Sunset, Juan-les-Pins

Spontaneity, as a frame for an outing, can allow one to loosen the leash of expectation, as was the case last week. It was a few days  before her arrival that Debbie let me know she was coming, and while I had at the time been deep in a routine of acclimation, there was no reason to not switch gears.

Deb's wish was that she not make decisions, so soon, a plan began to emerge. Within hours of her arrival, we were sitting on our twin couches, hanging out as though we lived down the street from each other., spending her first day touring the markets and seeing the Paul  McCartney exhibit at the Musée Granet, sadly missing tea at the too popular Hotel Caumont, which is pretty special.

Cassis is a must stop for anyone who hasn't been there, and after lunch, we walked to the Calanques and watched the high divers, seeing that water of an otherworldly color. We were on the highway headed back in our rental car, when it quietly let us know that the air pressure was low in the back left tire. Limping into the gas station in Aubagne, we pumped up the tire and watched it deflate immediately. After trying and failing to loosen the bolts with the mini lug wrench provided with the car, we called roadside assistance, taking turns to tour the nearby Auchon, which is something between Costco and Target, for on the fly dinner options. I sat on the curb and surveyed every car, motorcycle and truck that entered the gas station, doing that thing you do when meeting up with someone  you don't know, giving that questioning glance and waiting for a response of acknowledgement. But it was obvious when a very long tow truck pulled in, driven by a young, kind and handsome man who brought his own lug wrench. He was incredibly compassionate, leading to an emotional crisis when I tried to reconcile his perception of two old and helpless women needing help in a foreign country, and mine of two people of indeterminate age who had a sucky lug wrench. We were back on the road in time to make a switch at the rental agency (lesson learned: get roadside assistance coverage in a country other than your credit card's). In case you were wondering, flat tire is pneu crevé in French. I am developing an funny lexicon of French words like this and branché (plugged in), which the folks at Orange WiFi and I trade back and forth. 

Our home for an hour and a half

My friend Erica had just texted me about her visit to the Matisse Chapel, which proved the perfect prompt for our next day's activities. We found the chapel closed for lunch, so took it as an invitation to have our own, which The Google told us was a 15 minute walk, which turned out to have lots of downs and even more ups, but it was worth it. We ended up in Vence which is not as over the top as St. Paul de Vence, but pretty and home to a fine pizza, made with Cantal rather than mozzarella, which was a good thing.

On the way to Vence

Downtown Vence

The Matisse Chapel is a jewel box; small, simple, perfect. There was a super-annoying woman accompanied perhaps by her mother, doing some kind of social media thing, making that stupid face they all make, eradicating any sense of sanctity one might have in a chapel designed by a talented artist. I sat in the back row, doing my best to feel the feeling of being there, and after, waiting for this terror to leave, as did, it turns out, others. Once she was gone we gently took turns taking our photos of this chapel Matisse called his life's most important work. I was once again moved by the simplest of his drawings.  

Matisse Chapel

From there, we left France, entered Monaco, re-entered  France and minutes after, Ventimiglia, Italy, all within an hour or so. We were headed to what had been called the largest market in Italy, recommended by many I had met. Our rudimentary yet charming Airbnb had a view of the Mediterranean, and was a short walk to the older hill town, a little longer to the "modern" town, where the market was. There's something about being in a place I've never been, especially when the golden hour approaches, that compels me to go out exploring, no matter what else is going on. I walked away from the sea,  through a very old arch, climbing a ramp of cobblestones wide enough for a horse and cart which led me to a piazza with a church and the town hall, one wall adorned with crocheted squares. There were no tourists. People were gathering in the square, on steps of their houses, in cafes, there was a feeling of having barged into people's lives without invitation. In church a woman (yes!) was saying mass and the only women attendants responded. Up and around and down I went, on squiggly paths, some of which reached dead ends, private house doors that had curtains instead of anything wooden, the smell of boiling pasta pervasive on that Thursday early evening. It was a memorable window into lives of people who had likely known each other since birth, I thank them for letting me have a glimpse. 

Old part of Ventimiglia

The Friday market supposedly goes from 6 am to 6 pm and we'd heard it would get crowded, so we were off by 8ish, finding that not all stalls were  set up. Certainly the tall African men with worn out shoes, carrying white flat sheets filled with knock off LV and Gucci bags weren't there yet, in fact they didn't show up until our third loop through in the afternoon, cautious and ready to roll everything up and move along. But it was fun to look at all the clothes, kitchen equipment, salami and leather goods while listening to the melodic Italian patter between stall keepers. After a loop through and a walk in the beautiful food market,  we were peckish, and headed to the Caffe Paris, in the middle of the "new" town, where tourists and locals were meeting for a quick coffee before starting their Friday. Debbie raved about her latte and I committed to coming back for another very thin focaccia with mozzarella and tomato, plenty of salt. 

We returned to the market for two more tours, in part because Deb had her eye on some pretty printed bathrobes, and I a wallet and maybe a small bag. I ended up not getting anything, in part because I will still thinking about the fregola, porcini and mussels I'd had for dinner at U Funtanin the night before. Dreamy. The quality of food in Ventimiglia must be incredible because this restaurant wasn't even on any top 10 list.. Later that day, I took a wander to the harbor, surprised I could walk right onto any of the docks. It was a pretty time of day, all the lackeys hustling on their motorized skateboards to gather provisions for whatever billionaires consume on their obscenely large and imposing boats. 

Interestingly, many of them had Maltese flags*, which at first I found a happy coincidence, as that day Nat had finally had her appointment at the Maltese Embassy in Amsterdam to get a passport. The man taking her photograph asked if she'd like to tidy her hair first, a question which she wasn't sure how to answer. Either before or after that, someone on the street spontaneously handed her a bottle of water, and someone else later, a sandwich, prompting her to re-assess her morning styling. When I texted to ask her if it was OK to tell this story, she was on a ferry and apparently was approached by someone who offered her some dessert. Beauty Queen Makeover coming up when she visits this week. 

*Turns out there are tax advantages to registering your floating mansion in Malta

Ventimiglia food market beauty

So much crazy. Most of the yachts were registered anonymously, but one wasn't, $100M price tag

And then we were off back west. Quick stop in Monte Carlo, which was less bad than anticipated. Nothing else to say, apparently I'll be back later in the month to play tennis there. Hopefully next to Svitolina.

The old part of Monte Carlo was very clean

And some nice pocket parks

This was the overall vibe

Royal monogram on graves in the church where they're all buried

In Antibes, we stopped for a classic provencal lunch, grabbing the last fish and the last chicken at  la Tete d'ail, which is outside the tourist area and served a fine meal. We returned to Antibes the following day to go to the Picasso Museum, literally getting stuck in the middle of a market stall that sold linen dresses. We chatted with a Scottish mother and daughter who, when I told them I was from Boston said "Oh, Boston loves us" which is of course true, after the World Cup. The museum was fine, focusing on his work related to the area, and a bunch of nymphs and satyrs. There wasn't the huge variety I'd expected, and it reminded me a bit of going to the Vermeer Museum in Delft which didn't have any original Vermeer's. I bought and am now reading a book called Life with Picasso by Francoise Gilot, his girlfriend and mother of two of his children, 

This was my favorite

Exterior, Picasso Museum, Antibes

We spent the evening in Juan-les-Pins, which interestingly, had a larger number of what I'm guessing are Orthodox Jews than I've seen in my short time here in France. It's a pretty place on the other side of Cap Ferrat from Antibes, a little more low key, at least when we were there. We witnessed a most beautiful goodnight to the evening, with silvery water and a gentleness in the air as folks ambled back and forth along the boardwalk. 

My yellow room in Juan-les-Pins

After we scraped the side of our rental car exiting the garage, we scurried back to Aix to buy toothpaste and a micro fiber cloth, which Deb used to get most of the scrape off, but certainly, there is business that needs to be done and by the end, we were both sick of rental cars. What turned out to be a bargain was anything but...Oh well.

Happy. Thanks for visiting, Deb.