re: Friday Feb 27, written 20:00 Saturday night

Friday afternoon, I ran into Jane at the cyber café. We ended up spending the rest of the day together, a café then the yacht quais, then les jardins for drinks, then some food at my place with Martyn, then Xtreme. It was really nice. They were supposed to go skiing today, so left early. I was finishing my drink and up popped the other people I know here, Dino and Albert, and Allen (who I'd introduce my mother to in a parallel universe) and Greg (the expert on French women). Shook Greg and his unlikely promises of a motorbike tour of the coast, and went on to Golden Gate with Dino and Albert. It was packed and fun. This time some guy actually did strip and jump in the pool, an event that owner Maxou announced on the mic so no one would miss it. Home very late.

[partially from notebook, 3 pm Saturday Feb 28, Negresco hotel in Nice, then expanded upon later] Did I think to see how much a coffee cost before I ordered it? Oh, no. But it's alright. Included in the six euros for this wee cup of café au lait is soft piano music (Les Mis, Heal the World, Sinatra) that sounds live but isn’t; antique velvet couches; three types of sugar, and a square of dark, dark chocolate all with the royal Negresco logo; and a suspiciously polite French waiter. I just café coffee possible? And he says back in French without wincing visibly, but of course! As if not only is it possible, but why on earth would anyone do anything but just that? It’s windy and threatening a cold drizzle out along the Med on the Promenade Anglais and my whole body just wants to sink and be warm. I realize I can sit here for a while, and there’s no place I’d rather be. I wonder how long they’ll let me stay? The tall, tapestried oak room is almost empty. The white-jacketed waiter just cut and lit a cigar for a frail old man who he greeted like an old friend.
I tried to go to Monte Carlo, but by a stroke of mechanical luck, the ticket machine wouldn’t take my card (even after I figured out how to use the knob and stopped poking at the ahem non-touch screen), and I saw the train pull up on the opposite track while I was banging on it. Next one not for an hour, too late, so, Nice it was. And I realized right away it wasn’t the right day for a snazzy casino and hilly old town. I accidentally bought a ticket for the TGV. Still only 7 euros for a round trip, no stops along the way. Is it a maglev train? I thought those were science fiction? It’s quieter than I remember the bullet train. Eerily quiet. I wanted to bite the end off my baguette, but I could imagine the sound echoing through the hushed car and decided to wait. (why I thought bread and a goaty camembert would be a good choice of brunch after last night is one for the ages.)
It was raining for real when I left an hour later. But the sea, instead of looking dark and stormy, looked all the brighter aqua blue. I saw an old man standing at the rail of the promenade facing the ocean, holding one of the rainbow umbrellas everyone seems to have, and I stood behind him and took a half dozen pictures. It was transcendent, I hope just one turns out as good as it looked then. It lifted my spirits so much (and the cold meds?) that I happily set off for the old town’s pedestrian shopping district. Nothing great, mostly French chain stores. Headed back to the train when it started to rain in earnest. Sniffling, fingers numb, bag squeezed under my arm to keep the rain out, I felt strangely happy, even as a pedestrian waving a shopping bag yelled at a honking driver and two teenagers cursed each other in passing.
Hopped on a train back that was already at the tracks when I got there – was like a faded orange and yellow cattle car compared to the tgv. I’m sure it should have been cheaper, too. But I just wanted to get back. Walked in right near the smoking car, and people were packed in sitting at all angles. It made all the stops, but pretty scenery, didn’t mind at all.

Can I possibly still be stuck on GMT –6 biorhythms? Is it the chill in the room? It is hard to get out of bed when it’s the only warm place.

I wrote some things about yesterday*, but I think they were even less interesting than usual. It was chilly and grey, and I read the paper in a cafe and bought a needle and thread. Got a CD-R so I can maybe get some photos up. Not without trial, of course - they thought I was asking for a "CD Art." I skipped french one and never learned to say the alphabet. Apparently R is pronounced Airrrre. They were very nice and we all had a good laugh.
Went to a bar at night and talked to some people I didn't want to, and didn't talk to some other people I did want to. Borrowed Shakespeare in Love from the library. See? Not so interesting, is it?

*Browsed the shoe shops. Saw the pointy-toed stiletto leather boots with white racing stripes I’d seen a gramma balancing on the other day. Went by the theatre before four, but another rainy line and nothing I wanted to see. Decided to make an evening of cooking, and looked through the cookbooks in the apartment for a quiche recipe. Is it unknown in England? A different name, maybe? Nothing. So set out for the bookstore then the grocery store. Got a cooking magazine with a simple enough recipe. Went to Champion because I hadn’t been before. A woman in the cheese aisle asked if I could tell her the expiration date on a camembert because she’d forgotten her glasses at home. I got stressed a little trying to figure out which was the day and which was the month, then what the fourth month might be called. But Avril saved the day. Decided on a recipe for spinach quiche on the back of a goat cheese package. Spent a long time in the grocery store, not unusual. Got some tea called tilleul, I feel like the meaning will come to me, but even looking it up, the English meant nothing. Tea of the lime (blossom), linden. Linden tea? Do we have that? American English, please. I’ve seen it in perfumes, too, it’s certainly a subtle tea. Drinking it now with honey for the throat which seems to be a bit worse.
The spinach thing took longer than expected and turned out not bad, mildly lacking? I had some red wine with it, three bucks for the bottle! Got Shakespeare in love from the library and started watching it, then wanted to get out, and walked to Xtreme. There were kids being noisy in the alley, even younger than the ones who were out there before. I wonder why that particular alley corner is so popular for sitting around? These couldn’t have been more than thirteen.
Awkward as ever, sat at the empty table in the corner near the fireplace and the flat screen tv with the snowboard video. A drunk, chubby, weasly guy who said his name was Johann (and later Druvi) started talking, and I didn’t want to talk to him. He offered a drink, and I said no thanks. Soon the waitress brought over another glass of wine. I felt like I had no right to refuse to hang out with him, but tried to anyway. He invited me to go to another bar with his friends. I wished I wanted to, but I didn’t. He said he was from Brazil, his friend said he was from Sri Lanka. I didn’t care either way. He said he worked on the biggest yacht in the port, the Kingdom 5. He made me uncomfortable. He came back later, while I was still writing postcards and wishing one of the younger less sketchy people would talk to me. He sat down and asked again if I’d go to another bar with him, or then, if he could just have a beer there with me. I said no to both. He invited me to meet him for lunch tomorrow on the yacht – we don’t have to go to a restaurant, I have an apartment on the boat. How tempting. I said I wanted to be alone. Is that wrong? All he had to say for himself, and leeringly, was that he liked my smile. That bores me. If I’d liked him, maybe that would be enough, but I didn’t. Why do I feel like I should apologize for not liking someone? He finally went.
I left when they pulled down the gate over the window. People were still sitting around.

I talked to an antique book dealer today, looking for an old Proust for a friend . She said Proust would be impossible to find anywhere, but recommended a Maupassant that was ‘better.’ She said, inexplicably, that Proust was for children. I said, Marcel Proust?
Do French children read 2,000-page books?

(from tues afternoon)
18:00 24 Feb. 04 Tuesday afternoon
Mardi, I’m in love. Finally, a day of gorgeous weather. Still chilly out of the sun, Supposed to be cloudy the next two days, so took the coastal path around the cap d'antibes I've been waiting for better weather to walk. Stopped at the last boulangerie before the town dissolved into set back villas and got a fat loaf of bread and a few little bugnes – kind of how you’d expect the French to interpret donut holes. Gorgeous, rocky, some parts hard going - saw some girls nearly get swept off a jetty and had to put the camera away to have both hands free to scramble along some of the rocks. But I love rocks by the sea, inordinately. The path starts with at “Danger de Mort!” sign near the town and beach that the lost generation tanned at, that was supposed to be the setting for Tender is the Night, the Fitzgerald book I spent my entire last day at home searching my apartment, unsuccessfully, for. Ends a few kilos later at a palatial villa, Eilenroc, perched up on a cliff with the most amazing view. There were a lot of old people walking along the trail with canes, and dressy younger people with kids. A few people fishing off the rocks with long poles or small nets.
Hope I can get pics online somehow, some really beautiful scenery. Even cloudy, there are worse places you could be than here. But walking along the coastal road looking up past high fences at terra-cotta roofed villas in the sun, you understand why people would want to have money. The ocean is such a gorgeous clear blue, the rocky shores are bleached and timeless, you can see mountains covered in snow far across the harbor and toward the clouds. When it’s not hot out, palm trees and aloe don’t register right away as tropical plants. The trail is maybe a mile and a half, and it was probably about three miles to get there along a road with no sidewalk most of the way – luckily, there was a bus back to town just a few minutes after I found the stop.

Am I in love merely with some nice scenery? Do I throw the word about as lightly as that? No, there’s more. I have discovered a new pastry. The Tropezienne. I got it partly because a single tall slice of it looked big enough to last a few days. Alas, I misjudged. An equilateral triangle covered in powdered sugar, two layers of pastry sandwiching a thick layer of fluffy cream. Has anything “equilateral” ever been so tasty? Beyond the first bite, which tastes maybe like a more substantial éclair, the delicate lemon flavor comes out. With the next bite, you realize there’s alcohol involved – it’s been soaking in something wonderful. Whether it’s a lemon-flavored liqueur or a lemon cream and something doused liberally on the bottom layer hardly seems to matter.
Speaking of simple culinary pleasures, the butter that was in the fridge when I got here has big chunks of sea salt in it. It has instructions to leave it out before eating for best flavor. Who needs cheese for the bread?

(out of order)
Midnight 25 Feb. 04 Tuesday night
Too fun. Jane and I just got back from Mardi Gras fireworks in Nice. I think this was kind of the end of the Carnivale. Neither of us knew much more than that something was supposed to happen in Nice around 9:30. I had heard something about burning the king, and we’d both heard something about fireworks. We drove into town and parked and wondered if indeed there was anything going on as it seemed pretty empty, and, after nine, saw a relatively small crowd gathering by the beach on the barricaded main road. The bleachers facing the parade route were almost empty. It did fill up right toward 9:30, a lot of English speakers and people with kids. Probably like Times Square, anyone who lives near by was probably safe at home, maybe peeking out of windows. Everyone had a can of silly string, and Jane got into a few duels with overenthusiastic 10 year olds. Everyone was covered in the stuff. I’ll probably be combing it out of my hair for days. Just past 9:30, a float with a bunch of smoky flares came down the road and looked like it headed to sea, then the tops of a jazzy brass band, then the huge jovial king float, the only thing that was high enough above the crowd to see. Everyone pressed toward the barricades at the edge of the beach, so we did too. Something, though not the king float, burned out in the water, then there were fireworks from a barge for a few minutes. When it was over, we headed to a café right on the corner there. By the time we’d had a glass of wine and a nice chat, the carpet of confetti and empty spray cans was cleaned up, and the street was completely empty.
When we got back to the underground parking deck, some laughing guys ducked out of the elevator as it was going down and sprayed at us with silly string. Jane was quick on the draw and managed to squirt some into the elevator as the doors were closing. Nice work! We got into the car and drove around and up, and as we were pulling out into traffic, one of them hopped out of a packed white car behind us and took another shot at Jane’s car! The traffic tie-up was in our favor, and we got way ahead on the coastal highway while they were stuck turning out of the garage. They must have driven like maniacs to pull up just behind us at a red light and start spraying again a few minutes later. We were ready – I sprayed back as Jane pulled ahead and put an SUV between us. We played catch-up most of the way back to Antibes, silly string fluttering off the windows and hoods of both cars. I snapped pictures of them the next time they got close. When they pulled up again, they were hollering one drink, one drink! (which I learned from watching the Spanish Prisoner last night) and making the international sign for give us yer numbers. They finally stopped ahead of us at a roundabout, and three piled out to chat. The conversation was exactly as Jane predicted: we said, we’re old, we’re not from here, we don’t have cell phones – they said no problem, no problem, no problem. An especially goofy one in a white baseball cap said then give us a bisou and leaned into the car for a peck on each cheek before we all drove away laughing.

Grey outside, and very chilly.
Visited the Picasso museum, fun, full of young American art students. There were only about six of them, but it’s a small place, one floor of his work. Cool stuff, some almost comical drawings with smiley faces. Beautiful side-long views of the ocean. I could imagine having a dark little room up there and nothing to do but look out at the ocean, paint, and drink absinthe.

Went back to the café with the rapido, and a guy there won a few euros. The place was full. I had the hot chocolate du maison, which she said was “a little more [words and frenchy hand gesture]….” Something. Rich? Chocolatey? I don’t know. But it was, whatever she said. It was delicious.

Went to a tiny shop down the street that sells just a few types of fresh pasta, including pistou, the local specialty. I asked for a dozen pistou ravioli and the woman, who had the white jacket, glasses and manner of a pharmacist, asked for how many people, if it was to be a main dish or side, and though I’m sure I asked for one dozen, sold me two dozen. I guess that’s how many one person needs? She wrapped up the two layers of sheets of little squares in thick white paper. I had already heard her carefully explain to the woman before me that they should be slid into a pot of boiling water and cooked for just a minute, then served with butter and parmesan. The other woman, who was buying dozens, asked if they could be served with sauce instead. The saleswoman stiffened, like she’d been asked if it would be ok to take the sleeping pills she was prescribing with a glass of wine, just this once. She repeated that butter and parmesan were preferred, and she could skip the parmesan if she truly didn’t have access to any. She seemed to have very definite ideas, which is why I didn’t protest when she sold me two dozen raviolis. Also, I don’t think I’d quite know how.
The pasta was delicious, pistou is as close to pesto as the word is, basil, garlic and pine nuts. I think it was goat cheese that was mixed with it in the pasta. I ate it with just butter.

Finally, a day of gorgeous weather. Supposed to be cloudy the next two days, so took the coastal path around the cap d'antibes peninsula I've been waiting to walk. Gorgeous, rocky, some parts hard going - saw some girls nearly get swept off a jetty and had to put the camera away to have both hands free to scramble along some of the rocks. But I love rocks by the sea, inordinately. Ended a few kilos later at a palatial villa, eilenroc, that was supposed to be the setting for Tender is the Night, the Fitzgerald book I spent my entire last day at home searching my apartment, unsuccessfully, for. Hope I can get some pics online somehow, some really beautiful scenery.

Antiboulenc, I think it may be a partly made up word? This is the little social center that is tucked into the base of a high wall parallel to the ramparts, which I’ve walked past and seen handfuls of old people practicing calligraphy or chatting in a small circle of mismatched chairs. There are delicate wood-framed glass doors that open from the single-lane road right into the room, about the size of my living room but covered in mirrors on one side and amateur water colors, illuminated manuscripts, oil paintings, and clay sculptures on the others. The typed schedule outside the door said, all in French and all in capital letters, that there is a group that meets for foreigners on Monday afternoons to discuss local cultural topics in French, to inform guests and let them improve their skill and appreciation for the French language. It said that an enjoyable time is had by all, residents and visitors alike, and people who came once made sure never to miss a session. I hadn’t seen anything happen in there that seemed to involve anyone under the age of 60, but nothing on any of the signs said anything about it being specifically for seniors, as far as I could tell.

I decided to go in today, thinking the worst they could do was laugh and scoot me out the door. Which was frightful enough that I walked past twice before I got the nerve to go in. Which seems silly, but it’s true. I recited to myself the words that were written outside, then asked, Is it the conversation group for foreigners…? and an old lady with short purplish hair said Yes, like what on earth else would it be? I pointed to a chair and said can I…? And she said Yes, like what on earth else would one do when standing in front of a chair?

So I sat by the door and watched as nicely-dressed retirees came in and shook hands and kissed cheeks in the rather tight confines of the circle. A few came over and shook hands and said bonjour. The woman with the purplish hair who turned out to be in charge, Claude, asked my name and where I was from, and said there was another American in the group. And I suppose there are reasons for stereotypes; I knew who she was from across the room. She seemed nice enough, but was surely everything they say we are – loud, opinionated, and with an accent that could turn wine into vinegar. She got into an argument with a classic bon vivant old French man about how to tell if a bottle of wine was good or not. That takes balls of stars and stripes. Eventually everyone settled down – a group of Swedes, a Swiss couple, an Italian, and a scattering of old French ladies, including a sweet wrinkly old lady who sat next to me and spoke very slowly to make sure I knew what was going on.

They started out by talking about the news that a young English woman had been ‘defenestree’ the other night – had fallen to her death from a fourth story window nearby after an argument with her fiancé of two weeks. They talked about the gay weddings in San Fran and in general (they group was mostly anti – think of the children!), and the bugne and gance – special pastries in the shops now for Mardi Gras. Claude turned to me from across the circle after an hour or so and started asking what my story was, in a series of mercifully simple questions. I answered haltingly, especially with 15 people suddenly all quiet and looking at me like something possibly interesting found on the beach, but seemed to be understood. They were very kind, and said to come back for a carnival celebration they were having on Friday.

It felt like a really ideal way to learn. I think the same women participate in an English group and can probably speak English, but not a word of it here. When the tiny plastic cups of wine were all emptied and gathered, Claude took me to the library the group runs across the market and helped me borrow a dvd – she recommended The Spanish Prisoner. She even waived the three-euro annual fee since I wouldn’t be here too long, and though she wasn’t overly solicitous about suggesting I call, she did write down her phone number for me and said hope to see you next week, in a very reserved sort of way. How is it that a chilly afternoon with arts-and-crafty senior citizens was one of the nicest things that’s happened here yet?

The 3G Convention was going on in Cannes, and it was overrun with cell phone people. The restaurant was probably at least half English and Dutch speakers. It looked like a lot of the convention was to take place under big white tents along the beach. Crap weather for it.

There was brick red mud everywhere, and I was wondering where it came from since the dirt and sand here seem to be normal dirt and sand colors. Holding the handrail down some wide, shallow steps on the way to la tour, I had even tried to non-verbally warn a dressy old lady that the handrail was dirty by showing her my clay-colored palm as she reached for the rail. On the front page of the Nice-Matin, the top story was that the storm had dumped Saharan sand on everything, leaving the snow on the ski trails a yellowish color and spreading a layer of ochre on the cars all around the area. Sand from Africa! Like the winds that sprinkle China’s yellow desert over Japan every year. Small enough world.

I wonder if Bruce Springsteen knows how popular Philadelphia is here now? Seems to be in as heavy rotation as the Coldplay songs that won the grammy a few weeks ago. I wonder why?

I took a quick little wander through the little roads around the apartment when they dropped me off. Glistening and silent aside from my own footsteps, yellow light from round shaded goose-neck lamps hanging off the buildings, it felt like it could be any year at all, except for the occasional sound of a television. The sign at the entrance to rue de la pompe says it’s a sixteenth century street. I guess the big tile-roofed basin at the foot of it is the pompe it was named for? Some of the back streets are paved in dark cobblestones laid out with white ones contrasting to outline shapes that look like rows and rows of interlocking scallop shells. They looked especially pretty, dark and wet.

Standing in front of a plaque explaining an ancient Roman wall that had been rededicated in 1957, a seam popped open in my jacket and I found a New Jersey bus ticket that expired in 1986. I wish it had been older.

21:45 22 Feb. 04 Sunday night
I was at La Tour first and looked at the paper over coffee. Philippe, his wife, and the chef were at the middle table having big plates of steak and fries when I went in, Philippe sliding back around the bar occasionally when people came in. They all cut pieces off of a few big slices of cheese and poked at them with forks until more customers came. We sat for a long time over beer and kir, talking about our respective countries’ health care systems, mortgage lending systems, how unfriendly the French can be, and general bureaucracies home and abroad. I guess this is what intelligent, mature expats of the world talk about. Am I immature to be bored? I don’t think I was faking it well. At five thirty we agreed we were all starving, but Johanna said no place starts serving dinner until seven. As much as I’m sure it’s true, it seemed unbelievable. But I’m hunnngry!! We talked about it for a while, and decided to drive to Cannes to an Italian restaurant, La Piazza, they like. It had started raining again. Even by the time we dropped off David’s car, found parking for the Alfa Romeo in Cannes and walked 10 minutes in the rain to the restaurant, we still had ten minutes to wait outside. Luckily, since we were first, we got to be under the awning. It was worth waiting for, though – really good pasta. I had something called Pasta Traviata, sort of snail shaped pasta in a creamy pepper sauce with little whole olives and thick slices of parmesan covering the top.
We skipped dessert since it was expensive and we were full, but I finally figured out, I think, what a café au noisette is – not the hazelnut flavor I expected, but a small size (ie impossibly tiny) coffee with milk. Now it kind of all makes sense. Why when I asked for a large noisette the other day the woman at the cafe said that would be a grand. I certainly was in no position to argue, but I had wondered why I couldn’t get the size mattered and why I had to get a large? And come to think of it, why I’d ended up with something that seemed like a regular large coffee with milk. I guess I was basically demanding a large small. All the more glad I didn’t try to insist! The language barrier can be a protective one.
I felt awful when the bill came – I thought I still had a 20, and I had nothing but change. I offered to put it all on my card and everyone could pay me, but David asked the waiter if we could all just pay separately. Maybe he didn’t have cash either. So while he was standing there, we had to add up what we each had and get it scanned in individually in the little machine. When the tan, grey-haired waiter realized what we were trying to do, he muttered something about not having time and walked away, then came back and started scribbling addition on the red paper that was laid over the red and green-striped white table cloth. It was embarrassing. I should have checked my money before we went, but I never would have guessed I was all out.

13:25 22 Feb. 04 Sunday
Is there another word for a happily crowded market than bustling? So clichéd, but I just can’t think of one. Went out for croissants this around noon to find the usual daily market completely packed. The nearest bread shop was out of everything but chocolate croissants (if one must), no bread at all. There was a line out the door of the fancier bread shop (where I got a fournice provencal no sweat this time), and the newspaper shop, only two people wide to start with, was fully jammed with people from all over grabbing international editions of their local papers. The market extended down the little streets, with people selling clothes and sunglasses, watches, soap, and handmade jewellery.
Damn shoes are still wet from yesterday, clopping around in boots.

[1000 soggy angry words redacted because I still don't have the nerve to say not nice things about people on line. harumph.]

20 Feb. 04 19:50 Thursday evening
I did sleep at nine, lovely, and woke up awake at one am. That won’t do. I went back to sleep and thought for sure I’d be up at six. But no. 10:30. Better, slightly. Brunch, of half a loaf of fresh bread with pointy little elf-shoe ends from the bakery just up the street and camembert, crème fraiche (looks like yogurt but am afraid it’s more like sour cream? Is it ok to eat by the spoonful?), and cassis jam. Covered all the major dairy groups. Except butter! What was I thinking? Next time.

Not as obviously easy as it would seem to be immersed, language-wise, as one would think when alone (maybe less so with friends, actually); of course there are signs and sounds everywhere in French, but there are lots in English, too, and it’s easy enough to point at a menu or a list of options, which will be rewarded not only with whatever it is you wanted, but probably with the shopkeeper addressing you in English. I bungled through at the post office, not without difficulty mailed Jacqueline’s letters and got a few postcard stamps.

Passed through the market this morning as the last merchants were packing up and the clean-up crew in fluorescent green jumpsuits were hosing everything down – I thought there had been a fire for a second. On an incline leading up to there, a middle aged woman with a large wooden cart was sprinkling handfuls of dried lavender on a puddle. All I could smell was lavender – was it covering gasoline? Piss? Just water?

So windy today. BBC world news was on the radio in an arty French bookstore (half the shop was Taschen, the rest crafts, cooking, and children’s) and they said the wind was at “level orange” along the Riviera. That’s an orange alert I can deal with.


4:30 Friday night 21 Feb. 04
Viva la jet lag! Which has allowed me to party like a rock star til this moment on naught but white wine with my new Yachtie friends at the one late-night club in Antibes. (If partying like a rock star can be defined as sitting in a corner, talking with the people you came with.) Dinner with J&J’s South African friend David, after getting lost in the rain driving back to his office to pick up a sticker he needed for his windshield and had forgotten on his desk, then popped into a place with music on the way home since it was early by any standard and that much more so after subtracting six hours. Got roped into the kind of conversation that reminds why I never ever go into bars alone, with a British former yachtie who, when asked how life working on a yacht was, launched into 15 minutes of one-sided conversation about how incredibly noisy French women are in bed. Bo-ring. I finally said, right, nice to meet you, going to stand over there now, I think, and after a few minutes of being very uncomfortable, started speaking to a nice group of people who turned out to be from England, New Zealand, and South Africa. Jane came over to be with her boyfriend Martin, who has been working on yachts as an engineer for a few years, and she is cleaning villas for decent but money, but not what you’d make on a yacht apparently. When they turned on the lights at the bar a few minutes later, Jane invited me to come along to the next place with them, saying generously that she was the only girl in the group and would like the company. So, off to the Golden Gate, technically a gay bar, but the de facto gathering point for anyone who wanted to continue hanging out after last call at midnight everywhere else. Albert started popping the balloons hanging from the low ceiling with his cigarette, then got on everyone’s nerves by trying to make Jane’s boyfriend “jealous.” There was a rotating carousel decked out with huge tulle bows, and behind a glass window, a little greek grotto style swimming pool. Dino and Martin claimed that both were the occasional sites of drunken naked debauchery, but Jane and I wondered if it was more urban myth than fact. Even there, wine was still only 2 euros a glass. It was lots of brits at first, but as the night wore on, it seemed to be a really young, low-key French crowd. The back wall had larger than life size photos of sexy international stars – J. Lo, Li’l Kim, Spice girls, and people I’ve never heard of. They still had valentine’s decorations up, a sea of crepe hearts and cupids above the bar, a foil cut out saying I love you. The owner went around with a tub of chupa chups around three am, and the dance floor and the carousel got crowded. A French guy who thought I was Italian said that the owner’s name is Maxou, and that he’s crazy. Aaaah, that’s why Maxou, c’est fou! is painted in red letters on the bathroom tile. Gilles (people are really named Gilles?) said sometimes it gets “hot” in there, because Maxou likes things to be “hot,” and will give people free drinks to encourage that. The way he pronounced “hot,” it sounded like “odd,” and I couldn’t rule out the possibility. Maybe he said chaude? It was loud.

It had been chilly and raining pretty hard when we all walked over there, and we expected it to be all the colder when we left. It had stopped raining, and actually felt warmer, despite a wind that whistled sharply through the yacht riggings and stretched the flags at the entrance to the international quay to flat sheets. All the cars had a white mist on them, and we thought it was frost for a moment, but I think it was dried sea spray. The first truck was unloading produce at the market when we walked past.

Dino offered to be friends with Jacqueline and James, which quite funnily is what I told them I’d do while they were gone – arrange to have a little social circle waiting when they got back. Jane and Albert invited me to go skiing with them tomorrow, but I told them I’d just promised to go to Someone St. Something with David. Hah! He had asked if I’d want to go to see a film. On Saturday when he has a car? No sir! Let’s go check this place out, no? Afraid I’ll be way too tired, actually afraid I won’t be able to get up at all. Pray for good weather. The boatie/yachtie culture seems very interesting, something I’m sure would make a good book. Get on with a charter that takes around just a few famous names, and I really think it would be a bestseller along the nanny diaries lines… that could be an idea, no? A season stewardessing on the boat, a little time writing… not even tired now, unfortunately, must see if there’s an alarm clock somewhere. Oh, dear, it’s five am, we are supposed to meet down the street at ten. I asked him to call here before he leaves his place, but he said it would not be possible.

13:30 Saturday 21 Feb. 04
Viva la rain! We were supposed to go to the town I couldn’t remember last night – St.Jean de Vincent? Ok, I still don’t remember it. David the South African had said over delicious thin pizzas that it was very cool, a pitched town. Oh. What? A peeched town. Oh. Wait, what? A peeahtched, town, peeahtched, balanced up on a hill! Oh. Perched. Cool. And as much as I very much want to go to it, the thought of going on a car ride and a day of walking around and trying to be pleasant with a virtual stranger on less than four hours sleep, jet lag, and a hangover didn’t sound like a recipe for winning his amity back for Jacqs and James. The phone rang at 9:15 while I was lying half awake trying to pick apart what had been dreams and what had really happened the night before, a little disappointed when I sorted it all out. David, saying have ye had a look outside? It’s pissing down rain.
So we decided on a four pm movie instead. No complaints here, my friend. Back to the warm, warm bed in the cold, cold room.

18 Feb.04 18:15

Jacqueline picked me up at the airport in Nice yesterday morning. Cliched, but it felt like no time had passed at all since we last saw each other in London three years ago. She had errands to do in Nice, which gave us a chance to wander around the old city a little bit. We had a late petit dejuener - “ bread and butter with coffee - at a cafe next to a flower market that was already closing down for the day around 10:30. Walked through a street of open store fronts selling clothes and shoes, colourful pottery and linens, and fresh dried pasta, pastries, and bread. Old Dr. Atkins would be laughed right out of town.

Nice'€™s coastal road runs between a strip of sandy beach and a crowded line of stately hotels, some with grand old sculpted fronts and ornate wrought iron balconies and some with neon lights. There were people on the beach, but it was too chilly for anyone to be in the water. The lanes are separated by a row of palm trees and flowers.

We went to Carrefour to buy a heater, since the apartment they just moved into has only has a little electric one and electricity is a fortune. Carrefour is like a Walmart, Home Depot, Staples, Radio Shack, Sam'€™s Club and farmer'€™s market all under one vast roof. We'€™re supposed to be the nation of supersizers, but I'm sure that three C-Town grocery carts would fit into one of Carrefour'™s. We were at check-out counter number 61, and they continued to stretch past us. Women in store uniforms went from register to register on old-school white boot roller skates. The clerk who'€™d told Jacqueline the previous day that they'€™d have heaters in said that she should have called first, and, when she pointed out that he'd already said they would be there, shrugged and said, I believe, Nothing is guaranteed. Even the clerks are philosophers.

Now listening to radio music that sounds for all the world like a Bon Jovi power ballad, but is in French. All I can make out is that he'€™s singing "€œhealth, health." Or possibly something else?
The language. Shocking: €“ no miraculous restoration of the French I knew in high school. This morning, I managed to get a long loaf of dark bread by saying "€œI'€™d like---" and pointing. Emboldened by this success, I tried to ask what the bread was called after I had paid for it. The woman looked at me strangely and said "€œ90 cents."€ (who knew Euros were broken down into cents? Sure, they say they hate us.) I tried again. In retrospect I believe I asked, as a line of well-dressed women formed behind me, "No, no, what does the bread say to itself?" A moment of silence and then she said slowly in French, pencilled-in eyebrows raised, "€œWhat is the bread called?"€ Yeah, that. Fournis Provencale. Maybe. I was of course so flustered at that point that I'm not sure. Bien fait, non?

They left a computer French program that supposedly lets you talk into a mouthpiece and tells you how you'€™re doing. I'm not sure I believe it yet, but am looking forward to giving it a shot. If only they made one that would occasionally yell and throw a book at someone like our old French teacher used to.

Considering three glasses of red wine at a spirited first meeting of Jacqueline's Anglophone book club last night and a six hour time difference, I woke up feeling surprisingly good. They both had work to do, so I went for a wander. We're right around the corner from a morning market about the size of a basketball court that has fruit, cheese, jams, spices, and flowers under a permanent-looking peaked canvas roof. I got a little round of mild goat cheese to go with the bread, and the woman smiled voila! une fleurette while placing a tiny bud of lavender on top.

I heated up some boxed soup and cut up the bread and some fist-sized avocados while they finished packing, and we had nice lunch in their sunny living room. The apartment is really nice – it seems like the building might be hundreds of years old, but renovated recently. The ceiling beams and the edges of the steep, worn-down half-spiral staircase are warped old trunks of wood, but the walls are modern stucco, and the floor is cool stone tile. We’re on the second floor and look out on a crooked little road narrow enough for one little boy to play soccer goalie across. There are plants hanging from a lot of the wooden shutters. The door, like most of them on the street, has a knocker in the middle shaped like a delicate hand facing downward. The long, heavy key is like the one in Cinderella, and fits into a perfect cartoon keyhole.

I felt nervous walking around, a little. I curled my hand around the keys - they stretch the width of my palm - like they'™d give me some kind of support. I could make out a word here and there, but can'€™t really understand as much as I'€™d hoped. Excited, but anxious - €“ any phrase I tried to rehearse in my head sounded shaky even there, and still, pocked with Japanese words. It'€™s like they are desperate not to be replaced, they seem to be popping in more stubbornly than before, especially the most practical ones:€“ this, that, how do you, I; what is, sorry, please. As much as the words themselves, uniquely Japanese sentence structures seem to have worn grooves somewhere in my brain, and the poor brain is hopelessly trying to fit words into places they can'€™t go, like trying to put a glove on an amputated hand.

There are a few cafes scattered along Rue la Republique. All of their outdoor seating is corralled in a single block across the cobblestone pedestrian street from them, differentiated by the chairs – wicker, metal, wooden – and canvas banners stretched behind each section. I sat out there in the sun for an hour or so, near a sunburnt round old man in a greek fisherman’s hat who was standing behind a table covered with a faintly undulating pile of spiky sea urchins. I guess kids were just getting out of school, because a steady stream of them stopped to peer over the edge while their mothers warned them not to touch. There was a butcher with slabs of meat and sausage hanging from the ceiling, and a little produce market open to the street right across the way. Next door was the one of the cafes whose waiter kept crossing the stream of young men and women with baby carriages, old ladies in heels, and skateboarding kids in Linkin Park t-shirts to get to us. On the corner is a pharmacy with a neon green cross – they each seem to have the same stubby square cross made up of slightly different patterns of moving green lights. I wanted to listen to eavesdrop on some French conversation, but the people sitting near me turned out to be mostly British.

Jacqs got us a box of delicate little almond cookies. They say they'€™re 21% butter, but that tastes like a low estimate. Delicious! The fridge has some Danon yogurt - €“ fig and rhubarb flavours -€“ and a bottle of milk that claims it will go bad 36 hours after being opened. Feed those cows some preservatives! I'm looking forward to wandering around the supermarket tomorrow, if I can find it.

I walked to the bus early this afternoon with Jacqueline and James. They pointed out things I needed to know as they dragged two overstuffed bags between them and argued about the best way to get to the stop. (Of course being British, what passes for a heated argument is along the lines of "€œYou do realize we a€™re walking diametrically opposite to the proper direction!") Once we got to the stop and had time to look around, they pointed out the directions of the bus and train stations, the movie theatre, the cash machines, and the supermarket. James said, As long as you’re absolutely certain to keep your mobile with you at all times, you should be fine. I reminded him, as the bus finally pulled up, that my cell phone doesn'€™t work here. "Oh. Well. You'™ll be fine!" And I will, I will!


midnight
I went back to La Tour, where the book group was last night. My legs were actually shaking as I walked there! I sat at the bar and ordered the croque monsieur au saumon. There was a group of people where we were sitting last night, including two of the guys who had been sitting at the bar and looking over at us curiously. Now our seats were switched. They were so cheerful, with a loud round of “bravo le chef!!” that I asked the bartender, Philippe, if they were having a party. He said no, it’s some family, some friends and lsi;ldkfj;oiaehji. Oh, I see. Philippe’s daughter was there, a beautiful girl 10 this summer, limping around with more and more exaggeration until she finally slammed the door to the back room and started howling, I’m guessing more from lack of attention than pain. I nursed a glass of red wine and looked at Jacqs’ compact French grammar guide. I was getting ready to pay when a girl a little younger than me stumbled in, took off her sunglasses, and sat a few seats down. She said bonsoir and that’s a small dictionary. She asked if I was French, then German. She said I seemed French. She pointed to my bag on the stool next to me and said she’d sit there. Her name sounded like Heline, and she looked like Haley Mills in the Parent Trap with a dishevelled brown bob, short bangs. She started speaking in English, occasionally shooting into fast French that was ninety percent over my head, about how the Romanian boyfriend she moved here from Brittany with was making her angry and she wanted revenge. She said, I think, that she’d been out with some gay guys earlier, but they had implied that they wanted to have a boys’ night, so she came here. She was already drunk, but the vodka tonic – served with the bottle of tonic on the side – seemed to put her over the edge. She asked Philippe, in English, if she could play the piano. He answered, in French, that she could break it and no. She sat down next to man at the end of the bar, leaned in to him for a few minutes, then reported from there that he was dutch. She came back to where I was sitting, and fell backwards onto the people at the table. The woman there didn’t seem amused. The second time, Philippe yelled at her to calm down – it’s a small bar. She said he wasn’t nice. I was ready to go anyway, so suggested that we leave. I would have gone somewhere else with her just to see what happened, but while I got my coat on and paid, she put her purple sunglasses back on and staggered outside, and was out of sight when I got outside. I have a feeling she was fine. Philippe said in English as she left, ‘first time, last time.’ He said tomorrow evening a;difjeiaondaoiejfd. I said quoiiii? Word by careful word, he said there would be a brazilian singer there tomorrow night at nine. Maybe I’ll check it out?

It was silent outside when I left the bar. I kind of wanted to walk around but had that perennial fear that walking around alone at midnight isn’t a great idea. The stoners who had been sitting across the street from the apartment when I left were gone.

The radio station I’m listening to must be easy listening. A few old American easy listening hits – Guilty Feet, Dido, Diana Ross – and lots of dramatic French ballads with words slow and cheesy enough that I can discern some – J’aime encore quand je danse; les femmes infideles.

The market was pretty empty when I went there around 10:30 this morning, but James said when he went outside once at seven it was packed. Could that really be when people do their shopping? I hope jet lag gets me up then somehow. Though it should work the other way. I keep thinking I hear my cell phone vibrating. Wonder how long it will take to get used to not having it? It feels a little unsettling, but kind of good.


19 Feb. 04 4pm
Guess the jet lag kicked in – I was in a deep sleep dreaming of NY friends on a belle époque beach when the phone woke me up just past 11! I answered, after noting confusedly that I was not in Brooklyn, and it was a French woman looking for madame ou monsieur Roué? Who knows, maybe that means the man or lady of the house, but all I could think was that it was the wrong number. Le numero est… (chigau! Chigau!) n’est pas ici.
Ah, oui, ils ne sont pas la?
Oui. Non. Le numero est…. non. Non. Pardon.
Striking another blow for international relations. I felt like it was five am despite bright sun outside, and it took enormous effort to put water on for tea instead of going back to sleep for another five hours. Ate and got up and out slowly and groggily, and headed off to look for the super market. There was a completely deserted market set up by the old wall along the port. Maybe not even a market, as a handful of people with things to sell. A few tables of old couples with piles of junk laid out – cloudy sets of glasses, strainers, wobbly stacks of plates, used kitchen goods. He was holding up something that looked like an old brass seltzer bottle trying to convince a couple that it was good, I guess – saying it works, this outside part is leather… one table of white on white embroidered table cloths. Trunks of old books. One man, huddled over a cup of hot chocolate, was selling old photos, posters, and newspaper clippings matted, all very cool. I wanted to buy piles of them, but they weren’t so cheap. And it was cold to stand there. There were plenty of people walking around, but not too many sitting outside. It was overcast and cool – on the English radio station, they said it was drizzling in the area, but luckily not here.
The supermarket was great. There’s a no-frills brand called Top Budget that really is amazingly cheap. For seven euros, mostly that brand, I got a wheel of camembert, a liter of milk (the long-lasting bad for you kind, thank you very much), couscous and sauce for four, nutella-like spread, a kilo of something that I hope is plain yogurt, and a jar of Bonne Maman cassis jam. If I’d known it would be so cheap, could have thrown in a bottle of wine for 1e50. A loaf of bread and some fruit, and I’m all set. Wandered back some random way, and found back alleys full of neat-looking shops. Going to go back out now and check it out, if I can find the area again. (hee this british computer thinks I spelled yogurt wrong. And liter. And it takes monsieur but not madame?)

18:20
nice! Total eclipse of the heart in French. It sounds like her, too. It’s cold.
Though a chilly wind off the Mediterranean is somehow more forgivable than one off the East River. Someone should investigate. Maybe get a grant to study this?