Officially, in real time, we have been to Chamonix and Grenoble France, Neschwil and Davos Switzerland, Prague, Salzburg, Varenna on Lake Como, passing through Cannes, Girona and Valencia on the way to Ojen in the Andalucía region of Spain. But on Blog Time, I am still on Cote d’Azur, that is I have not written on the blog since then, primarily because I am still in shock after Leslie’s U-do hair do.
The Cote d’Azur of France was home for five weeks, Nice in particular, which really expands to include Antibes, Villefrance, Eze, Cagnes-sur-Mer, Cap Ferrat, Bealieau-sur-Mer, Monaco and probably a couple more that I didn’t see. You can safely ignore Monaco unless you are a Formula 1 fan, monarchy fan, looking for a tax haven, or need a mooring for your super yacht. We didn’t ignore Monaco and I’ll leave you to guess the reason we went there.
The Cote d’Azur may seem intimidating with the ever-present referrals to artistic geniuses who haunt the place, such as Chagall, Renoir, Picasso and Matisse, but when it comes down to it, the artists were there for the same reasons that everyone goes. Glorious sunshine days constantly rearrange the blue hues on the ocean of a serpentine coastline with protected bays with steep hills as a backdrop and, as a result, geniuses and tourists pack the towns.
An escape from the masses is easily accomplished by driving inland towards the hills and then mountains. I often went on my bike and within one hour, the cars were scarce and the scenery amazing. Panoramic views toward the sea on clear days competed with rugged mountain landscapes over your shoulder. Leslie often drove inland and I would meet her for lunch in a small town, drinking just enough wine to enhance the view and the meal.
The sea side towns (sur Mer) plod their way uphill, step by step, villa by villa, to some wonderful hilltop conclusions. Eze-en-Haut or the high village, sister town to Eze-sur-Mer, is a stunning example of medieval architecture mixed with shops and restaurants placed in what seems like a giant eagle’s nest.
Like most high villages, its location originally evolved as a good defensive position to pour boiling oil and throw pointy objects at unwanted house guests. The ruins of the fortress provide expansive views of the Mediterranean coastline and a place to reflect on the stresses and comforts of modern Canadian life versus the medieval maelstrom.
The historic inhabitants had to deal with the constant threat of attack from aggressors; such was the competition for food, land and other precious resources. Most of the small towns and villages have remnants of their ancient defensive capabilities. Small slit-like windows, good to shoot arrows from but difficult to shoot arrows into, are beside holes to pour the hot oil should the arrows not keep the marauders at bay. The fortresses were also used to keep people out suspected of having disease that could inexplicably spread to the inhabitants.
I don’t remember historical dates well but I’m sure all this fighting was over by the time most of the artists arrived, otherwise their artistic output would have been severely reduced. The creative process would have been interrupted with defensive responsibilities. Chagall would likely have thrown oil paint instead of boiling oil on the aggressors which would have resulted in early performance art. Not an effective means of defence. After a successful battle, I picture them all sliding around on the oil as in a ball-bearing factory gone mad which would have also helped celebrate their victory, safe until the next attack, failed crop or infectious disease passes by. In the meantime, they could have drunken debates on whether the earth was flat, why wasn’t the sun extinguished in the sea and other pressing subjects of that era.
Since I have some extra time on my hands (too much, says Leslie!), I tried counting all the stones on Nice’s beaches and reached 450 million. That is correct; the beaches are stone, not sand. I would have still been counting unless Leslie helped me. I wouldn’t even have attempted a count if the beaches were sand because that would have been giga-billions and I don’t know how to count that high.
Stone beaches demand a different strategy than sandy ones. There are no carefree sprints into the water as the stones hurt your feet. No romantic strolls hand in hand for the same reason. You do not bring buckets and spades as they are useless. Instead beachgoers carry padded cushions to prevent the stones from sticking into their ribs and vertebra, which would spoil slumbering possibilities. It has also spawned the beach lounge chair rental industry. The rental stations are conveniently located close to their restaurant and bars, which result in more lounge chair time and so on and so on.
Four hundred and fifty million is also an important number because that is what a Russian oligarch paid in Euros for a property above Villefrance. It is reputed to be the most expensive private property in the world. I have trouble picturing 450 million of anything, except Nice beaches stones, let alone dollars.
I happened to ride past Leopold, the property he purchased from the widow of a Lebanese banker. I recognized a small sign on a gate with the property name on it after reading an article regarding the sale. From a higher viewpoint, you could see the entire sprawling estate and ponder what you get for that amount of money. It looked like an awful lot of garden and lawn to cut and weed. The house is large enough to hold mine and Leslie’s relatives plus our entire staff of body guards, which would result in an interesting sociological experiment. The helicopter landing pads were a bit too far from the main house for my liking. The walk to put the garbage cans out was also rather excessive so after a brief fling with oligarch jealously, I cycled on content with my lot in life.
Our base in Nice was a celebration of bodies and activities on the waterfront promenade. Interestingly, it is called the Promenade des Anglais after some smart and wealthy aristocrats in the Victorian period that enjoyed the mild sunny winters. Every size and shape of body is displayed on the Cote d’Azur beaches with many of the women topless. For prudish North Americans, this can be a bit of a shock as we witnessed a couple of American women who seemed quite taken aback and had clearly had not been forewarned. It was refreshing to see a group of French teenagers surrounded by topless women but clearly non-plussed by it all. We did witness another side to it as we saw a twenty-something male openly taking photographs of only attractive young topless women. Do the pictures end up in a private collection or on the internet? Nevertheless, it is a great place to stroll with the joggers, oligarchs, stunt rollerbladers, seniors and tourists from around the world. There must have been some artistic geniuses amongst them but we couldn’t spot them.
PS- Tid-Bits on France
- You have to love a country where a small supermarket with 7 aisles has 2 completely dedicated to wine!
-The following was on the EasyJet web site that I booked my flight from Nice to Geneva. I am pleased to report the plane successfully defied gravity and flew on schedule. “Special allowance of 10 kilos in addition for the titular of flybaboo abonnament” -and if that wasn’t clear, “We accept a maximum weight of 20 kg per person at the swissport desk.”- no specific mention whether this referred to luggage weight or ?
-Brangelina stayed down the street from us in Nice. The paparazzi and mainstream media were set up for a close encounter with the pregnant couple. We were not able to drop in to say hello and thankfully, the press did not recognize Leslie and me.
-We had an indoor secure parking spot in Nice that was accessed by car elevator. The Kangoo barely fit and required a twenty point turn to manoeuvre into the allotted space. The lift broke down one day, trapping Leslie and I for a short time. We were not able to get our car out until the next day. What about the residents who had to get to work?
PPS
-Leslie’s father Don, who is my communications guru, was kind enough to inform me that the word “blog” is derived from “web log”. This definitely helps clear up those issues I had with the word blog. I apologize for my prejudices against that particular arrangement of letters and the close relatives affected by my statements. Don, who is retired from the communications business, really knows what he is talking about. When Don started his career they were still using the Gutenberg press and they wrote something called a Glog. Thanks again Don, your input is always expected... I mean, appreciated!
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