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I am in the tender as we make our way across the bay to Cannes. The early morning sunlight blinds me and my hair blows in Pollyanna twirls. This morning reminds me vaguely of French Polynesia , where every port was a tender port and the morning started off bathed in sunlight with a warm inviting breeze.
But, here we are bound for the exclusive and trés chic French town of Cannes, where mansions sit on hillsides, except for the castle-like manor on the beachfront owned by the Saudi prince and his twelve wives, and every major hotel has a red carpet leading up the steps, in honor of the noted film festival. Our guide chirps that Angelina and Brad have recently been here and haven’t they had twins as well? Not one for all that glitterati, I ditch the tour and head off to the city of Nice, Vieux Nice, the old town specifically, past the beaches laced by golden sand, with their beautiful tanned bodies and swanky hotels and designer shops, to the cobblestone streets and ancient houses that gave rise to this magnificent treasure that we Americans call the French Riviera and the French call the Côte d’Azur.
Surprisingly I am with Mrs. Cruise Director, as she introduces herself. She reminds me of my friend Marion, who I met on my first Mediterranean cruise way back when, a little older than me, very British, very proper, but with a streak of daring. I like that about her. Mrs. Cruise Director tells me that as soon as she spotted me negotiating with the tour guide and taking off she knew that there would be an adventure waiting to happen.
I agree to Sandra’s accompanying me with the stipulation that there are no guarantees. Of course I have my itinerary all charted in my head and maps in my pocket, but my sense of direction when it comes to streets without numbers is sketchy at best. Besides, I tell her, I am going on an adventure tour and who knows where or how it will end up? It will, of course, be a “foodie” tour as well. I figure that will really turn her off, but somehow she is undeterred. We make a deal. She tells me that I can lead her anywhere I want to off the beaten path, and for her part, well, that the ship will never leave without us as she is, after all, the Cruise Director’s grandmother. How would that look? But secretly I wonder if they would really wait for us and what kind of trouble I’ll get into for leading the Cruise Director’s gram astray from the sparkling and sunny beaches along the coast into the dark and dicey and gritty medieval streets of Nice. This could end badly. The Cruise Director is, after all, my unofficial boss…
Our fellow tour group members have a look of trepidation bordering on horror when they hear that we will be going off on our own. The streets here are nothing less than serpentine and even I secretly wonder if we will make it back to the bus and back to Cannes and ultimately, the ship.
So with the sun beating down upon us, we hike to the top of the hill where the old castle and fortress sit high over the blissfully calm shores of the Mediterranean. We snap gorgeous photos of the famous waterfront. We climb down into narrow city streets and alleyways that do not permit cars, because, of course cars did not exist in the time when these ancient streets were constructed. We snap photo after photo of tall buildings in alleyways so narrow, people could practically join hands in opposite buildings. Neighbors must be best of friends I suppose (or the worst of enemies, Sandra points out) as laundry is strung across streets at the highest windows. At the tips of the stone facades, only a sliver of daylight shows through and it’s truly hard to imagine that just down the winding hilly paths in the modern section of town, lies the promenade of fine hotels and the powdery sand beach carpeted with hundreds of sun worshipers, hang gliders and wind surfers in the distance.
We browse tiny shops, filled with the offerings of Provence , fresh herbs in delicate ceramic canisters, lavender filled sachets and rose and eucalyptus bath salts. We sample perfumes and bath oils constructed from the fragrant wildflowers of the town of Grasse until we smell like we just came out of a luxurious spa in a fancy Cannes hotel.
After scanning our lunch options, from tiny cafes pungent with the aromas of freshly caught seafood, tabac and strong café, we decide we do not have sufficient time for a proper sit down lunch so we purchase some slices of fresh Nicoise pizza, Pissaladière. Flaky pastry-like crust topped with olive oil, sundried tomatoes, anchovies, redolent of thyme and rosemary, with sweet caramelized onions and bitter nicoise black olives, it encompasses all the fruits of this magnificent Provencal landscape. It is simply divine!
We move on to a local chocolate shop, where the proprietor hand churns bitter dark chocolate and fashions it into pungent delicacies, some dipped in freshly grated coconut, some rolled in almonds and macadamia nuts, some swirled with honey and caramel sauce. Giant slices of dried mango and papaya and small whole butternuts and hazelnuts are dipped in sweet light milk chocolate and the confections are strung from delicate cords to dry. Plump whole apricots, plums and cherries are delicately glazed and balanced on a silver platter. Freshly made nougat with ripe green pistachios is sliced into puffy chunks and passed around for us to sample. We order a cup of steamy hot chocolate, and it is reminiscent of one of my favorite novels, “Chocolat”, where the ending, much unlike the movie, is sadly touching and bittersweet like the chocolate itself. Hot chocolate here is nothing like the sweet dessert we drink at home; here it serves the purpose of a morning espresso, deep and rich, biting and bracing with a powerful caffeine kick.
Renewed and refreshed, we move on. We are delighted to take passageways unknown, streets which do not even appear on my portable maps. We follow tiny arched tunnels which lead to hidden alley ways where cats lap milk in heirloom china plates left streetside by the buildings’ denizens and old ladies with large wide heeled shoes walk balancing a cane in one hand, a basket of plump vegetables and fruits in the other, and a fresh loaf of bread tucked under the arm. A streak of modern day jolts us to alert every so often, as a vespa buzzes through and its motor echoes off the narrow walls.
We admire street lanterns nestled in intricate iron work patterns along the sides of jumbled row houses that rise narrow and tall along twisting cobblestone pathways and we peer inside arched heavy wooden doors that lead not into buildings but through them, to hidden stone roads finally tumbling into an unexpected cul de sac or another twisting alleyway leading to who knows where. It is easy to get lost here, and it isn’t such a terrible thing at that.
There is, in fact, a fascination with cats here. Weathered signs hang from above arched entrances to cafes with names like “Le Petit Chat”, “Café Chat Noir”. It is because of Nice’s history as an old fishing port, where the bounty of the Mediterranean sea is so closely intertwined with the arrival of the elusive felines brought by early Asian traders.
Our last stop before heading back to our pre-arranged meeting spot by the sea is a gelato café, where we order Ferrero Rocher gelato, a smooth creamy dark chocolate gelato with chopped hazelnuts and topped with swirls of sweet gooey chocolate syrup. It’s a gelato purist’s nightmare: a cross between fine Italian gelato and Ben & Jerry’s, but it’s delicious and refreshing after a long day of exploration.
Surprisingly, we meet our tour group on time (well, three minutes late), much to the relief of our fellow tourists. They greet us with sighs of both relief and awe, as if we had just arrived home from an expedition to Mars. One tourist starts to scold me for being late, but Mrs. Cruise Director admonishes him, telling him she was lost and good thing I was along to help her find her way back. She winks at me and I smile as we both know it’s a good thing she came along as I would have been totally lost in this labyrinth of Vieux Nice, and without her uncanny sense of direction would probably never have made it back myself.
All in all, it was an unlikely adventure in Provence, and we did have fun. This is a mother of five, grandmother of eight, and great grandmother of 12, whose grandson, the Cruise Director bought her a Honda motorcycle for Christmas last year, which she promptly drove into a wall. You’ve got to admit, the girl’s got spunk.
Hugs,
Jeana
But, here we are bound for the exclusive and trés chic French town of Cannes, where mansions sit on hillsides, except for the castle-like manor on the beachfront owned by the Saudi prince and his twelve wives, and every major hotel has a red carpet leading up the steps, in honor of the noted film festival. Our guide chirps that Angelina and Brad have recently been here and haven’t they had twins as well? Not one for all that glitterati, I ditch the tour and head off to the city of Nice, Vieux Nice, the old town specifically, past the beaches laced by golden sand, with their beautiful tanned bodies and swanky hotels and designer shops, to the cobblestone streets and ancient houses that gave rise to this magnificent treasure that we Americans call the French Riviera and the French call the Côte d’Azur.
Surprisingly I am with Mrs. Cruise Director, as she introduces herself. She reminds me of my friend Marion, who I met on my first Mediterranean cruise way back when, a little older than me, very British, very proper, but with a streak of daring. I like that about her. Mrs. Cruise Director tells me that as soon as she spotted me negotiating with the tour guide and taking off she knew that there would be an adventure waiting to happen.
I agree to Sandra’s accompanying me with the stipulation that there are no guarantees. Of course I have my itinerary all charted in my head and maps in my pocket, but my sense of direction when it comes to streets without numbers is sketchy at best. Besides, I tell her, I am going on an adventure tour and who knows where or how it will end up? It will, of course, be a “foodie” tour as well. I figure that will really turn her off, but somehow she is undeterred. We make a deal. She tells me that I can lead her anywhere I want to off the beaten path, and for her part, well, that the ship will never leave without us as she is, after all, the Cruise Director’s grandmother. How would that look? But secretly I wonder if they would really wait for us and what kind of trouble I’ll get into for leading the Cruise Director’s gram astray from the sparkling and sunny beaches along the coast into the dark and dicey and gritty medieval streets of Nice. This could end badly. The Cruise Director is, after all, my unofficial boss…
Our fellow tour group members have a look of trepidation bordering on horror when they hear that we will be going off on our own. The streets here are nothing less than serpentine and even I secretly wonder if we will make it back to the bus and back to Cannes and ultimately, the ship.
So with the sun beating down upon us, we hike to the top of the hill where the old castle and fortress sit high over the blissfully calm shores of the Mediterranean. We snap gorgeous photos of the famous waterfront. We climb down into narrow city streets and alleyways that do not permit cars, because, of course cars did not exist in the time when these ancient streets were constructed. We snap photo after photo of tall buildings in alleyways so narrow, people could practically join hands in opposite buildings. Neighbors must be best of friends I suppose (or the worst of enemies, Sandra points out) as laundry is strung across streets at the highest windows. At the tips of the stone facades, only a sliver of daylight shows through and it’s truly hard to imagine that just down the winding hilly paths in the modern section of town, lies the promenade of fine hotels and the powdery sand beach carpeted with hundreds of sun worshipers, hang gliders and wind surfers in the distance.
We browse tiny shops, filled with the offerings of Provence , fresh herbs in delicate ceramic canisters, lavender filled sachets and rose and eucalyptus bath salts. We sample perfumes and bath oils constructed from the fragrant wildflowers of the town of Grasse until we smell like we just came out of a luxurious spa in a fancy Cannes hotel.
After scanning our lunch options, from tiny cafes pungent with the aromas of freshly caught seafood, tabac and strong café, we decide we do not have sufficient time for a proper sit down lunch so we purchase some slices of fresh Nicoise pizza, Pissaladière. Flaky pastry-like crust topped with olive oil, sundried tomatoes, anchovies, redolent of thyme and rosemary, with sweet caramelized onions and bitter nicoise black olives, it encompasses all the fruits of this magnificent Provencal landscape. It is simply divine!We move on to a local chocolate shop, where the proprietor hand churns bitter dark chocolate and fashions it into pungent delicacies, some dipped in freshly grated coconut, some rolled in almonds and macadamia nuts, some swirled with honey and caramel sauce. Giant slices of dried mango and papaya and small whole butternuts and hazelnuts are dipped in sweet light milk chocolate and the confections are strung from delicate cords to dry. Plump whole apricots, plums and cherries are delicately glazed and balanced on a silver platter. Freshly made nougat with ripe green pistachios is sliced into puffy chunks and passed around for us to sample. We order a cup of steamy hot chocolate, and it is reminiscent of one of my favorite novels, “Chocolat”, where the ending, much unlike the movie, is sadly touching and bittersweet like the chocolate itself. Hot chocolate here is nothing like the sweet dessert we drink at home; here it serves the purpose of a morning espresso, deep and rich, biting and bracing with a powerful caffeine kick.
Renewed and refreshed, we move on. We are delighted to take passageways unknown, streets which do not even appear on my portable maps. We follow tiny arched tunnels which lead to hidden alley ways where cats lap milk in heirloom china plates left streetside by the buildings’ denizens and old ladies with large wide heeled shoes walk balancing a cane in one hand, a basket of plump vegetables and fruits in the other, and a fresh loaf of bread tucked under the arm. A streak of modern day jolts us to alert every so often, as a vespa buzzes through and its motor echoes off the narrow walls.We admire street lanterns nestled in intricate iron work patterns along the sides of jumbled row houses that rise narrow and tall along twisting cobblestone pathways and we peer inside arched heavy wooden doors that lead not into buildings but through them, to hidden stone roads finally tumbling into an unexpected cul de sac or another twisting alleyway leading to who knows where. It is easy to get lost here, and it isn’t such a terrible thing at that.
There is, in fact, a fascination with cats here. Weathered signs hang from above arched entrances to cafes with names like “Le Petit Chat”, “Café Chat Noir”. It is because of Nice’s history as an old fishing port, where the bounty of the Mediterranean sea is so closely intertwined with the arrival of the elusive felines brought by early Asian traders.
Our last stop before heading back to our pre-arranged meeting spot by the sea is a gelato café, where we order Ferrero Rocher gelato, a smooth creamy dark chocolate gelato with chopped hazelnuts and topped with swirls of sweet gooey chocolate syrup. It’s a gelato purist’s nightmare: a cross between fine Italian gelato and Ben & Jerry’s, but it’s delicious and refreshing after a long day of exploration.
Surprisingly, we meet our tour group on time (well, three minutes late), much to the relief of our fellow tourists. They greet us with sighs of both relief and awe, as if we had just arrived home from an expedition to Mars. One tourist starts to scold me for being late, but Mrs. Cruise Director admonishes him, telling him she was lost and good thing I was along to help her find her way back. She winks at me and I smile as we both know it’s a good thing she came along as I would have been totally lost in this labyrinth of Vieux Nice, and without her uncanny sense of direction would probably never have made it back myself.
All in all, it was an unlikely adventure in Provence, and we did have fun. This is a mother of five, grandmother of eight, and great grandmother of 12, whose grandson, the Cruise Director bought her a Honda motorcycle for Christmas last year, which she promptly drove into a wall. You’ve got to admit, the girl’s got spunk.
Hugs,
Jeana
J
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