rather obnoxious adolescent couple, more interested in their phones than the stunning view outside. I’m blessed on both flights to have a window seat. En route from Zurich to Nice, we fly over the Alps. From this perspective, the range resembles gigantic angular mounds of cocoa, coated in powdered sugar.

courtesy of Alparc

I have my editor-at-large Johny Pitts’ Afropean: Adventures in Black Europe to keep me occupied. (Perhaps because of the personal connection, I’ve put off reading his acclaimed travelogue since its publication a couple of years ago). By some strange coincidence -or twist of fate – I’ve reached the Chapter where JP is touring the French Riviera. More specifically, he’s sneaking around the grounds of James Baldwin’s home and final resting place.

To my disappointment, on landing in Nice the clear azure skies (sorry, I couldn’t avoid it forever) concede to a muggy greyness. This is not the brilliant sunshine promised by the forecasts. 

Nice airport is chaotic. I wonder how many variants of COVID are floating around this space alone; even if vaccination and/or testing is a pre-requisite to travel.

Waiting for my bus to the AirBnB, an agitated homeless man paces the streets making erratic gesticulations whilst preaching some angry secular sermon. I can’t hear all he’s saying over my music but his reluctant audience seem more bemused than offended.

My AirBnB host, Héloïse is not yet home and has left precise instructions for entry. Once inside the flat, I’m impressed by the size and cleanliness of my room and the equally well-kept shared bathroom facilities.

Héloïse arrives shortly. She’s friendly and laidback in a paradoxically business-like manner. She’s a musician by day, lamenting how the pandemic has hit her sector hard. She informs me she plans to be out for NYE celebrations, although her daughter, Marie might be about with her boyfriend. Or not.

I have a rather chaste New Year’s Eve in mind. If I’m not celebrating in church, you’ll find me at home praying into the New Year solo and/or on an online prayer meeting. That’s the plan this NYE.

Before that, I’ll get some much-needed rest, ready to explore my surroundings and perhaps even take a night time ride to the beach, as recommended by Héloïse.

I stir from a blissful siesta to the voices of Marie and boyfriend. It’s only the latter I’ll encounter on my way out. On the landing, I meet Héloïse’ neighbour, Christophe, of whom she has spoken well. 

 From the minute he claps eyes on me, he asks me a flurry of questions. He insists on walking me to my next destination, a local Pizzeria mentioned by Héloïse. I don’t expect to have time to go to town and come back before the NYE crowds gather. I’m forced to be more flexible on finding all local establishments are closed. Christophe suggests we walk to the tram stop towards Nice City Centre and the seafront.

On the way he explains that he had party plans at his flat but has cancelled them as a precaution. In the relatively short time it takes for us to walk to the stop, he shares much of his life story; his French-Italian background, a stint as a bikini salesman and his career in architecture. I'm in the business of beauty, he boasts, pointing out the buildings that have caught his eye in the vicinity.

He seems enchanted by the way I speak French, particularly my flowery vocab. He in turn makes facetious jokes in English. Christophe has a frenetic energy -as I tell him frankly. He apologises for being full on. 

As he deposes me at the stop, he offers a quasi-serious invitation to dine at his place. He proposes I take his number in case I get lost on the way back.

I descend at Massena, near the famous Promenade des Anglais. The atmosphere is naturally buoyant. Back when I used to consider visiting Nice, I’d hardly envisaged experiencing it in festive mode.

Many of the restaurants are already closed or appear to be reservation only. I find a pleasant-looking, decently-priced establishment near the bay serving a mix of traditional Niçois and Italian cuisine. As I settle down to order, I see a text from Christophe, inviting me for a drink to toast in the New Year. He'll be joined by another female acquaintance. Fortunately, I have my midnight prayers as a genuine alibi.

For this holiday, I’m leaving my economical ways behind me (within reason). The restaurant has a special 15% NYE surcharge. Je m’en fiche. Life is for living, as my mother might say.

I’m less serene when I realise I might have to catch a taxi to beat the midnight NYE crowd.

After a scenic night time stroll down the Promenade des Anglais searching for my bus stop, panic kicks in as the clock strikes 11pm. I’ve already downed my dinner and skipped dessert to make up the time.

 When I eventually find the station, the bus has stopped running two hours prior. I have a conversation with an Afro-Lusophone in French and broken Portuguese. He sends me on a wild goose chase looking for a tram stop, claiming that taxis would be too exorbitant.

In the end, I take the L. It’s not as bad as the unintentionally unhelpful bystander makes out.

At least I’m back at the accommodation five minutes to midnight, still self-remonstrating in that masochistic way I do. To my relief, all other occupants of the flat are out revelling. I have the place to myself.

Before I hit the showers and the neighbourhood fireworks start to pop, Mum calls to pray with me. I like to believe it's a divine sign that God isn’t as hard on me as I am on myself.

Happy 2022 to all LVC readers.

Soundtrack: Best of 2020 (Part 1) mix.