But wait: there’s more. It’s a 30 hour trip. Thirty hours, people! That means bringing gluten free food, lots of pills and potions, all the electronics and chargers and adapters. It’s a lot!

Time to dig out the trusty briefcase on wheels, remnant of an earlier life.

Not only is it easier on my back and shoulders, but everyone reflexively treats me with respect. What an important person I must be to have Documents that need transporting.

Next message: somewhere across an ocean.

Sheila

Fountains outside my hotel

I love markets and olives and fruits.

Even the chicest Frenchman can’t telephone while cycling.

That’s one serious yacht.

No Day is complete without a dog picture.

A bientôt.

Alternatively....

If it’s not a picture of a dog, it’s a picture of a ukulele.

This woman paid good money for pigeons to roost on her. There’s no accounting for tastes.

Apollo is carrying a beach towel. Hey, he’s only a block from the Mediterranean.

What most people envision of Nice.

What I see with my nearsighted eyes.

Bon soir from Nice.

Sheila

I didn’t know that they had had several joint shows, nor that they had occasionally painted together.

Before I left home I watched a BBC documentary that said Matisse lived for 17 years in this house on Cours Saleya.

The museum said he lived in the house around the corner, no longer there. Could the BBC have been wrong? \240THE BBC? 😱

Here are some more Matisse paintings to calm your nerves while you contemplate that.

Bonjour Matisse.

Sheila

He did stained glass.

He did torn paper (and you thought that was just Matisse).

He painted Moses receiving tablets from God. (It is not known whether they were Apple or Android tablets.)

He painted the inside of a piano lid.

He painted on fabric.

And he painted hundreds of pictures of nature and love based on the Bible.

Merci, Monsieur Chagall.

Sheila

French women wear spaghetti straps, sleeveless clothes, form fitting clothes, long after we North Americans have decreed that the expiration date for those bodies has passed. No photos of this ; taking snapshots of women for no apparent reason is just plain creepy.

Don’t you just love European buildings that go off in random shapes to take advantage of available space?

A few assorted night time shots because I like taking them.

The \240owner of these dogs just arrived from California. She brought their stroller with them. I’m not sure why. Are their feet too delicate for French soil? Will they catch some exotic French disease? Has no one told her that the French are •besotted• with their dogs and take them everywhere ?

And finally, it wouldn’t be France without a carousel.

Bon soir.

Sheila

It might be textiles, my personal favorite.

You can find silver and crystal, if those are your thing.

Here’s your daily dog (he’s stuffed).

There is even a stuffed cow. What more could you want?

Bonjour from Nice.

Sheila

For those of you not similarly obsessed, Palais Lascaris, the building which houses the collection, is fascinating in itself.

It was built for Italian nobility (I know you know that Nice was part of Italy until 1860, right?), and follows the traditional style for historical Italians-with-money. The main rooms are on the first (North American second) floor. Here’s an ornate ceiling to please guests waiting to be received in the piano nobile.

If you were really, really special or important, you were received from a sumptuous bed, which had its own impressive ceiling.

I am not making this up; check your history books or internet.

One of the heirs of this house became quite famous for his musical salons. If you didn’t play well yourself, you might be offered this precursor of a tambourine.

Bon soir, Palais Lascaris.

Sheila

The more amazing works are outside, particularly in the sculpture garden designed by Joan Miró.

Au revoir, Fondation Maeght.

Sheila

The charming village of Villefranche-sur-Mer.

The village of St. Paul de Vence is perched on a hilltop.

It is famous for luring tourists, bewitched by its charms. But before that, the Colombe d’Or Hotel offered rooms and lodging to all the local artists in exchange for their paintings. Its walls feature Picasso, Matisse, Chagall, etc. Reservations at the restaurant are currently booked three weeks in advance.

If you can’t get into the restaurant, enjoy strolling around the historic village.

Then come back to Nice, to another sparkling day on the Mediterranean along the Promenade des Anglais.

Merci.

Sheila

Nice considers itself the Origen of Jazz Festivals, having held the first one in 1948.

Over the years, Nice has hosted most of the big names in jazz.

Louis Armstrong

Django Reinhardt

Stephane Grapelli

Ella Fitzgerald

Joséphine Baker

Miles Davies (if you read the Aimee LeDuc mysteries you know her dog is named after him: pronounced Meel Dah-vee).

Nina Simone

Chuck Berry (more revered in France than in the US)

Dizzy Gillespie

Tito Puente

Muddy Waters

Here is Grace Kelly inaugurating a statue to Satchmo. \240

This quote by Carlos Santana says, “Like Picasso, like Miles Davis, make your life a work of art.”

Merci, touts les artistes de jazz.

Sheila

It is an imposing stone building overlooking the harbor, formerly a Grimaldi palace.

Alas. It is closed, not opening again until the day that I leave the area.

CURSES!

Fortunately, Antibes is a charming place whose Old Town reflects its monied restoration.

It has those glorious yachts in a spectacular harbor.

In addition to its carrousel, it has a Ferris wheel.

The daily market is even better than the one in Nice, probably because it is under cover and has refrigeration.

Au revoir, Antibes.

Sheila

The streets in this part of town can be very hilly.

What a great idea: a bank for musical instruments. They sell them, lend them, give them away, and arrange for instruction. Closed today, so I could only read about it.

These little guys are not sheep; they are goats, representing fine Italian cashmere.

Today is a celebration of flowers (The. Holy Flower) in Old Town.

There are speeches, a band , and there’s a catwalk. (There was a band video here, but the app won’t let me restore it.)

But the sun at 2 pm is too hot to stand around waiting for what comes next.

Bonjour, Saturday in Vieux Ville.

Sheila

Little Russia in the beach at twilight.

What Plaza Masséna looked like 100 years ago.

What Plaza Masséna looks like today (the river is now underground).

Moonlight on the Mediterranean.

Bonne nuit, Mediterranean.

Sheila

This one was a Prom Swim. There were no signs to explain it, but it certainly was popular. Hundreds of swimmers lined up waiting their turn.

Nice is famous for its pebbled beach: no soft inviting sand here.

Whatever the objective, it involved few swimmers going out at a time, closely monitored by officials in boats.

It was moving pretty slowly, so I moved on to Castle Hill. (I’d avoided it on sunny days.) There is no castle on Castle Hill, only the remains of the fortifications from the Middle Ages.

There is also a park. If you have to spend your Sunday morning working out, I guess a spectacular hilltop with the Mediterranean as your backdrop is the place to do it.

And then, ten minutes after I took these and many other photos, the sun came out.

Bonjour, lovely morning in Nice.

Sheila

Why do we not have more figurative animals on balconies in North America?

There’s humor in the street art, too.

Walking is not a chore here; it’s a treat.

Sheila

There is certainly a lot of fresh seafood available locally.

And I did have some delicious sushi one day.

More than one day, I’ve indulged in some classic French moules frites. The portions are HUMONGOUS; 3 - 5 dozen mussels each time.

Of course, I had to try the local grilled sardines. \240

And I’ve gone out of my way to eat at the Gluten Free! Restaurant. This GF pizza was a real winner.

Here’s some fois gras, hiding underneath the omnipresent bread. It wasn’t that special, but the fig jam was amazing.

The pastis was good, better because it was in the south of France.

And the Mojito - we’ll, there are two kinds of Mojitos here. One kind has rum, as you’d expect. The other kind is an aperitif: no rum, but orange liqueur, Martini Blanc, and the usual mint, sugar, and in this case, sparking water.

There have been lots more meals, but that’s all the photos. If only I could manage to take a photo of my *daily* gelato. Hard to do with just two hands and crowds of people waiting for their turn.

Miam (French for yum), Nice food.

Sheila

Admission was free, but you had to go through security. Food vendors from all over Provence-Alpes-Côte (I swear, my English spell check brought that whole name up automatically) were demonstrating their wares.

When this guy said he had fresh beef cooked for the event, he meant it literally. The whole entire cow. It was Delicious.

The entertainment included a chorale of senior citizens (note how chic) who offered Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen, in English.

Lots more food photo opportunities abound in Nice. Who ever thought this is a great name for a restaurant?

Even the large, touristy restaurants are enchanting.

Today’s lamb chops a la Provence with fries. Miam.

And to sign off this one, \240a glimpse of just half of the gelato choices available at the famed Fenocchio.

A bientôt,

Sheila

I know that because I spent three hours there today waiting for a train that never came. NO trains came or went. There was one announcement saying in French “there’s a problem on the line; we will keep you posted,” but they didn’t. Keep us posted.

Everyone had already purchased their ticket. You can’t get your ticket from a person; you have to navigate a maze of French digital technology. So you head for those inevitable machines and \240lines as soon as you enter the station. Only then can you check the status of your train.

They’ve got you captive. People stood for hours staring at the unmoving Departures board as though watching it would magically fix something.

There is no passenger lounge, luxury or otherwise, at the station. I was able to snag a seat on a backless stool, which earned me stares of jealousy and irritation from many around me. I finished one book on my iPhone and started another. Finally I decided that three hours was enough time to devote to what was clearly a fruitless mission, so I left.

If you think it is boring reading about it, just imagine what it was like being there IRL.

Moving on to assorted ephemera, look at the price tag on this Day Of The Dead tote bag. €135 Euros. That’s $160 US! In Mexico we would balk at paying more than $20 US for that.

Here’s something to offset the prices, however. Every single day, after the market closes in Old Town, the crews come to not just sweep but hose down and scour the area.

That would never happen in Mexico. You only get those services when you have a tax base to support them.

And finally, this old American dude appears in the plaza every night, dressed all in white, with his sound system and his microphone, crooning Frank Sinatra era songs for handouts. What makes him unique is that he no longer remembers many of the original words to those old standards. He just makes up his own words as he goes along. Last night he belted out White Christmas (!), and the only words he got right were the opening line.

Bonjour, Nice oddities.

Sheila

Snuggled into a narrow space between the Alps and the Mediterranean, Menton is a quiet beauty of Italianate colors and old French charm.

The sea is bluer here, with less pollution to filter out the sun.

Menton doesn’t take itself too seriously. \240

But clearly the city fathers have an elevated opinion.

Next up: Menton’s Musee Cocteau.

Sheila

He also worked in glass.

And tapestry.

Elsa Schiaparelli was a friend.

He designed a ceramic brooch just for her. \240

There is a stunning museum which Cocteau himself devised in Menton. He started it in an old fortress.

Then a large, modern museum was constructed across the street.

The current show features an artist named Adami, whose work made me feel sad.

But overall, a fascinating museum. Merci, M. Cocteau.

Sheila

Well, OK, you earned the right to at least one photo. Here’s another for good measure: my favorite tea room and macaroon shop.

Bonjour,

Sheila

The ascent up this particular mountain is exceptionally steep. Here’s how close the mountain is to the train station - which is at the sea.

The town is much smaller than St Paul de Vence. In fact, hotel rooms here outnumber residents three to one. But it oozes charm.

As happens in these circumstances, cute little homes cut into the mountain have become cute little shops and galleries. And some extremely expensive restaurants. (You can’t take your first \240bite at the caviar establishment for less than $50 Euros.)

Even the spices cost more than anyplace else on the Riviera.

I’m glad I saw it. But no need to rush back.

Sheila

Inside and outside of a patisserie in Old Town.

Remember the Beaux Artes train station? This is an artist’s rendering of the new structure being erected in front of it. Think that glass pyramid in front of the Louvre....

Mediterranean fish soup with garlic aioli and shredded cheese to add. (Huh? No self respecting Italian ever puts cheese on fish, whether on pasta or in soup. And the restaurants here all claim to be Italian.).

And finally, night shots of the Promenade des Anglais and the sign I started this journal with.

A bientôt, Nice la belle. Merci beaucoup pour tous les souvenirs.

Sheila