An Adventurous Day in Nice – Travel Experiences and Observations on the French Riviera
It is impossible to describe the feeling of looking at the blue infinity, but perhaps it is not necessary. The point is to make the recipient think. I miss the smell of the sea and the salty taste the most, but its beauty and my experiences are hard to describe in words and pictures. Maybe that’s the challenge and the charm of it all. The many beautiful moments, the sea, the city, the nature and the experiences will probably stay with me forever.
Nice/Nice, 2024. 12 June.
Where is the border between old and new? Is yesterday’s day over, or does it flow into the new sunrise? In forty minutes I cycled to a peninsula near Nice. It’s the furthest point to the east. Now that I’m sleeping in nature, I’m back to photographing the sunrise. So, two in the morning after last night’s party is today… Or how is it? I sleep on Paloma beach, on the rocks, from two to five; the sleeping bag does a good job, only the lack of horizontal makes sleeping difficult. At five o’clock it’s just beginning to get light, so I don’t have to bushwalk on the rocks; I walk across to the other side of the peninsula, looking for the eastern outcrop. I’ve photographed a sunset that romantic painters would envy. I didn’t know until now that breathtaking could be a concrete, factual term. I mean, I’ve experienced it while kissing, but this time I’m sitting on the rocks all alone and not lonely. I make my bed here, where I am, on the rocks in the bushes, between 6:30 and 9:30 for the second stage of the adoring, with the sea breeze blowing. This peninsula is a rose garden compared to Nice. An hour’s walk around the peninsula mountain. A paved path runs tightly around the edge of the coast – under luxury villas. Compared to Nice, the concept of the Rose Hill is half the point, e.g. one of the walls of one of the houses has Rothschild’s initials… It’s beautiful, full of plants. Pine trees on the right and limestone walls on the left, collapsing into the water. On the beach I wash, brush my teeth, have breakfast, get some stuff and drink. I take the one-hour bus back downtown. The plan is a long walk, photo shoot, even a swim for a painful goodbye. Back on the bus, again winding along the bays. Looking out of the bus I said to myself, it brings a tear to the eye, it’s so beautiful. I search for words, but I can’t put it into words. Maybe it’s the colours; bright colours everywhere, I’m used to seeing all shades of blue and green in a picture sometimes, but here it’s all there; for example, the flowers are varied, the buildings, the objects, if not bright, then varied. If you’ve ever seen a picture of any kind of Riviera, with the luxurious boats above the romantic city, with nature behind them… well, this is just like that. There’s a large bay that’s actually called the harbour district. I’m used to international ports being well fenced off, unobservable areas with huge monstrosities. Well, here too there were ocean-going and transiting monsters, and alongside them luxury vessels ranging from the Kiai ten-metreers to the over hundred-metre specimens; I don’t know if it’s coincidence, but they were parked in size order at the end of the queue. Some of the sailing boats had masts that were very high. Most of these are private boats. What made the trip even more interesting was that the bays were interspersed with steep hillsides, so I admired all these beautiful boats from above. Arrival at Garibaldi Square; this is the landward corner of the old town. I stopped again for another twenty minutes to admire the beautiful paintings. Like street vendors, the painters’ booths were lined up next to each other. I walked around the old town again. Measured really, it was like any normal old town: narrow and winding streets, marble stones, vendors and bars everywhere. And then add to that the sunshine, the smell of the sea, the oblong windows, the Italian Baroque influences, the shop windows of all colours. So, a good experience na! In the square in front of the big church, I was tempted by an ice cream. I left with three scoops and a huge grin at a counter full of meat, with at least six types of chocolate alone (lasagna, alcoholic, dairy-free, triffle…). From the ice-cream parlour there was a path up to the park entrance. Suddenly I had an idea: I was going to climb Castle Hill after all! They call it a park, in fact, a tiny hill slightly into the sea, with a fountain at the top and of course a beautiful view. I didn’t feel like climbing it before just for the panorama, but somehow it seemed like a good idea now – and in hindsight. The steepness wasn’t so bad, but the view of the city from the top was really unique. By the time I reached the top, I was in a bit of discomfort, because of the cream ice cream and two days of hectic eating [randomly eating whatever I was craving (dessert, salami, pastries, fruit, milk); I was in a state of war in my stomach… So, I thought it better to take a longer detour in a good-looking toilet. Anyway, looking out over the city from the terraces, I was reminded of Liszabon. I had one there, too, when I walked up the steep streets of the old town’s girbegurba and from the terraces of the castle hill I could get a good view of the city below and the surrounding mountains in between. I took more than a hundred and fifty pictures in an hour, wondering if there was any way to recreate the atmosphere? How can you make an experience come alive with words and images? Those painters, they can make a beautiful picture of the sea, but will the viewer remember how the artist felt while standing on the beach? Perhaps it is not necessary, the point is to make the viewer think. I sometimes hear that Japanese people who are born with a camera around their neck could as easily buy a travel brochure to look at in their living room. Then I always realize that the selfie is just a like button to say “I’m having fun”. I can’t describe the feeling of looking at the blue infinity, but I can take a dozen photos of it and write on the back that I feel free, light, unrepeatable. I have the same thoughts as I make my way down to the beach. We’re among limestone mountains, so if there’s sand on the beach, it’s been brought. Now, on my umpteenth gravel beach, I find that bringing a pair of beach slippers or swimming shoes is not exactly a silly thing to do. Instead, I’m almost spider-walking on the stones, because I’m still not used to walking upright. Plus the disadvantage is that these beaches suddenly deepen; but that’s not a disadvantage for me. On the plus side, the water is crystal clear and the colours are magical. The waves are amplified on these suddenly deepening banks. When I think how much I paid to languish in a wave pool at the Palatinus beach in Budapest, here I just have to surrender to the power of nature and enjoy the water. Twenty minutes later, I notice that the locals have also started spider-walking into the water, letting themselves go and enjoying being rocked by the wave. So a day later, as I write all this, I probably miss the smell of the sea the most, and the salty taste around my mouth. I have to leave at 4pm, because an hour might be just enough to get to the bus stop, but sitting here on the beach, I refuse to worry about anything, regardless of the day, as it is. Sitting up downtown, waiting for the tram. It’s a good thing I didn’t listen to the departure any longer: the tram is crowded, so there are a lot of stops, and it’s slow in the afternoon traffic. I get to the airport at five one, my bus should arrive at five, but it’s half an hour late again. It’s not the fact that I’m late that annoys me, I plan that into my journey time, it’s the fact that the Flixbus drivers – and the operation itself – ignore me, using the app in their hands to let me know that they’re going to be late. If I know I have time, I don’t sit on the bench in the sun, but go to a cafĂ©, go to the toilet, charge my phone or just step out into a shade. Flixbus would understand that there’s nothing wrong with being late if they let me know. I catch the train in Marseille without a problem. It was waiting for me on the scooter I’d left the day before at Saint Martin station, even though I was prepared in mind and body that it would be stolen, sure enough, in two days. I seem to be a lucky man.
