It wasn’t until a few days later, I took the train into Nice to walkabout.
I started by walking up to the Musée Matisse and the Jardin du Monastère de Cimiez overlooking the city. It was a nice little hike and worth the treck.
Above the museum, there is an ancient Roman amphitheater surrounded by a park pocked with the scattered remains of other artifacts. The park and amphitheater were centuries old reflection sites.
I did as I was beckoned and sat for a few minutes in my thoughts.
The beers in my bag were asking questions so I opened one and took a few pictures of the theater. I made a long sweeping round and climbed the highest wall I could to look down on the space.
It was empty and felt lonely. In its day there were probably a few thousand Romans shouting and cheering here. I bet they didn’t know that in about a thousand years I’d be standing here, half a cigarette hanging out of my mouth, holding a camera phone and a can of beer…
Who will it be in 1,000 years more?
The Jardin du Monastère de Cimiez was an ancient monastery atop the hill overlooking both the city of Nice and the valley just east. There was an astonishing garden that extended to the edge of the world.
The valley view was nice but as you peered further down it was marred by the freeway, cutting through the natural beauty. I preferred to peep the sea between the peaks and greenery.
After observing the valley and the coast for a few minutes, I turned right and went up a set of stairs into a smaller wooded area.
It looked like the place magical creatures came from in a fantasy story. Rows of trees lined the park towering above randomly placed benches. At the edge of the opening was a fence overgrown with ivy and a primary school.
I picked a bench in the middle of the wood, wrote for a little bit and rested my legs. It was nice to hear the children piping in and out of the sound of nature with their petit French accents and laughter.
Exhale…
Eventually, I made my way back through the gardens and towards the museum. The facade had this oddly bright and pristine aura, almost cartoon like. It was a nice homage to the fauvist style of Matisse himself.
The front desk asked for my coat and I was directed to the second floor. They were showing a Picasso et Matisse exhibit at the moment.
Matisse’s Maisons à Fenouillet, a petit display of typical French homes in a quaint riverside suburb of Toulouse, was suspended in front of me. It was just clear enough to understand and just blurred enough to allow me to make my own conclusions.
I’d never been to Toulouse but I imagined this was a close depiction.
In the next room, I found side by side self portraits of Matisse and Picasso and took a moment to compare them. I never had much of a taste for Picaz despite all the praise he received. Call me a hipster or hater, my eyes simply did not love his work.
Something about other expressionists excited me more.
His pencil drawn self portrait though, had a wonderfully detailed beauty to it which I appreciated. The shading was dark and melancholic but his face had an air or determination and hope. I imagined him muttering bittersweet disappointments to himself while he drew.
I continued shifting from room to room, taking everything in until I reached the end of the tour.
How nice to spend a morning in the presence of these two masterful artists… I felt exceptionally cultured and quite naturally wanted to wash off the pretentious air about me.
I did so with another one of the beers in my backpack. The brisk midday air woke my lungs and I sat in the middle of the park with my headphones in.
The Duke’s In A Sentimental Mood weaving in and out of the sound of birds chirping and the distant rush of traffic.
It had just passed noon as I lay in the grass in a daze.
The clouds weren’t speaking to me today and watching them was starting to give me a bore. I felt it was time to start making my way towards the shore so I started around the museum and down the hill.
Most every property here was a large apartment building with a well kept yard and a well guarded private pool surrounded by extravagant plants.
At the bottom of the hill, I stopped in a small marché and grabbed a ham sandwich and another beer. The sandwich was nice and salty and I drank the pint like water.
I was thoroughly nestled in the bustle now. As I ate and drank, I was reclining on a railing across the street from the Gare de Nice-Ville.
The center of the city was the wild west at any given moment. There were more buses, all the train tracks and stations, there were taxis and cars going every which direction. It was controlled madness.
A woman tripped on the way out of Gare de Nice-Ville and dropped her things, not a single person stopped to help her. It was time to keep moving…
The tram passed down the middle of the road and I crossed behind it before I finally caught the scent of the beach.
The sea and shellfish lingered just above the soft, sweet scent of lavender, poppies and wisteria as I walked through the Marché aux Fleurs in a light raincoat under the sun.
I spoke to one of the fleuristes, “Bonjour, tu vas bien? J’ai besoin de lavande…”
She brought me a small bouquet of lavender and I gave her ten euros.
Window shopping was a daily activity to the locals here. Everyone came down to the Marché to walk from one end to the other and tempt themselves with the fresh seafood and beautiful blossoms. There was a nice cafe at the corner and I knew the bartender so I stopped in for a pint.
“Adrienne est ici?”
“Non, monsieur. Demain.”
She was off today so I settled for a beer although I wasn’t thrilled about paying in full.
I left a bud of Lavendar with a small tip and stepped back into the dusk air. Might be about time to head back to the flat and make something to eat…
I didn’t want to go just yet though so I crossed the Promenade des Anglais and sat alone on the pebble beach for some time.
Now is not the time to head home. No, not just yet.
Exhale…
