Apart from walking the beach at Nice, Bear and I spent many hours getting lost in a maze of market streets and squares. Under the Mediterranean sun, the buildings were more garish than those in Avignon, bolder reds and oranges and sometimes with ridiculous trompe l'oeil cornices.
Over two afternoons, we walked beneath buildings frilled and painted like gaudy cakes and explored shops crammed with herbs and salts and soaps. The streets, at time cobbled and sharply sloping, thronged with people sitting on folding chairs and drinking glutinous wine.
Of course, we celebrated the discovery of a chocolate shop by noshing on truffles for tea and Bear ordered a glistening dôme noir filled with layers of untold vanilla, dark chocolate and biscuit-y glory. As I savoured a richly-melting sea salt caramel, Rebecca discovered that her preferred coffee in France (where she had previously been receiving watery crap that she reviled) was a sufficiently strong baby café crème.
For breakfast, we devoured full sets of flaky pain au chocolate, bread, jam, omelette and what, in my eyes, is the ultimate morning luxury: both coffee and orange juice. Thus satisfied, we took our time wandering through the narrow alleys and people watching.
For me, the most fascinating part of the walk was emerging into a tightly-packed market square redolent with the heady odour of wet feathers and sun-warmed fish.
The air was thick with seagulls, raucously flapping and fighting over fish guts and splattering droppings over everything. I had never met such big gulls before, and Bear and I stood there for nearly an hour switching between fascinated staring and horrified ducking and running. (I am particularly fond of the last seagull photo above - the bird looks like he has just said goodbye to his parents and is setting off to find his fortune with an aspiring look on his face.)
Above the clamour and cobblestones slick with fish juice, a man warmed his arms in the sunshine.
When a seagull nearly flapped into our faces, we decided it was time to move on and plunged back into the fray.
Rebecca and I found this woman so attractive that after hiding behind a pillar and watching her argue with someone for ten minutes, we finally plucked up the courage to ask if we could take her photo and she sheepishly agreed. (As Bear says, people in the south of any place are very nice. They usually said yes to us taking photos after making jokes about having to put on make up.)
Having walked through a park filled with romping children, we decided that it was time for yet another meal and that we would retrace our steps to a restaurant that we had found selling oysters earlier that day.
Oysters were an acquired taste for me but I eventually grew to love them and I remembered greatly enjoying heaps of shellfish in large melamine crucibles on top of metal tripods with my mother in Cannes. The restaurant in Nice served seafood in a similar fashion and I had subconsciously latched onto the idea of having dinner there. Unfortunately, we had walked so many kilometres that we were completely lost and we were about to give up on the idea when we turned a serendipitous corner and ended up smack in the middle of hundred of diners enjoying alfresco seafood feasts.
Right then and there, I sat down and had one of the best meals I have ever had in Europe, or indeed, in my life. While Rebecca had prawns and fries, I ate six gigantic oysters that were so insanely fresh and cold that I felt like I was smoking some kind of sea-flavoured crack. I slowly savoured each dripping, savoury, piquant one, knowing that it would be some time before I had access to such good oysters again.
Then, groaning at our fullness and good fortune, we took a long, slow walk back.
When I look at pictures of us from that time, I see two very happy, healthy campers. In hindsight, I realise now that I really appreciated the two days of just slow-walking and eating. We emerged well-rested, well-fed and well-prepared for what essentially became ten days of stair climbing in thirty-five degree Italy.
Most amusing of all, my diary entry for the day reads: "Bear and I have managed not to kill each other yet."
Well, it is a city called Nice after all.
Of course, we celebrated the discovery of a chocolate shop by noshing on truffles for tea and Bear ordered a glistening dôme noir filled with layers of untold vanilla, dark chocolate and biscuit-y glory. As I savoured a richly-melting sea salt caramel, Rebecca discovered that her preferred coffee in France (where she had previously been receiving watery crap that she reviled) was a sufficiently strong baby café crème.
For breakfast, we devoured full sets of flaky pain au chocolate, bread, jam, omelette and what, in my eyes, is the ultimate morning luxury: both coffee and orange juice. Thus satisfied, we took our time wandering through the narrow alleys and people watching.
For me, the most fascinating part of the walk was emerging into a tightly-packed market square redolent with the heady odour of wet feathers and sun-warmed fish.
The air was thick with seagulls, raucously flapping and fighting over fish guts and splattering droppings over everything. I had never met such big gulls before, and Bear and I stood there for nearly an hour switching between fascinated staring and horrified ducking and running. (I am particularly fond of the last seagull photo above - the bird looks like he has just said goodbye to his parents and is setting off to find his fortune with an aspiring look on his face.)
Above the clamour and cobblestones slick with fish juice, a man warmed his arms in the sunshine.
When a seagull nearly flapped into our faces, we decided it was time to move on and plunged back into the fray.
Rebecca and I found this woman so attractive that after hiding behind a pillar and watching her argue with someone for ten minutes, we finally plucked up the courage to ask if we could take her photo and she sheepishly agreed. (As Bear says, people in the south of any place are very nice. They usually said yes to us taking photos after making jokes about having to put on make up.)
Having walked through a park filled with romping children, we decided that it was time for yet another meal and that we would retrace our steps to a restaurant that we had found selling oysters earlier that day.
Oysters were an acquired taste for me but I eventually grew to love them and I remembered greatly enjoying heaps of shellfish in large melamine crucibles on top of metal tripods with my mother in Cannes. The restaurant in Nice served seafood in a similar fashion and I had subconsciously latched onto the idea of having dinner there. Unfortunately, we had walked so many kilometres that we were completely lost and we were about to give up on the idea when we turned a serendipitous corner and ended up smack in the middle of hundred of diners enjoying alfresco seafood feasts.
Right then and there, I sat down and had one of the best meals I have ever had in Europe, or indeed, in my life. While Rebecca had prawns and fries, I ate six gigantic oysters that were so insanely fresh and cold that I felt like I was smoking some kind of sea-flavoured crack. I slowly savoured each dripping, savoury, piquant one, knowing that it would be some time before I had access to such good oysters again.
Then, groaning at our fullness and good fortune, we took a long, slow walk back.
When I look at pictures of us from that time, I see two very happy, healthy campers. In hindsight, I realise now that I really appreciated the two days of just slow-walking and eating. We emerged well-rested, well-fed and well-prepared for what essentially became ten days of stair climbing in thirty-five degree Italy.
Most amusing of all, my diary entry for the day reads: "Bear and I have managed not to kill each other yet."
Well, it is a city called Nice after all.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Say your peace, yo.