The French Riviera; where the Super Rich call home and the Three Fat Women of Antibes
October 3, 2022 Volume 3 # 16
A Travel Writer for the Next Few Issues
Only Paris has more hotels than Nice. In France, that is. The city on the French Riviera has been a favourite of the English-speaking world since the 18th century when the British aristocracy found it was a lot better than a winter in chilly England. The walkway along the shore of the Mediterranean is called the Promenades des Anglais. Even some hotels have English names: The West End, the Westminster; we stayed at the Windsor, on a very un-French street called Dalpozzo. Perhaps the grandest hotel is the Negresco
It is, of course, a very French place, with a splash of Italian. The First Republic pinched it from an Italian Kingdom in 1792 and then had it snatched back after the Battle of Waterloo re-ordered Europe in 1815.
Giuseppe Garibaldi, the man who united Italy, was born in Nice in 1807. France reclaimed it in 1860 while Garibaldi was busy conquering Sicily and Calabria. Nice is 30 kilometres from the Italian border and 13 kilometres from the principality of Monaco, a shelter for the super-rich and their yachts.
Nice is a big city, with almost a million people, but for the visitor, it is best to stay within a few blocks of the coast. In late September, the streets are overflowing—not uncomfortable-- and the cafes are filled with people out in warm weather, as hot as 27 Celsius. At the flower market, a street performer entertains the people perched on the sidewalk cafes. He does a series of back flips, then sets up a kind of hurdle with a flame across the top and backflips through that.
For the more cerebral visitor, there is a museum dedicated to Chagall. We visited it on the last trip. Well worth the detour, as they say in the Guides Michelin. As is Musée Matisse; Henri Matisse lived in Nice; his residence is now a ritzy hotel; there were black limos, security guards, and chauffeurs when we walked by the other day.
Don't drive in Nice, if you can help it. It is a walkable place and filled with great restaurants. I am not a foodie, so what I look for is ambience and charm. One night we met two friends in a place called Café Davia. It was packed with the oddities that make travel wonderful. The waiter was a bit of a klutz, but charming when he forgot one order of food. The people-watching was superb; I was fascinated by a man with a jacket and an elaborately knotted scarf who was very aware of his every movement. We sat on the sidewalk and spent two or three wonderful hours there.
Nice is a great hopping-off spot for the rest of the region. Last time we rented a car and ventured off into the hills above Nice to St. Paul de Vence, a short drive. There are all kinds of excursions you can take from here. Best to take the train to Monaco, though it's a commuter line and can be quite packed.
The weather in the winter is more than tolerable for a Canadian. I could happily spend the month of January here when the temperature hovers around 10C. A lot more interesting than Florida for someone who doesn't golf.
A Cornucopia of Charts
As an aside, my Internet speed in rural Quebec is 375 megabits a second. Blistering.
The Super Rich by Country
The euphemism for being really rich is Ultra-High Net Worth Individuals. To make the list you need to be worth US$50-million.
Where American words come from, Compared to British words
Writers like Mark Twain and Charle Dickens used plain English, words derived from old English. The American uses more Latin-based words, from Old French.
Lawyers avoid plain English and the medical trade is even more obscure.
Example of plain English over Latinized English.
Provide use with the implements and we complete the operation. or
“Give us the tolls and we will finish the job.” Winston Churchill, 1941.
Essay of the Week
Since I wrote about Nice this week, I remembered a short story about Antibes, just to the west of Nice. The great British novelist Graham Green lived there, as did F. Scott Fitzgerald, whose novel Tender is the Night is about an alcoholic, mentally unstable Irish American couple. Wonder where he got that idea? Long time since I have read it, but I chanced upon a summation on the web.
Somerset Maugham knew the Riviera well. Lazy of me to include someone’s else’s writing, but I am on holiday. This story was published 89 years ago. It might offend some modern sensibilities, but I think it is still amusing.