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Every single day of our trip began with a nice lie-in. Try as we might, we were just not able to get up early, in spite of being in bed at reasonable times. Although the copain would read and I would write, sometimes until quite late, we were, for the most part, at least resting in bed before midnight. This morning began like all the others, except that it would be our last full day in southern France and the thought of being back to work in a few days loomed bleak and depressing over me.
It was another gorgeous morning, as we drew back the curtains of the window beside our bed and, still lying down, could see blue skies, mountains, and ocean. We had breakfast in the village today, sitting at a table outside on a stone pathway overlooking a garden. We ate crepes with lemon and sugar, which was a welcome change from our daily croissant, but which was, unfortunately, not very good. Even the ones we make at home, which are usually reserved for lazy weekend mornings, were better. Our waiter spoke to us in fairly accurate English, which at first I would have found surprising. But I'm sure I could have gotten by without any French at all in several of the small villages and towns we visited, since a lot of Anglophone tourists flow through these areas and the staff all seemed to have a fairly good grasp of English.
Disappointing breakfast behind us, we packed our things and headed to Saint-Jean Cap-Ferrat, which Thierry had told us was 5 minutes away (it was more like 20). The copain had found us a restaurant for our lunch, La Gouellette, which was located on the quay amongst a stretch of restaurants facing the still waters where countless boats were docked. I was surprised to find seafood paealla, a Spanish dish, on the menu. I decided to try it since the fruits de mer would surely be fresh out here. It came in a massive platter with large prawns, mussels, calamari, and fish. Although it wasn't actually bad, it lacked flavor, leading me to think that paella should really be left to the Spanish.
After lunch we drove a short distance to Paloma Beach, which Thierry had told us was his favorite spot to lounge. Once i saw it, I didn't blame him. It wasn't a large beach, and there was no soft sand (instead it was covered with small grey pebbles), but it was striking because of the fact that it was fairly enclosed in a small inlet with great immense mountains setting the backdrop. A set of rather deep stairs took us from the road down to the beach, which was partly public and partly private. The private area belonged to the Paloma Beach Club which had facilties where you could eat, drink, and shower. The copain splurged on sun lounger rentals so that we could hang out in the private area, which also had access to the most sunlight. I relaxed on my lounger, soaking up the sun and looking out at the sea. I didn't quite sleep, but dozed on and off until pulling out my IPad to continue writing. The copain had gone into the water to cool off, and came back refreshed, telling me that the water was warm. I typed a bit more then decided to go in myself, as it was nearing 4 in the afternoon and sunlight was already starting to wane. Usually, I wade into any body of water quite gingerly, as there is nothing I hate more than cold. But the sea looked so inviting that this time, I went straight in. After getting over the initial bite, I realized that it was actually fairly warm, even warmer than when we went swimming in les calanques. The water was crisp and refreshing, and I swam out, froggy-style, until my toes could no longer reach the bottom. The sea was a rich navy blue out there, turning increasingly darker the further I swam, but still clear enough so that I could see the seaweed below. It was incredibly calm, no waves, just the perpetual rippling caused by the light breeze. Looking back towards the shore, I saw gorgeous houses perched on the cliffs with trees growing in between. How curious, I thought to myself, to see palm trees growing alongside pines and evergreens. Turning away from the beach, I saw the mountains, appearing almost grey-blue against the pale sky. I remember Thierry saying how during the winter time, you could be skiing on those mountaintops in the morning, and laying on the beach in the afternoon ("Eez crazy!" he had exclaimed, gesturing wildly with his hands). I chuckled to myself at the thought, but decided that he was right again. It was an amazing thing, swimming in the Mediterranean, with the high-reaching cliffs in such close proximity. It was completely new to me, and something about being in the middle of the sea, in the midst of such vastness and beauty caused a complete sense of serenity to come over me. Bravely, I swam still further, turning around once to wave at the copain, who had perked his head up from his book to look for me. I wasn't scared, and it felt different from swimming out towards an open ocean; somehow, I felt protected by the mountains in the distance. I floated on my back for a while, the water filling my ears, and looked up at a few soft clouds suspended above. The sun had moved westward by this time, and although the sky was still bright, the beach was now shaded by the mountains. Looking around, I noticed that barely anyone else was in the water with me. I relished the solitude, and suddenly felt very free and unburdened, and decided to take a mental snapshot of this moment of tranquility, promising myself that I would try to recall it whenever the stresses of daily life became too overwhelming. I treaded water for a bit longer, using the scissor-kick that I had learned years and years ago during childhood swimming lessons, tasting saltiness whenever the water touched my lips. Admiring my surroundings one last time, and heaving a reluctant sigh, I swam back to the pebbled beach, slowly emerging from the water, my feet cautiously navigating through the small rocks, nearly toppling over once or twice in the process. But what a lovely afternoon it had been.
Not wanting to have to shower roadside again, we returned to our hotel in Eze for a shower and change of clothes before heading to Monaco. The copain was tired, worn out, and grumpy from the ambitious traveling that had characterized the last few days. I was exhausted too, but I couldn't very well visit southern France and skip seeing Monaco (we already had to pass over Nice, save for a brief drive through it, since we were quickly running out of time and the copain had already been there before without being too impressed). The drive to Monaco was, thankfully, quite short. It was a flashback to entering Saint-Tropez, as flashy expensive cars passed us right and left. We parked in an underground lot and walked towards the casino, which our guidebook had noted as a must-see (and turned out to be our only-see in Monaco). We walked past several designer stores along the way until the streets opened up to a large square and we saw the casino. It was a grand, ornate building, in the centre of the large square, with the Hermitage hotel on one side and the Cafe de Paris, with it's huge outdoor terrace abuzz with people, on the other. It was quite the scene; there was obviously a special event taking place at the casino that night, likely with some exciting names on the guestlist, as several onlookers stood outside the entrance, peering eagerly over eachother with cameras in hand. Across from them was an area that was sectioned off, and apparently reserved for the press, acting similarly to the onlookers, but with the addition of professional cameras and microphones. We decided to observe from the terrace of the Cafe de Paris, and sat down for some very expensive drinks (my cafe au lait was €6.50!!) Glancing around me, there were an inordinate number of Hermes Birkin bags of every size and color. I stared jealously, sheepishly trying to hide my Tory Burch clutch which was very cheap in comparison. A couple sat down at the table in front of us; he, a tall but slightly portly and unattractive bespeckled man; she, likely a model, significantly younger, tall and lean, with ultra long arms and legs and tiny sculpted features. A beige Birkin hung from her forearm, and just looking at her towering heels made my feet hurt. They were a walking cliche, but I was rather amused, wondering who he was and whether or not she had been wait-listed for that coveted Hermes bag. As we sipped our drinks, shiny and sleek luxury vehicles drove around the roundabout and past us, slowly and deliberately so that everyone could get a good look. Taxi after taxi pulled up to the casino entrance, and from our spot we could only see that women in long draping ball gowns and men in smartly tailored suits were stepping out of then and heading up the carpeted stairs into he building. Flashes went off once in a while, but we were just too far away to see who was being escorted inside. It was rather exhilarating, all of this activity, but I wasn't quite in the mood to join the hungry crowds. So we left our spot, along with all of the glitz and glam, and headed back to the car, off to the village of La Turbine where we planned to have our dinner. We pulled out of the parking lot and the copain inserted his credit card into the machine to pay. The screen read €0.30. "That can't be right," he said, his face crinkled with confusion. But it was printed right on the receipt as well. I laughed. Considering we were there for well over an hour, that turned out to be the best, and only, deal of our trip!
Our reservation was at Cafe de la Fontaine for 7:30. Unfortunately, we hadn't really left quite enough time to get there. The GPS was having an especially hard time with this assignment, La Turbine being an even smaller village than Eze and also at a higher elevation. Even getting out of Monaco was a challenge, until we finally turned her off and found our own way out by following the road signs. Once out of Monaco, the GPS was enlisted again, and she led us up and up a mountain, again through narrow, one-lane roads. At one point there was really nothing around us except for trees and brush. We followed our GPS earnestly and blindly, until - ARGH! - we were confronted with a blockade! A metal gate barred the road, without any signs or warnings, or direction of where to go from there. Clearly the GPS hadn't been aware of this, as she continued to urge us forward. I got out of the car, frustrated, heels clicking rapidly against the cement while I ran over and tried to lift the gate to no avail. The copain called the restaurant to let them know we were stuck and they told him that we would have to take an alternate road through Nice. We were atrociously late already, but neither of us really cared at this point; the only thing on our minds was how to get back down to a main street. The road was only one very narrow lane, so we would either have to reverse all the way down, or very carefully, turn the car around. We opted for the latter choice, and slowly and cautiously, under my direction, the copain was able to get the car pointed in the right direction (without driving off the hillside). It must have been quite the scene, the two of us city slickers, all dressed up for dinner, stuck out on a country road, cursing and sputtering at the ridiculousness of the situation. Down the hill we finally went, with both our tempers flaring unreasonably from irritation and hunger. We eventually had to stop the car when we reached a small parking lot, so that we could calm down and regroup. A moment or two later, we were back on the road, trying again to reach La Turbine from a different route. By some miracle, we eventually made it, finding the tables of the small outdoor cafe packed with people eating and smoking. The copain stopped the car to let me out and I ran into the restaurant, asking if we could still have our table, trying hard not to beg. As luck would have it, the French are generally not too concerned with punctuality, so we were still able to get seated. What a relief! I sat there alone while the copain tried to find parking, but felt a bit conspicuous. Firstly, I was way overdressed for the restaurant, which was quite clearly a fairly casual place (I discreetly took off my earrings and put them in my purse). The people seated at almost all of the tables around me spoke French, and everyone was white. I suddenly felt very aware of my race, and wondered if that's why some strange looks were being thrown my way. I suspected that in the small community of La Turbine, there are reIatively few Asian people rolling through. I was feeling rather uncomfortable actually, recalling that the copain's mum had warned us that her other son's girlfriend had been spit on not once, but twice, while in France. I silently begged the copain to hurry but I had spotted his car looping around several times in an effort to look for parking, which always seemed to be quite a challenge in France. After what seemed like an eternity, he had finally
parked (illegally) and came to join me at the table. The restaurant was loud and busy, and didn't have a fixed menu (all of their choices were written on chalkboards and I assume, change frequently). The cafe had been recommended both by Thierry and our guidebook, so I was pretty sure that it would be a good meal. I wasnt
disappointed. My tomato and mozzarella salad was fresh and tasty, and my steak frites was delicious and perfectly cooked to a light pink. It was a very simple meal, especially compared to our meal from the night before, but it was filling and hearty. I finished off with a bowl of summer berries topped with fresh cream and sorbet. This was also one of the most reasonably priced meals of our trip, and that, I believe, made it taste even better. The stress of the journey to the restaurant behind us, combined with a bit of wine, and the copain and I were engaged in some rousing conversation, discussing the rise and fall of empires and how the easygoing joie de vivre of the French would eventually be rendered extinct, giving way to the mechanical, mass productive, and cohesive mentality of the Chinese (I have no idea how we got to that topic, although I suspect it was from noticing the blatantly carefree lifestyles of the French, especially in the Riviera). It grew dark after dinner, so we skipped the espresso and hit the road, aware that the already treacherous roads would be even more dangerous under the cover of dark.
We made it back to the village, again handing our car over to the valet and then trekking up the hill to our room. Our night wasn't overt quite yet though; we were leaving for Paris the next day, via air, and had to wrap up and pack our newly purchased bottles of wine with our clothes and other belongings in our checked bags, hoping that they would both weigh in under the limit of 20kg. (I was actually more concerned about the bottles breaking, and red wine leaking all over the white jeans in my suitcase!) In an effort to adhere to the weight restriction, we packed all of our heavier items into our carry-ons and my shoulders ached at the very thought of carrying that bag through the airport. It would be a long day tomorrow, I could already tell....
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