Exile on Nice Streets

I don’t believe anyone will read EVERY post I make, so, if you’re in the minority, I’m sorry because I need to provide context. I’ll keep it brief.

I was living in London, England for a 3-month period of time and one of my pals, Sammy, came to visit. He and one of his friends, Ben, recommended Nice, France as a place to visit. This post chronicles our phenomenal French fairytale.

A quick way for any city to charm me is to have an airport that’s easily accessible from the main part of the city. Nice, FR checks this box. The airport was about a 15 minute cab ride from our centrally located Airbnb, and trust me, as soon as you step off the plane and into that perfect Southern France weather, all you will want is to be checked into your lodging and have your bags dropped off so you can enjoy the outdoors, unencumbered with travel ‘chores’.

Like my other posts, I’ll share our Airbnb location for this trip. At the time of writing this, this Airbnb is priced at $89/night. Between 3 people, like on our trip, roughly $30/night per person.

Nice is accurately and fairly described and depicted from what I’ve read and seen. There’s a long main road that echoes the coastline. The speckled pebble beaches are adorned with sun-worn wooden lounge chairs and faded yellow canvas umbrellas. The beach and main strip are lined with tavernas, hotels, casinos and bodegas that will entice you with either crisp, cool air-condition, a stylish facade and ornate architecture, or a bit of buzzing neon lights. Food was another convincing temptress.

The water is clear and ranges in shades of blue from deep, dark blue to a lighter aquamarine color. At times, it can even appear a bit green. It truly is a beautiful part of the world. There are few to no berets.

It truly is a beautiful part of the world.

We got checked into our Airbnb, which, as you can tell from the screenshot, was located in ‘Old Nice’. The buildings and streets, to someone who had never been to the South of France, seemed like an attractive blend of old Spanish and Italian boroughs. (This realization was a bit of a ‘no shit, Sherlock’ moment for me).

The buildings feel slightly slanted as they teeter and weave above the bustling cobblestone streets below, watching subtly like a nosey parent expectant of some ensuing naughty behavior. Somewhere, church bells cling and clang, romantically to some, forebodingly to others, depending on weddings and hangovers. The time of day may also be a factor. For those remaining indoors, the large, creaky, wooden shutters of each house are strewn open to welcome in the heavenly lighting and weather.

Somewhere, deep in Pantone’s secret, probably evil, lair, another scientist is facing the impossible task of trying to bottle up the palate that exists in this area. The faded clays, the dried out yellows and oranges, the worn-to-warmth, olive greens and baby blue bird blues. (Here is Pantone’s attempt at Riviera Blue). It’s one of those places that actually looks like the post cards. How about that?

*Disclaimer: Michael and Sammy are not this blurry in real life.

After getting checked in and sorted in the Airbnb we set out for a snacky. I decided on a lobster roll and a Budweiser (hell yea) and we headed down to the beach to enjoy our meal. I just know someone reading this is going to be upset that I got a Budweiser in Southern France. If that’s you, I’d encourage you to not be such a wet blanket. Did it ever occur to you that the only beers served in this little sandwich shop were Corona (no lime) and Budweiser? And that, in the event of a tie, I’d obviously select the beer that matched the shirt I was wearing?

Anyway, here’s the sandwich and the sea.

I promise it’s better than it looks. You gotta remember. Not an actual travel influencer!

We returned to the BnB where some of us napped and others finished up some work. Eventually, we set out for a nice Nice dinner. In typical fashion, I neglected to write down the name, but the photo location says it’s at 4 bis Rue Ste-Réparate.

Traveling with Sammy is always a special treat because he’ll put you on some really tasty restaurants.

After dinner, we hit the streets and ended up finding a pub close to our Airbnb. This place was AWESOME. The owner was from Nice and was married to a Brit who would travel back and forth between Nice and London. The clientele was mixed with locals and travelers. One of the more interesting characters was a man from Brazil who was playing Samba music on his guitar. He was nice enough to let me try the basic Samba moves on his guitar and give me a couple of pointers. It’s actually far more difficult and nuanced to play that style of music than it sounds.

The name of this bar is Bella Ciao. It’s a very small, cozy, charming, bohemian styled pub. It has two large, almost barn-like wooden doors that are strewn open during operating hours. Due to the pubs smaller size, most of the patrons just hangout out front standing or seated at the tilted tables, slanted from the incline of the hill it sits on.

It was here that we experienced something that, to me, was absolutely hilarious. I’ll preface this anecdote with the fact that this is probably a ‘you had to be there for it’ story. Just the same, I will do my best to make it entertaining for you.

To help set up this story, you must know that Washington D.C., where I lived for many years, has a well known French-style restaurant called Medium Rare. Medium Rare not only leans into the French theme with its menu, but also with its ambiance. Specifically, when you use the restroom there they have French to English translation tapes playing. More nuanced still, the nature of these recordings are all different ‘pick up lines’.

One of the pick up lines that I found quite funny was a line that translates to, “can you show me the directions to your heart”. Part of what I found so funny about this is that if you were to say that to a girl in English, you would sound like an absolute moron. But, all of a sudden, if you say it in French or with a French accent, it starts to sound pretty good.

So, as we stood in the dimly lit street outside the Bella Ciao I saw my opportunity. There were two cute girls from Nice casually smoking cigarettes with wine glasses in hand tilted in a most precarious angle. Here’s a bit how the exchange went down:

Me *In AWFUL French: “Can you show me the directions to your heart?”

Girls *Silently look at me as if to say: “What?”

Me *Still using broken French: “Can you show me the directions to your heart?”

Girls *In absolutely perfect English: “What are you trying to say?”

Me *Now in English, and rather sheepishly: “Can you show me the directions to your heart?”

Girls *Laughing hysterically: “Do you really think that’s going to work on us?”

Me: “Well, we’re talking now aren’t we?”

So, for anyone wondering, it kinda works! Just not in the way you’re maybe expecting, probably.

We proceeded to have an entertaining banter with Amber and Pauline. A conversation around different accents came up and Pauline began to express some frustrations. Pauline, evidently, was upset that in pop culture the French accent always sounds a way that is inaccurate and, to her, rather stupid. (Think Boston accents in American movies; Not everyone in Boston sounds like that).

I asked her to elaborate. So, Pauline, a French women speaking to me in English with a French accent began to do an impression of a French woman speaking English with a French accent. She folder her arms, crossed her legs at the ankles, adjusted the grip and tilt of her cigarette, flipped her hair and gave us THE MOST stereotypical French accent possible. A French woman speaking English doing an impression of a French woman speaking English. I found the irony and her perfect adaptation quite funny.

A view from out front the Bella Ciao. I promise Ben is not as grumpy as he may appear in this photo.

One of the great things about vacationing in Nice is that you can do loads of day excursions up and down the coast. We picked a day and went to Èze and then on to Monaco. Both are worth seeing. That said, the picturesque beauty and charm of Monaco was wasted on me amidst the lavish, superficial character that’s washed over the area.

Photos from Èze.

In Monaco, we grabbed cocktails at the Casino de Monte-Carlo, hiked up to the castle/village/palace that overlooks the main city, and explored. While we were there, a Formula E race was taking place (Formula 1 but the cars are fully electric). I’m a bit of an F1 fan, so getting to see the same course of the Monaco GP setup was pretty cool. It did, however, make getting around the city a bit of a pain in the ass (the locals will substantiate as much).

Photos from Monaco.

We returned to Nice in the same day to spend our final night in Nice. Our dear friends Amber and Pauline had told us of a fun bar with live music to check out called Wayne’s Bar. We figured this would be the perfect final stop. Based on who the recommendation came from, we shouldn’t have been surprised at just how rowdy this place was.

It’s a dive bar with a full-blown music venue towards the back. We made our way to the back of the room to hear the band, and as you approach the stage there are several picnic tables setup, but no one was seated at them. Instead, everyone was standing on top of the tables and the benches. It made for a gauntlet of screaming drunks that you had to pass through to get closer to the stage. It’s an absolutely wild place.

The next morning, I awoke not feeling the best, but I’ve also travelled feeling plenty worse. During the night, one of my best friends from home, Paul, had seen that I was in Nice and asked me if I was going to go to Villa Nellcôte. Paul and I are both massive Rolling Stones fans (he’s on another planet of fandom comparatively). While I had known that the Stones had famously recorded my favorite album of theirs, Exile on Main St., at one of Keith Richard’s homes in the south of France to escape tax evasion charges levied against them, I did not know that it was actually located close to Nice.

I began to panic. I had to make the pilgrimage to this hallowed ground, but our flight was leaving that day. I checked the distance from our Airbnb. It looked to be about 5 miles away. I could make this work, I thought. I had wanted to get a run in that morning and so this seemed like the perfect opportunity. Realizing I had no time to waste, I changed and got out the door to begin the most beautiful run I’ve ever been on. And it’s probably the most beautiful run I will ever go on.

Now, the Villa Nellcôte of course had significance to me because of my affection for the Rolling Stones, but the house has had various owners over the years and the house’s, along with it's owners’, history is all a bit mysterious. There’s a lot of strong un-comfirmed rumors and things-of-the-like. Sadly, while I was there, the house was allegedly owned by a Russian oligarch, and as it was a private residence, was unable to be toured.

This next part is going to sound crazy, and perhaps it’s just extreme fandom, but there was an energy there as I stood outside the famed gates. I got goosebumps upon arrival there and have goosebumps again just writing this. Perhaps you’ve felt this way when you’ve gone to a particular location. I experienced similar sensations at Abbey Road studio and at the summit of Mauna Kea. Some places are just special and have a voodoo about them. I can’t explain it, and you can tell me it’s not real all you want, but you will never change my mind.

The album recorded at this residence is not only one of my favorite albums of all time, but its story is also a monumental part of the Rolling Stones’ mystique and legend. To me, in many ways, the album, the house itself, and the hazy tales that make up its history make it the true birthplace of Rock and Roll.

A villa in the south of France where a band, running from the law, recorded one of the greatest rock albums of all time and anyone present during the creation of said album inevitably ended up leaving the mansion too inebriated to validate any occurrences that may or may not have occurred there. Can it possibly get more Rock and Roll than that?

Between the beautiful scenery and the hype of visiting the Nellcôte, it was the easiest and most fun 10 mile run of my life. As I walked back to the Airbnb, some pizza at the farmers market caught my eye. I grabbed a couple of slices, got showered, changed for the airport, and departed Nice with a renewed comfort in my 3-month-long Exile abroad.

Chippychowow