![\"Richard](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/09\/travel-for-two.jpg?resize=560%2C315&ssl=1\")
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With overseas travel now something of a dream, Roger has decided to revisit some of their destinations in writing. This week, Roger and Judy traipse through Nice.<\/p>\n
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But our reasons for visiting weren\u2019t entirely practical. We had a vague notion that because Nice was on the French Riviera and the French Riviera was warm and blessed with blue skies and water, it too would be similarly blessed. It didn\u2019t really occur to us that Nice could experience crap weather like any other city.<\/p>\n
Then there was the seemingly indelible influence of Brigitte Bardot in And God Created Woman<\/em> filmed decades before in St Tropez. The lingering hint of sexual promiscuity added a slightly edgy dimension to our perception of life on the Riviera.<\/p>\n And there was chic. On numerous occasions we\u2019d seen news clips of the Cannes film festival with the glittering rich and famous basking in the adoration of flashing cameras. Riviera chicness indeed.<\/p>\n We stayed a couple of nights in a two-star hotel that deserved none, which was very clever of us given that the city is reputed to have one of the largest hotel capacities in France. Its decrepitude was evident in the threadbare carpet that was worn almost to the underlay in heavy traffic areas; in the deep cigarette burns in the banisters on the stairs (burns on steep banisters?), in the faded curtains, and it was especially evident in the dismal fustiness of our room.<\/p>\n But there were advantages to staying at that hotel, despite its shortcomings. The first was that it was about all we could afford. The second was that stepping from its miserable interior into bright but short-lived Nice sunshine sparked a surge of exuberance that set us up nicely, but only for the first day. We spent our miserable final day seeking refuge from persistent saturating rain.<\/p>\n And we did.<\/p>\n We spent time walking and walking along the seemingly interminable Promenade des Anglais. We sat on spectator seats facing the sea in brilliant light that made the Mediterranean splashing on the shore sparkle, and my face glow red. Barely clad beachgoers coated with sunscreen or unconcerned about turning into full-bodied beach beacons stretched out on the beaches below the Promenade.<\/p>\n Those on the public beaches sprawled untidily on towels. Those on the pay beaches were segregated from their lesser neighbours by white picket fences. They presented their tanned bodies neatly on beach lounges that were organised in a millimetre perfect parallel arrangement. Neat boardwalks that protected fashionista feet from the pebbled beach separated the rows of lounges latitudinally and longitudinally. Boardwalks provided similar protection down to the water.<\/p>\n The Promenade des Anglais (Promenade of the English) sits above and back from the beach and also follows the arc of the bay. The name of this signature attraction in most tourist and promotional literature about Nice suggests that the English and French haven\u2019t always harboured a mutual antipathy towards each other, although some English tourists we encountered at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris a few years ago may not have been convinced.<\/p>\n \u2018Fucking French,\u2019 he declared, his belly puffing out with indignation. \u2018They hate us. A BA plane lands and the luggage handlers decide to have a kip.\u2019 His English companions clapped their agreement.<\/p>\n After about 45 minutes the belt ground to a halt, a loud beeping emanating somewhere from within the conveyer mechanism before it bumped into noisy motion again. This time it did carry new luggage that eventually included ours.<\/p>\n Our English complainant seemed ignorant of the fact that Charles de Gaulle airport is one of the most infuriatingly tardy deliverers of luggage in the civilised world and that travellers regardless of country, race, gender, gender preference, colour and religion are treated equally disgracefully.<\/p>\n Perhaps they were also emboldened to assume a sense of proprietorship of a part of France. After all, English victories at Trafalgar and later still Waterloo showed that Agincourt was no fluke. Whatever the reason, they were responsible for building the promenade in 1820 and in time the two-metre-wide path was enlarged. In 1931 it was paved and extended from the airport to Port Lympia and was originally named the English Way.<\/p>\n Today on the seaside there is a broad pathway for pedestrians, bikes and skates. The blue seats we sat on dating back to the early 20th Century provide comfort for viewers and lurkers. A grassed strip populated with mature palm trees that give the Promenade an exotic flavour divides the lanes of traffic, and on the farther side away from the bay are apartments and hotels, some banal, some truly ugly, and some exceptionally pleasing.<\/p>\n The most notable are the grand belle \u00e9poque buildings, and most grand of all is the truly splendid Hotel Negresco that was constructed in 1912 by Henry of the same name. World War One nobbled the prospects of the hotel and Henry\u2019s as well but its fortunes did recover and for the last 50 years or so its grandeur has been well and truly assured. By all accounts it is indeed especially grand inside. The Royal Lounge boasts an exceptional baccarat crystal chandelier originally commissioned by Czar Nicholas II who was not smart enough to order it in time to avoid complications arising from the October Revolution.<\/p>\n The detailed white stone fa\u00e7ade topped with a pink cupola and decorated above the ground floor level with flags of various countries should make the building reminiscent of an over-dressed wedding cake. Instead it\u2019s beautiful, balanced and charming, and its charms are further elaborated by the presence of the very pleasing Musee Massena and its gardens on the right.<\/p>\n Even though the Belle Epoque came to a gritty end with the outbreak of world war in 1914, the Promenade des Anglais continued to have its moments. One such took place on the evening of 14 September 1927. Isadora Duncan, 50-year-old dancer, socialite and maker of scandals, took a stranglehold on a small piece of history when, reputedly in front of the Hotel Negresco, her flowing hand-painted silk scarf wrapped itself around the rear wheel and axle of the open-topped car in which she was being driven. An inventive imagination isn\u2019t required to envisage what then happened to the about to be deceased.<\/p>\n Much more to our taste, despite the horde of tourists, us included, was the triangle of Vieux Nice, the old town. Vieux Nice is quite beautiful, more so than countless other places in Europe and less so than countless more. The tall, pastel tinted buildings \u2013 pink, yellow, ochre with contrasting shutters and often wrought iron balconies \u2013 that line the labyrinth of narrow streets and lanes have a distinctly Italianate appearance that is not particularly surprising given the proximity of Nice to the Italian border. There\u2019s also the historical detail that Nice spent a few hundred years as part of the Duchy of Savoy, and later the kingdom of Piedmont-Sardinia. It was only after the signing of the Treaty of Turin in 1860 that Nice was permanently ceded to France, although it had been on occasions seduced into temporary dalliances with the country that eventually appropriated it.<\/p>\n We also found time to puff up the steps to the top of Colline du Chateau (otherwise known as Castle Hill) to the sounds of an impressive artificial waterfall cascading down the wall below. The Greeks first set up camp on the hill in around 350 BC. The forces of Louis XIV destroyed the castle that provided the hill with its name in the early 1700s. Such is life.<\/p>\n We spurned the lift because we didn\u2019t know it existed. From the top there\u2019s a panoramic view of the Bay of Angels, the terra cotta roofs of the old town and the moneyed elegance of Port Lympia with its attractive Genoese buildings, Corsica ferries and sailing and motor yachts. We had plenty of company. Around us people leaned on balustrades taking photographs of anything and everything.<\/p>\n How many dull landscapes can a single person endure? We climb hills, we stumble up countless steps in towers, we scrabble our way up rocks, we huff and we puff simply to get a view. We mumble words like \u2018spectacular, wonderful, and memorable\u2019 \u2018rather than\u2019 ugly, boring, crap\u2019. We stop our cars at signs with camera symbols so we can take pictures and videos that no one wants to see \u2013 usually including us. The only explanation is that we\u2019re driven by a deep atavistic desire to feel superior, on top of things and in control. God-like. Omniscient. It seems a lot of effort for often meagre returns.<\/p>\n But of course, every now and again we do strike the jackpot and see something truly memorable, or if not that, at least interesting. And Port Lympia seen from Castle Hill did have appeal, even if the toffs below us drinking champagne on one of the ostentatious motor yachts moored there didn\u2019t. We adopted a distinctly proletarian perspective in disparaging them and others mingling in dinner jackets and evening gear waiting to be escorted somewhere we couldn\u2019t afford.<\/p>\n We tired of watching and harbouring unkind thoughts so we went for a relaxed stroll around the port before seating ourselves at an outside table of a restaurant located more or less where we started. The party people had moved somewhere else to drink Pol Roger Vintage Brut, allowing us to have a peaceful and pleasing lunch while we contemplated what it would be like to sail along the coast on one of the 20-metre yachts moored opposite. We didn\u2019t expect ever to find out.<\/p>\n But of course, at the end of each day, to underscore our outsider status in that alien world, we returned to our plain hotel room to pack, eat, drink and on the final night, to anticipate picking up a car the following day and driving to Santa Margherita in Italy and beyond.<\/p>\n Our verdict on Nice? We invoked the very late, great Alexander Pope. \u2018Nice is nice\u2019, we said. Damn with faint praise indeed. And fair enough too.<\/p>\n Roger Zubrinich and Judy Peters like to travel. A lot. Prior to the pandemic, the couple\u00a0would escape the Australian winter and head to Europe for the summer,\u00a0traipsing through countries via a hire car. With overseas travel now something of a … Continue reading In summary: warm, blue skies, promiscuous underbelly, chic. Irresistible.<\/h1>\n
Given that our first visit was in part rain-blighted, some years later we chose to reprise the visit and collect a lease car there prior to driving into Italy and elsewhere. This time we were determined to have a more detailed engagement with the city.<\/h1>\n
The sun above the startling blue of the sea produced a clear, brittle light that warmed the pebbled beach and highlighted the long arc of the Bay of Angels.<\/h1>\n
![\"Bay](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/10\/Bay-of-Angels.jpg?resize=370%2C242&ssl=1\")
I had assumed that the Bay drew its name from a spurious connection made between its appearance and a vision of a heavenly paradise but not so. I read somewhere that the name is actually derived from long departed inhabitants of the bay \u2013 angel sharks \u2013 a rather less ethereal but much more interesting explanation of the genesis of the name despite angel sharks not being suitable candidates for the Jaws theme. They\u2019re bottom-dwellers that grow to about 1.5 metres and look rather like rays. Still, perhaps it\u2019s not so bad for the swimmers and tourism that they no longer inhabit the bay; their needle like teeth and strong jaws would pale the Riviera tan of anyone unfortunate enough to step on one.<\/p>\nWe were waiting for our bags to rumble past on the conveyor belt in the baggage pickup section of the terminal. And we waited. Minutes turned into tens of minutes that turned into half an hour. A few dusty and desultory bags and boxes that were circulating when we arrived continued their pointless journey while we waited. At the forty-minute mark, next to me a crumpled English not-so-gentle man of middle years could contain his enthusiasm for the French no longer.<\/h1>\n
In the latter half of the 18th century the English seemed more enamoured of France \u2013 or at least Nice. Those with the money and inclination were attracted by the mild climate that provided an attractive alternative to the extremity-numbing cold they experienced at home during winter.<\/h1>\n
![\"Port](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/10\/Port-Lympia-Nice.jpg?resize=485%2C315&ssl=1\")
<\/p>\nThe room prices were equally grand but we weren\u2019t, so our admiration, as you will have gathered, was largely confined to the ornate exterior, which is fair enough because the exterior is indeed very fetching.<\/h1>\n
![\"Hotel](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/10\/Ho%CC%82tel_Negresco_01.jpg?resize=584%2C259&ssl=1\")
<\/a><\/p>\nYet despite its history, despite the appeal of some of the buildings on the Promenade, despite the clear sky, sparkling water and the streams of people walking or skating on the path near the beach, we found the Promenade des Anglais brittle and soulless, as though a carapace of sorts separated us from whatever inner life it possessed.<\/h1>\n
![\"place](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/10\/Nice_-_Place_Garibaldi_-_View_SSE_into_Rue_Catheri%CC%81ne_Se%CC%81gurane.jpg?resize=353%2C236&ssl=1\")
<\/a>We spent a little time checking out Place Massena, the city\u2019s main square, with its paved surfaces and elegant pastel pink-toned buildings on the perimeter. We visited the more interesting Place Garibaldi that sits near the edge of the old town. It\u2019s surrounded by elegant soft-yellow toned buildings. It was built in 1773 making it the oldest significant square in Nice. It was of course named after Giuseppe Garibaldi, hero of Italian unification and by any measure a warrior and adventurer of significant capacities. He was born in Nice, hence the name of the square, and an appropriately substantial statue of the man, constructed in 1891 by Gustave and Etex Deloye, is ensconced proprietorially there with a fountain at its base.<\/p>\nA frowning Garibaldi with hand clasped on sword looks solemn and dignified as he gazes into the distance. Perhaps the frown is more of a squint as he\u2019s straining to look beyond the horizon for another potential campaign worthy of his support; perhaps South America again, or Italy if he thinks there\u2019s more work to do. Maybe he\u2019s thinking of throttling the Italian Prime Minister Cavour for handing Nice to the French, or perhaps it\u2019s simply the pigeons shitting on his head.<\/h1>\n
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I\u2019ve often wondered whether there is an identifiable condition called panorama psychosis. Why do we like sitting on top of high things with a more or less untrammelled view of our surrounds? It\u2019s a bit hard to argue consistently that it\u2019s the scenery. Granted, it might be some of the time, but how many rooftops can a person get excited about? Counting television antennae is about as interesting as watching grass grow and so too is assessing how many roofs need repair.<\/h1>\n<\/blockquote>\n
Eventually, curiosity and the lure of the port displaced envy. We clattered down the steps rather more quickly than we\u2019d ascended and before long we were opposite the largely under-45 party-people and their multi-million Euro water taxi. We loitered nonchalantly and watched them puff and preen and make shrill laughing noises in response to witticisms and gossip we couldn\u2019t hear.<\/h1>\n
Travel for Two is a guest series by Roger Zubrinich.
\nKeep an eye on the blog for future instalments.<\/h1>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"