Nice is Nice

At first glance, Nice Is not what it looks like in glossy magazines.  But then, it turns out neither are actresses and models, who are heavily air-brushed, too.   That's what I first thought as we drove through, "ah hah, so the mags airbrush more than just waistlines.". But, no, it appears that Nice just has a congested, rather soiled downtown district like any big city.  What it has over Detroit, however, is that you can leave the soot and diesel behind and within minutes be surrounded by the blue water of the mediterranean sea as you drive down the Promenade de Aglaise.  

Our destination one day was--wait for it--Miami Beach!  As you pass each section of plage you note that every two hundred yards or so the beach is renamed.  A good idea if you get separated and need to know what section of the Cote D' Azure you left your bathing suit top on after going in the water.   Diane had been here two years ago and liked this stretch of beach.  Now the big question for me became this:  why do people pay huge amounts of money to live and play on the French Riviera when the beaches are covered in stone???  It was awful, I tell you. You had to leave your shoes on and even wear them in the water.  But make sure they aren't flip flops or you risk having them float out with a wave and leaving you sinking into stones in two feet of water. This could further lead to the embarrassment of being pulled out of the ocean by a friendly Frenchman (yes, they do exist) and seeing one hundred pairs of eyes staring at you and feeling sure they know you're American and definitely not used to the finer things in life, such as shredded feet from rocky shores. But, no worries, they soon lose interest and go back to laying face up in their Speedos (men) and tiny suit bottoms (women). Oh, to be an uninhibited European, unafraid to expose your breasts, whether 22 or 82 years old, with your children, husbands of friends and in-laws. And, yes, I do mean that.  A little.  No tan lines, ladies.  But my feet, and my pride, are still a bit bruised.

Janice in the Med

Miami Beach, Nice, Fr.

Miami Beach, Nice, Fr.  sunning on the rocks

Pat, during her thorough investigation of the south of France, found that there is a stretch of beach hidden away and not crowded that has real sand beaches--Juan le Pins.  We hurried over there tout suite.  I guess you can take the Jersey girls out of Ocean City, but you can't make them spread a towel on rocks.  

And Then There Were Eight

Seven of us arrived in Nice around ten o'clock and we picked up two rental cars before settling in to wait for our eighth classmate, John, to arrive from Florida via Atlanta and Paris.

Six hours later he arrived at the villa by taxi (you didn't think we were going to kill a day in Nice sitting in an airport, did you?  Please.  He's a big boy!). He had horror stories about Air France that topped our U.S. Airways tales.  Must the French try to outdo us in everything?  Isn't it enough that the women can eat foie gras and drink wine and still lose weight?  And is scarf-tying taught during toilette training?  I digress...

We spent the weekend swimming in the pool, lounging on the terrasse(s) and trying not to lose anyone in the 426 rooms.   Seriously, this is a beautiful villa perched on the hillside below the medieval town of St. Jeannette, just a ten minute walk up the hill. Well, that's what the books say. If you're 60 years old it takes twenty minutes and a Peaugot.  But it's worth the jog, especially after two Mohitos and a midnight trek down the dark streets to get home.

The vistas are incredible, the pizza is lousy and the weather is perfect.  In other words, we don't want to leave. Please send money.

Our Villa at St. Jeannett, France

View from our Villa

View from our villa

One of many incredible flowers growing on our "home"

entryway

Mary and John chillin' by the pool

Janice and Diane

Living room of the villa

One of the terraces in the villa

Thanks, California. We owe you.

Big hug to all of you who sent encouraging emails and FB messages.   That felt good!

Lots of questions about just what it is we’re doing, so I’ll tip my hand early and set this up.

Last year five of us “Jersey Girls” jumped from weekends in New York or Maryland to a ten-day trip up the California coast.  We rented a car in Los Angeles and slowly moved our way up to Napa.  Along the way we visited friends and classmates who now live in that beautiful state, as well as Venice Beach, Hearst Castle, Monterey Aquarium, Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco and Napa wineries.  To say we had a blast would be an understatement.  The most amazing part?  Five women in one hotel room each night and not one incident of bathroom rage.   Believe it.

Of course, the next logical step was to take this show global.  So over the Christmas holiday a few of us decided that France—with a toe touch into Italy—would be a good start.  I mean, a country that has been bouncing back from invasions since 1792 can certainly handle our little group, non?

By mid-January eight of us were on board and deposits had been put down on an apartment in Venice and a villa in St. Jeannet on the Riviera.  We added a hotel in Paris for a few days, ordered two cars for the Riviera portion, bought plane tickets and started squealing things like, “really? Are we really doing this?”  Which is pretty much what we’ve been repeating for the past five months.

Let me interject something important (to me) here:  This kind of trip is extremely doable on most budgets.  Splitting costs eight ways brings things like a villa on the Cote Azure within reality.  This is my first tip for your future travels.  Thank me later.

So there you have it.  Venice Beach to Venice, Italy.  Makes sense to us.  I’ll provide the names of the players soon (after I get permission) and one week from today (July 4^th) our adventure begins.

On second thought, let’s make that “our adventure continues.”