two days two trips

Two little day trips this week, couldn't have been more different.


The first, on Thursday, to Villefranche-sur-mer, a small town 5 kilometers east of Nice. Just me and my beach towel, looking for a patch of gravel.

I found an old town in yellow and ochre with the medieval rue Obscure running underneath it. I found a deep bay of still, clear water, complete with sail boats and fishies. And yes, I found rocks small enough to be comfortable.

I'm going back.


Friday's day trip was actually a school trip. The Dance Department took us to the atelier of Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo and an exposition about the Ballets Russes. We visited with costumers and the lady in charge of all the ballet slippers and pointes, poked our noses in empty studios and sat in on a rehearsal for Cinderella, coming soon to a theatre in Shanghai.

I mourned for the prima ballerina I could have been.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in vain search of an open café. The old town was deserted, all the hullabaloo was in the port (something to do with expensive yachts, lest we forget we were in Monaco).



By the end of the afternoon I was hot, bothered, undercaffeinated and exhausted. Too many tall buildings, too many big cars, too many fancy boats. Claustrophobic, really.


I'll be back, but only for the ballet.

pinch me

Should we take a coffee?"

"Sure. Were do you want to go?"

"How about Cannes?"


It was one of those right-I-do-live-on-the-Riviera moments. With all the very ordinary things I've been doing lately -- finding a place to live, settling in, grocery shopping, administrative errands, preparations for the school year -- I occasionally forget how extraordinary this whole situation is.

And then I realise that the only thing separating my home from the home of a fancy film fest is a one euro bus ticket -- and it all comes rushing back.

Cannes is all you would want it to be: palm trees, pastel-coloured old town, sandy beaches, muscular men scrubbing the decks of sail boats...

I can see how it might be asphyxiating in the peak of the summer, but on a warm September Sunday, it was just right. Some sunbathers and swimmers, couples strolling, groups at cafés. But no obnoxious tour groups or bars blasting music.

Just happy people soaking up the last days of summer.

And views like this.



More of TSL's photos here.

back-to-school shopping

I bought a pair of shoes today.

Normally I would be prancing about happily in housecoat and heels. You know, breaking them in.

But no.

Instead I wander over to the box from time to time, lift them out carefully and hold them.

smooth black leather
cushy cotton insoles
cold steel toe and heel


That's right, friends. While the rest were buying ring-binders and highlighters, I bought tap shoes.

This is going to be the best back-to-school ever.

l'auberge

Our little two-bedroom has been home to four this week. Besides myself and the Tall Serbian Lady (TSL), there's a Colombian waiting for the key to her res room and a house-hunting Romanian.

There hasn't been much to do around here. Torrential rain has made outdoors unappealing. We've had no classes to attend since la rentrée was pushed from the 14th to the 21st. The bank/school registration/insurance errands were run last week (whilst under the September 14th illusion).

And so, we cook.


Last night we feasted on our balcony. To celebrate the clear evening sky we took a bottle of wine to the pebbley beach and girl-talked until the wee hours.

Today they've promised us a meeting.

The Grand Unveiling of our class schedules.

The feasting has been fun, but I'm ready for school.

Bring on the lunchbox.

lesson one

Yesterday I was invited to the home of some family friends' for lunch. When I admitted upon arrival that wasn't wearing my bikini, I got quizzical looks. When I clarified that I didn't have one in my purse to change into, I might as well have said that I had ripped off a layer of skin, rinsed it and left it on the line to dry.

(Needless to say a spare suit was procured and post-digestion paddling proceeded as planned.)

Some cities let their bodies of water do their own thing; they admire or fear them, but from a distance. Nice, on the other hand, holds the Mediterranean in a bear hug. The life of the city boils up in its hills and rushes down towards the pebbly beaches, sweeping us with it.

It's unavoidable, you see. Inescapable.

I know because everyday this week I found myself coming home with salty skin, straw-like hair and mascara raccoon eyes. And without the bus pass, stamps, or groceries I had planned to get when I showered, put on makeup and straightened my hair that morning.

No matter how strong my mental visualisation of myself crossing town, popping into the post office or stopping by the grocery store, five minutes out the door I was floating belly-up in the calm, warm sea water.

If I weren't so relaxed from a day on the beach, I'd probably muster up some frustration.

Instead, I'm learning my lessons.
No mascara. No hair straightening. No planning.
And always bring a bikini.

This is what I look at when I wait for the bus. Would you resist?