Nice is nice.

Thirty minutes after Macron has lifted the 100 kilometer travel restriction, I’ve got Air BnB’s booked in Nice, Bonnieux, and Cannes. Train tickets and car rentals are secured. I’ve already realized Paris will not be a place I make myself a permanent fixture in (despite knowing it’s one of the few places I’ll call home, joining Boston, Naples, and eventually Barcelona). Since the easing of lockdown restrictions, I’ve managed to spend more time in the Luxembourg Gardens and walk the Coulee Verte Rene-Dumont, an old railway that’s full of blooming flowers, tunnels of graffitied artwork, and overgrown train tracks. But I want a place - places - outside my vicinity, outside Paris. That need for something new and different is tugging at me and I’m off like a shot as soon as I’m able.

Killing time before my train leaves for Nice, I sit on a green bench in the Palais Longchamp, a giant fountain at my back, with a main boulevard of Marseille in front of me. It’s my first trip outside of Paris in three months and it’s slow going, easy, unhurried. The air is different, open and breezy in only the way beach cities can be, vibrant and cool to match the lush, green palm trees and champagne walls of the buildings beyond the palace. I forget that it’s Wednesday, not in the way you forgot what it is when stuck in confinement, but in the way that the day isn’t relevant or important. But this moment in time is wonderful - because the country is closed off, there aren’t tourists milling around and it feels like there’s so much space. There’s no patois of different languages as you’d expect, only the sounds of the city: a baby crying, kids squealing as they kick a soccer ball around, the buzz of a saw as it cuts through the brown and red clay roof shingles of the neighborhood.

The palais reminds me of a day my mother and I walked the grounds of Caserta Palace, sandwiches in hand, and picnicked under a statue of Diana and her hunting party with the region of Campania spread out before us. Here, in Marseille, the grand boulevard is an arrow to the sea and a church on a hill. I spend an hour on the palatial grounds before I climb the stairs up to the train station, stairs I recognize a year later, watching “To Catch a Thief.”

Minutes later, I’m speeding along the south coast of France and even just saying that, I feel so money. This place, like Paris, is storied to the point of being mythical. I expect Nice to glitter, to see ladies in expensive flowing dresses and big sunglass. I’m sitting on the wrong side of the train but I get glimpses of the Mediterranean - it’s endless and refreshing and makes my blood sing. It pops into my sight in azure bursts between those unbleached cream houses, offering lighting quick flashes of islands and verdant hills. It reminds me of the summer I lived in Carlsbad and took the Coaster to San Diego every day. The soundtrack then was pure California Girl Colbie Caillait and now? I’m listening to a podcast dealing with and discussing the events from the previous week - the protests against police brutality and racism and in support of the Black Lives Matter movement. “You need to permanently stay in that shock and that anger if you’re going to be with us,” Kelechi Okafor, the host, tells me. “Why now? Why is [the appalling death of George Floyd] the situation that makes you angry?” These are questions I can’t quite answer - it could be because there’s a video documenting the violence I refuse to watch or I haven’t made the time and space to really reckon with the history and oppression of racism in America. I know that I desperately need to answer those questions. The juxtaposition of the gruesome horror of inherent and perpetual racism against the clear blue of the sky and the clear blue of the sea is overwhelming; so much so that I leverage my privilege to ignore the discomfort I feel at not doing enough or confronting and working to dismantle those awful systems I’m fully aware of.

A few hours later, I’m sitting at a table en terrace for the first time since March and I feel like I could cry. The scene is so incredibly idyllic; there are only three other tables occupied - one has the most adorable little girl who escapes the enclosed space and is retrieved by her young and handsome father, perching her on his shoulders and their family cheering her return. A group of musicians plays across the square and when they finish, patrons of closer restaurants holler and clap. Yellow buildings with green shutters face the restaurant while cream and red striped cloths cover the tables. I do well with my rusty elementary French until I ask to get my steak medium rare, but I’m totally okay with it. Minutes later, a glass of white wine, a carafe of water, and a bowl of olives are placed in front of me. I always forget how much I love olives until I order them and these are herby, briny, and just salty enough. I can feel the olive oil coat my lips. My starter arrives and shortly after, my waiter tells me if it’s too much, he can put it in a box; it looks like I’ll be having a midnight snack tonight. Breaded and stuffed peppers encircle a salad of musclin, Parmesan, and pine nuts dressed in that wonderful French vinaigrette. This dish is comfy, reminding me of the dinners my mom would make, full of starch and sausage. The salad is fresh and warm, a perfect compliment to the cool night. The wine makes me think of clementines and takes me back to Italy, or some vision of myself at a villa in Tuscany, basking by a pool. Strange image for a girl drinking a French wine on the Côte d’Azur. I guess it speaks to what my idea of pure bliss is because this is it. My waiter packs my peppers up pour emporter and then writes down the French equivalents of cooked steaks because no matter how many times I order it here, I never remember the words for “medium rare”.

The very act of sitting at a table, drinking a glass of wine, waiting, observing, is welcome and has been sorely missed. I’ve basically been eating the same thing every day for three months: yogurt and granola for breakfast, pasta with chickpeas and lardons in cream, pasta for dinner. So much pasta. Not enough vegetables. Not enough being outside. Not enough being around other eaters. But then deconfinement happened. The last week saw me having ice cream for dinner quite a few times and baguettes and Boursin and wine from paper cups with my friends as we picnicked along the Seine and in the Tuilleries. And now that the weather is nice, being outside is the only desire (and option as restaurants can’t open unless they serve on their patio) I have and eating outside feels both down to earth and luxurious. It encourages ease and relaxation, communion with your fellow diners even if you don’t engage, and forces you to be present. And doing it this new way, greeted by masks, far away from others, scanning the menu on my smartphone to limit contact, is just one more thing I have to get used to.

The terrace has started to fill. A couple picks a table outside the protection of the giant striped awning and white umbrellas and chances getting rained on, making a joke about being able to feel it. A trio of women that look like they could be my older sisters, cool in leather and jean jackets and thin cigarettes in hand, sit at the table closest to me, gossiping and catching up. A man walks by in an obnoxiously pink shirt, walking a little white dog. The musicians return but are harder to hear now that the night and all her pleasure-seekers are coming out. I spy a girl leaning out the window of a white building with yellow painted facades, listening to the strumming of the bass and warbling gentleman below. I hope they’re still playing so I can walk by and see them perform and throw a euro in a hat. I don’t mind that it takes so long, by American standards, for my steak to arrive. Apparently, the waitress notices the difference as well and offers me coffee and a digestive on the house because it’s taken so long. She says, “Two months, the machine hasn’t had to work and suddenly?” I’m not sure which machine she’s talking about, but I’m glad my food is here. The steak is quite blue and chewy and riddled with fat but is super savory and absolutely divine when I spoon the milky Gorgonzola sauce over it. There’s a zucchini gratin that absolutely melts to pieces and chunky French fries that actually might be fried sticks of cheese. I want dessert, but I’ve hit the point where I can’t eat anymore. So do I get a cognac or a limoncello? One seems sort of mannish and the other already too Italian but eventually decide on the former. I feel I should ask for a cigar as well. It burns in my mouth but is so smooth and deep, rich and woody, and finishes smoky. I almost wish my Uncle Cesar and Aunt Tori were here drinking with me; it makes me think of being around their dining room table, playing Scrabble with a glass of whiskey in hand. I feel it in my chest and that feeling always makes me think of them.

The air fills with smoke, everyone is lighting up and I truly know I’m in France.

I take a lazy walk to try and feel comfortable in my jeans again and make my way to the beach, feeling Nice has a very Spanish vibe, but when I sit down in a blue metal chair, it’s exactly like how I’d imagine: glittery with lights shining and the moon coming out to play with the clouds. There are groups all along the water and hip hop blares from a speaker. It seems to get darker earlier here and it’s almost throwing me off. It’s been post sunset for half an hour; in Paris, it’s still twenty minutes to the golden hour. Chicken skin covers the exposed bits of my arms. I know I won’t be able to get out here tomorrow with the rain so I want to stare at the blue gradient in front of me as long as I can.

When I wake up the next morning and move the blackout curtains aside to open the windows to the world outside, I hear and see it’s raining. I knew that would happen coming down here, but I still didn’t plan a rainy day and so don’t know what to do with myself. It’s after 10 when I heat up last night’s leftovers - I was too focused on the movie I was watching and too tired to dig into them last night. With the window open, I hear conversations from the locals down below me. It doesn’t bother me that it takes me so long to do anything; that’s what leisure is. The flat I’m staying in is much bigger than my current home and much more my style - an entire wall is papered with book pages, tree trunks are sandwiched between steel beams, and an ancient stone wall holds a tiny wooden door that leads to who knows where, while an oak mirror serving as a towel rack hangs in the bathroom. There’s a gorgeous cream-colored refrigerator and a vinyl record player (sadly broken) in a wood-framed niche. The kitchen is typically small, but it has an oven and I’ve learned how to move in tiny spaces. I take what I’ve learned about moving in tiny spaces so I manage a workout, making sure to land as quietly as possible when I jump in case there’s anyone below me. An hour later, already into the afternoon and in clothes I wore yesterday, I’m out in the rain, my camera getting wet and my hair getting frizzy. I visit the modern and contemporary art museum and desperately wish there was someone I could talk about the pieces with. In the Lars Frederickson exhibit, I stand in a dark room staring at a light box that moves in infinite circles and then believe I’m going crazy looking at a stationary piece I think is moving. Turn out, it is and it’s a whole series. I experience a dizzying feeling of body dysmorphia as I look into a concave and smashed sheet of metal. The museum is empty until I come into a room that makes me think, “This is what people think of when it comes to modern art,” and I hear rubber on plastic. Two little boys run in to stare at the flattened car hanging from the ceiling. We three and their mother wander into the next two galleries together. In the second, my breath is taken away by the amount of brilliant blue my eyes widen to take in - a pool of powdery pigment lies in the center, a sprawling canvas of sponged paint adorns one wall while a canvas with the imprint of a body painted and dragged across it hangs on another. The boys name the colors in one piece: “regardez - la rose et le blue et’dore,” and give delightful “Oh, la’s!” at famous statues in miniature and covered in blue powder. I could spend hours in this one particular room until my entire vision is a brilliant blue haze, until I become finely ground azure pigment.

I do manage to extricate myself and after changing into dry socks, I stop at a small photography museum, learning about Tibetan sky rituals where the bodies of the dead are given over to vultures, their bones ground into powder (maybe not unlike the powder of the museum I’ve just left) and mixed with barley flour and butter for other birds. In another part, I see dozens of cameras, including one that looks like it would crush me flat with its bellows. The rain has worn off around 6 in the evening so I walk along the coast towards the port. The waves sound different than most beaches when they pull back from the shore as the stones tumble over each other in the wash.

This place is how I imagined it, pastel buildings and green palm trees that move with he soft wind, white chaise lounges under striped umbrellas and a sparking blue sea that catches the sunlight. I taste salt on my lips and I feel the spray of the sea on my finger tips. I sip a gin spritz on the deck of a bar overlooking the boardwalk and watch couples stroll by as bikers whiz along the painted path. I hear the sounds of beach life and take a moment to be thankful for this experience, that I am able to be removed, that I have the luxury to step away, that I can enjoy my time and the unbothered-ness of it all. I feel a little guilty about it - there’s a revolution, a resistance, happening back home. It doesn’t feel great to be grateful for my privilege when there are others who are speaking out and taking to the streets to stop injustice, oppression, and the constant, daily affliction of racial trauma.

Avoiding the protests is impossible - and rightfully so - the next day as I sit on on a chaise lounge on the beach. I mean, I could not pick up my phone, but I’m twitchy with the need to do something and see the footage of police walking past a man they’ve just shoved to the ground, footage I’ve tried not to look at. It’s horrifying and another disgusting example of the very action that ignited the fuel of racism. I’m crying on the beach, trying to quiet my sobs. I’m so ashamed and embarrassed, not because of my tears, but because of my country’s treatment of it’s own citizens. It sticks with me through two phone calls with my best friends, one of whom tells me she’s been made to feel filthy about her skin color. This comes after I flip my camera view around to face the water and after a slow second, she mutters, “Damn it.” I tell her how swimming in the water reminds me of the trips she and I would take to Singing Beach or Gloucester on the 4th of July, the water here cold but more tolerable those midsummer ones back in Massachusetts.

I only go in twice, but each time, I feel so held, cradled by the sea, and I think that a lot of the world’s problems could be solved by a good beach day and a surrender to simple joy. When I leave the water, I feel like a drunken toddler, sinking into the rocks, and don’t feel so foolish watching others do the same. I spend all day on the lounge I’ve paid for, ordering spritz and turning honey colored on one side while turning a painful tomato red on the other.

In the evening, after changing from my salty bathing suit into a breezy and light dress, I make my way to Cours Saleya, what’s usually an outdoor market during the day but is now full of diners at tables under a wash of white canopied tents. I go to several restaurants looking for a seat, but the wait times are tremendously long - everyone is exploring their newfound freedom. I end up on the market - not the beach side - of one particular restaurant, but I’m going with people watching. I’m not quite running on empty - I had a basket of thick-cut chips with my gin-fizz, but proceed to order as much food as I can. I start with slices of pecorino studded with pistachios and a glass of fig jam. The cheese is soft, cool, and delicious, sweet when paired with the jam, almost salty without, super creamy, with the crunch of the bright nuts. I sip a glass of white wine as I watch the nightlife pick up and peek inside the almost but not quite Sorrento restaurant, at it’s white, blue, and yellow decor with its lemon tree smack dab in the middle of the dining room, blue velvet chairs, and sunshine stripped awnings. My pasta arriabiata is super spicy, just as I like it, but way too much parsley. And still, I overeat. I end my night with a promenade along the promenade, watching the moon reflect off the mediterranean and the groups of friends and lovers make their way along the rocky shore.

The next day is very much the same - laying on a chaise under a blue and white striped umbrella, the bouldery coast spotted with pastel buildings and skyward-climbing trees in my periphery. I flag down the beach boy every other hour to order another mimosa or Aperol spritz and my traditional basket of frites. I pick-up my book for twenty minutes at a time, then putting it down to close my eyes and sunbathe. I spend the next year trying to recreate this particular feeling of the sun on my skin and the waves in my ears but it can’t be truly felt. An orange cat with a white-tipped tail has come over to say hello then hides in the shade of my chaise. Two drifters off to see the world when there’s such a lot of world to see under the eye of Apollo.

Dinner that night is at a small table in a tiny alley, early, and with no other patrons: olive tapenade with crostini, an artichoke tartare that’s too tough but topped with olive-oiled dressed pecorino that saves it, a gnocchi dish that’s got the look and flavor of a beef bourguignon. I finish with a chocolate torte, Chantilly cream, and caramel ice-cream. Apparently, a forgettable meal - all I have are pictures and no words.

As the sun sets, I saunter down Le Promenade des Anglais all the way to the Negresco Hotel with its giant marquee and terra cotta dome. The private lounges along the beach are all shuttered, chaises empty of cushions and patrons, the umbrellas now skinny sticks studding the shore. The sun sets over the horizon and the sky is a cocktail of azure, eggshell, and creamsicle. Conversations in French surround me but all I hear is the crush of the waves and feel so completely myself.

I start my last day in Nice at Marinette, a small bistro that feels like a cultivated minimalist farmhouse that got drunk on an island: there are rustic farm tables with robin’s egg blue wicker chairs set underneath neon-fringed tiki umbrellas and baskets of dried flowers and sheaves of wheat hanging from the ceiling as a pot of basil warms in the window. I can see the name of the street is written on a sign first in French and then in Italian below it. Yesterday, I heard a woman greet a friend with an exuberant, “Ciao, ciao!” I’m so inspired by the little Italian scenes that I order an espresso (my second in five months) and a wave of nostalgia hits as its set before me with a packet of branded sugar. Breakfast is some of the best pancakes I’v ever had: they’ve got the texture and crispiness of a crepe but the thickness of a pancake and I smoosh a tart maceration of raspberries, currants, cherries and blueberries. The yogurt is sturdy like a meringue and tangy like goat cheese and is served with a heavenly muesli with chunks of dark chocolate that start to melt in the sun along with a healthy drizzle of honey. A very excellent start to what will become a very tranquil day.

Apres le petit déjeuner, I spend two hours with my bum on the rocks on the beach, combing for sea glass. The hunting becomes therapeutic, a rhythmic sweep of rocks and pinching of sea-turned green, white, and blue bits of old bottles. The rocks are both dry and wet, changing color as I move them, taking the time to create balanced stacks. The need to stand and fill my belly drives me from the shore and to Le Duc at the Westminster Hotel. It’s swanky and chic and I’m seated on an enclosed terrace overlook ing the Bay of Angels. A group of women, older and celebrating a birthday, sit nearby as I watch people walk leisurely down the sidewalk. Another glass of wine accompanies a pork tenderloin with the crispiest fat cap that lends a charred flavor to an insanely juicy piece of meat and an herbaceous, buttery au jus. It’s served with creamy mashed potatoes with the slightest crunch from a generous sprinkling of flaky salt. Its followed by a Saboyan that looks like creme brûlée but is super runny with tart raspberries and sweet strawberries.

It feels good to be away and on the water - not an escape, but more a respite and an openness unavailable in the metropolis of Paris. I grew up wanting to be a California girl - super bronzed with beach-tossed hair and a cool, easy-going vibe. But being on the Cote d’Azure, I now realize that I’m going to always pursue being a French Riviera woman - sun-kissed, cultured, smelling of salt, and effortlessly - wholly - myself.