SEPTEMBRE - ARRIVAL

SEPTEMBRE - ARRIVAL


Am I living in a dying city? Is there a serial killer on the loose striking at all times of the day and night? Is there a plague unannounced slowly making its way through the populace? Is the average age of my quartier over 85? Then why, despite the fact I have never, not once, seen or heard un policier, is there an ambulance blasting its annoying ass siren through town every five minutes. Wait, I hear one now.

I am in Nice, Nissa la bella, Nice the beautiful. Getting here was not easy. Delayed at Heathrow for an interminable four hours because of the French air traffic control strike (what a bienvenue), I found myself without a working cell phone and unsure where I would sleep that night if I did finally arrive in the Côte d’Azur. And just when I was beginning to change my mind about air travel, after two uneventful tranquil long-distance flights that didn’t even clog my ears, I had to endure a couple of American children kicking the back of my chair all the way to France and left the airport with a ear clog that would last three days. I had no one to blame but my fellow countrymen (countrychildren).

Le Quai des Étas-Unis (aka USA coastal area)

Driving along the Promenade des Anglais, the main avenue and pedestrian zone that lines the entire coastline, I was not prepared for the beach and the surrounding hilltop villages to be this beautiful. The sea was clear and blue and blanketed with sail boats, people parasailing, etc. the beach lined with restaurants, clubs, cafés, and crawling with crowds I secretly hoped would be gone by the winter.

The Côte d'Azur

When the taxi dropped me and my luggage off in the little parking lot in front of my apartment building I realized then that no one knew I was here, and I would not be able to call for help or even let my parents know I was safe. I tried logging into free public WIFIs but they requested IDs and passwords? Huh? Luckily, a woman came out of the apartment, who later introduced herself as Madame Saccardi, and offered to call the landlord for me. She spoke pretty good English and told me she was a primary school teacher going to school for “story of art” (she meant “art history,” but remember the word for story and history is the same in French; l’histoire). She also told me that I will find hear in Nice, that every person is special, but that I must experience it for myself. Uh-huh.

These are cliffs off in the distance to the North

My landlords, Monsieur Trouillot and his wife, turned out to be overwhelmingly nice and helpful. They helped me with my luggage and even drove me around the center of town a little. M. Trouillot also brought me to a French Telecom shop to get a SIM for my phone. This was an hour-long ordeal in which I knew what I wanted, so did they, but none of us could communicate. But they didn’t get mad. We were all frustrated, but in the end I got home internet services for less than I was paying in the States, along with a SIM card for my portable, and the ability to call anywhere in the world anytime through the internet for free (and even though they said there would be a minimum wait of ten days, I had access in five, take note AT&T!) The employee remained patient and kind and made the sale.

This is my apartment building, BTW.

When I finally got home, I realized I had been up for about a day and a half at this point, but before I slipped off to sleep vegging in front of French Canal 1, I called my mother to let her know I landed and was safe. This 2-minute call used up my first 5 euros. Yes, a $7 dollar phone call. Luckily from now on, I’ll be able to call from my apartment for free. 


Suddenly I wake up. I feel refreshed.


But it’s three o’clock in the morning. 


Damn you circadian rhythm!