Monthly Archive for March, 2002

Bliss is a french cafe, excellent conversation and flashing memories of home.

St. Patrick’s Day has come and gone. We went to an Irish Pub (as one must on St. Patricks Day) called McMahon’s. Irony: A large group of people from my language program, EF, went to an Irish pub, me being the only one with Irish background among us. More people were from Belgium than any other country at that point. The afore-mentioned pub was owned by a Frenchman, operated by a girl from Cleveland, staffed by English girls, and frequented most often by Mexicans and Germans. This, my friends, is cosmopolitan living.

I talked almost all night to a girl named Sarah from Dublin. She and her friends (which encompassed just about everyone in the pub, oddly enough) are students at Trinity College, Dublin, and they’re taking an ‘Erasmus’ year here in Nice. They’ve been here since September and they’ll be here till late May. She was impressed that I actually knew the meaning behind my claddagh ring and I was impressed that she actually knew 1) where Rhode Island was, and 2) that it was not, actually, an island. These both are serious problems with foreigners. The other big problem with coming from Rhode Island is that people very easily confuse it with Long Island, or, if they’re greek, they ask ‘You’re from Rhodes?’ Cosmopolitan living…

This city is so expensive. From transportation to public phones to McDonalds to net access to horribly-technically-uninclined movie theatres to rollerblade rental… It’s depressing because if I do all the things I want to do, I will waste away what money I have left saved and be unable to do anything else cool all over Europe. A quandary. I thought about getting a job here, which would be perfect, given that I could use the money I made to pay for expenses here as well as save up for the future, and it would give me something else to do in the evenings instead of watch ‘Big Dil’ with Mme. Mercier, my host mother. I could also claim ‘international work experience’ on my r�sum� and it would undoubtedly help me improve my french. The only thing is that I don’t think my visa will allow it. If I were from in the EU, it would be no problem, but I really don’t know about restrictions on US workers. Australia was vehemently opposed to issuing work permits, and I’m not optimistic about France.

I’m off, probably to a book and a bed and a nap then dinner and a newspaper and French comedy shows that mix Jerry Lewis with Double Dare more effectively than any previous human effort. Should be an interesting evening.

There. I said it. The too-oft-repeated faux joke that has plagued travel writers and annoying, world-travelling relatives for generations. I said it. I got it out of the way. I hope to never have to do it again. But it is. Nice. Nice. The weather isn’t bad for this time of year, the Promenade des Anglais is beautiful and fun. The Vielle Ville is intricate and homey. It’s nice.

It’s a place of bold contrast, however. For every Benz-driving, turtle-neck and sport-coat wearing heir to someone’s throne, there are two guys with wheels of the more base kind: the kind that are basically four wheels bolted to a piece of plywood by which they propel themselves from one temporary shelter from the elements to the next. The mega-rich and the awe-inspiring poor yell at each other as they pass on the Promenade des Anglais. The views are striking from the hills, but there’s a thick layer of tangible smog from impartial diesel engines and the fumes of thousands of simultaneously lit cigarettes that prohibits any extended vistas from hitting home. The public transit system covers a wide area and is relatively cheap, but is only in operation from 7AM to 1AM, and even then is spotty and inconsistent. The region is full, rempli, of immigrants of some kind: Italian, Spanish, Portugal, Senegalese, and yet a typical gripe, or, more exactly, a typical vector quantity of a gripe here is “les immigrants,” even if the griper in question happens to be one. Comment vite qu’on oublie… Stark contrasts. Interesting contrasts. This place has character, but it still hasn’t made up its mind. Sydney made up its mind a while ago, and decided to strut its stuff on the world stage. Watching things happen in Sydney is like watching a fine athlete in play. Conscious thought and instinct and muscle and resilience meld to form something beautiful and meant to be. Watching things happen in Nice is like watching someone on ice-skates for the first time, complaining the whole way about how it wouldn’t be so difficult if the ice weren’t so slippery. It’s an interesting place. Nice.