Lugging my small box-like suitcase on wheels, a backpack crammed with clothes to cater for every possible scenario and my ridiculously stuffed handbag my knees were ready to buckle with the strain. Disembarking the train at Nice was a massive contrast to the gentle rhythmic rocking that had been the norm over the last 5 hours. (Even though Nice is only a small geographic distance from Gap, the logistics of travelling between these destinations is a matter of 5 hours on the train or bus. It involves navigating around gorges, mountain passes and rivers).
So the delight that I initially felt on arrival, quickly turned into a topsy-turvy washing machine mish-mash of craziness that belonged in a James Bond movie crowd scene. The train station was being renovated; scaffolding trestles, large draped sheets, detours and a cacophony of noise turned my world into confusion. Without giving any thought to obtaining a map of the area at the local tourism office, I ventured out into the busy street.
I caught a glimpse of a tram running; so I headed in that direction. The tram directions, instructions and spaghetti-like map only served to shatter my ideas of catching a tram to my destination.
So I decided to follow my gut-instinct and start walking down the street, inwardly asking my intuition to lead me to my host's accommodation. I knew she lived near the port ....... but in which direction was the water??????
There sure seemed to be a lot of people around for a Saturday!!!!!!! Why were there so many people dressed up in fancy clothing, face paint, carrying balloons, streamers and confetti attached to their hair???
The noise of my suitcase trundling behind me was drowned by the massive hubbub of city noises. The city bustle always hits me like a sledge hammer after living in the sleepy little town of Gap. As I made down the street I was wondering which person seemed the most friendly to ask for directions ...... but they all seemed totally engrossed in their own lives. So I just kept heading on down the street, hoping that soon it would become clear whether or not I was heading for the waterside. As I progressed, loud booming music started to invade the already noise-laden street.
Oh My Goodness! I realised that I was so stupid for not cottoning on earlier!!! It's CARNIVAL time in Nice. I soon became hopelessly entangled with pushchairs, candy floss sticky kids, etc, etc. I laughed out loud at the weirdness of my situation. I didn't have a clue which way to turn. I walked down many little streets, trying to sniff my way towards the water. The streets had been blocked with fences to accommodate the floats.
At last, I found my bearings, and I knew that the seaside was nearby. Pausing to mop my sweaty brow I took a photo of the crowds and the massive floats passing by.
Cymbals, drums, horns and pumping music made the situation one of the most surreal in my life. I knew that this was a marvellous opportunity to experience the carnival in its full magnificent glory, but I felt very vulnerable in the crowd with all my worldly goods ready for the taking.
I desperately wanted to plop my derrière on top of the suitcase and soak up the happy carnival atmosphere. Unfortunately, the language school office girl had pre-warned my hostess what time the train was going to arrive in order for her to know of the timing of my arrival. I knew that I was already very late, as she would not expect me to walk the luggage-laden three kilometres to her apartment.
Over-heated, excited, de hydrated and with fatiguing muscles I followed the route around the waterfront; armed with confidence knowing that this would ultimately take me to the destination of the port.
As you can see there was not a cloud in sight, the scenery was spectacularly magnificent. I plodded along with a steady rhythm, invisible to the Saturday- afternoon -happy crowd. I may well have looked like a tramp. ( It's not the first time I've been thought of as a tramp.)
The pale, rugged rocks; the azure, deep blue sea; the caress of a gentle sea breeze as it played with a sweat-soaked tendril of hair; a cute little dinghy chugging by; and a sense of eager anticipation as the next two weeks stretched before me ...... a blank canvas, begging to be painted with french panâche.
I eventually found the building that I., my french hostess, lived in. In order to arrive at the building,it involved lumping the bags up at least 20 stairs and a little bit of back tracking. Pushing the buzzer that read, "Madame Brun" opened the chapter of my wonderful stay in Nice.
Bumbling my way through into the foyer, my brain went into overdrive as I tried to recall the instructions and details from a 4-week old phone conversation.
"I think she said the 6th floor ..... but I can't be sure. "
So, I did what any stupid person would do. I lugged my weary body and accompanying paraphernalia up every bloody step. ( In Gap, the apartments don't have lifts.)
By the time I arrived at the 6th floor, my lungs were close to collapse, I was sweating like a pig, and I was a mess. I. opened the stairwell door just as I heaved myself onto the landing. You can imagine the sight that she was greeted with. She was incredulous that anyone could be so stupid as to NOT taking the lift. I had to agree. In fluent french, I assured her that I now know better.
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