French Riviera

The Riviera

by pegasuseducationgroup

May, 1970

Extracts and extras from YESTERDAY: A BABY BOOMER’S RITE OF PASSAGE

Oooh-la-la. I’m on my way to the famous French Rivera to rub shoulders with the rich and famous!

Three hours of whizzing through hilly south of France countryside and grabbing a quick glance at Cannes from the train window, the sleek, modern and almost silent train slid into Nice station. It certainly put our old red rattlers to shame!

I had originally intended to spend the night in Cannes before moving on to Nice, but my Europe on $5 a Day book warned against it as it was  very expensive. Pity. From I saw as we passed through, it looked quite lovely.

Ah well. Perhaps another time.

The train came to a gentle stop in Nice at 2.30pm. I tried the first hotel I cam across, but their rooms were 30 francs ($5) overnight. Yikes, way too expensive!  I used sign language to the non-English speaking receptionist in an attempt to ask if I could leave my luggage there while I found another hotel. (I’m getting very good at sign language!) and the receptionist said “hmmm” which I took to be French for “ok, sure, not a problem, go right ahead!”

I could only hope it would still be there when I returned.

Not too far away I found the  Hotel Lyon-Milan, 15 francs ($2.50 bed and breakfast) It even had a little balcony. I decided to stay for 3 nights.

Once settled in, I set out for lunch and a wander around town. I kept seeing what looked like wrinkled up horse-shoe rolls in shop windows. They looked interesting, so I decided to give them a try. They appear to be a mixture of bread and pastry, very soft and oh so tasty.

Then I headed off to take a closer look at this world famous resort.

So, this is the famous French Riviera! It was cold, overcast and windy. There were only a few fishermen and a rowboat on the beach, which is about 10ft below street level. A wall divides it from the road and the water’s edge is only about 20 ft from the wall.

There were no waves, not even ripples, and instead of sand there are just big grey rocks and pebbles! If you want to sit on the beach you need a deck chair – which are conveniently available for hire. You certainly couldn’t walk on it with bare feet.

Most of the township is situated along the road that runs beside the beach and is made up mostly of ugly grey stone buildings. They’re probably all luxury hotels but they look very UN-luxurious from the outside!

Was I becoming a blasé traveller already?

For dinner I hungrily devoured a big steak and chips at a nearby cafe for $1, then and walked along the main street at dusk. So, it would seem, did everyone else—up and down, back and forth, arm in arm, deep in conversation, going nowhere particular. It was the first time I encountered the European dusk wander, and wondered if television had perhaps not yet made it to France!

After a well-earned good night’s sleep, breakfast was  a big pot of hot, strong coffee and a French breadstick with butter and marmalade. Delicious, but my goodness, how long does a bread stick need to be?

 I visited the market and bought fruit and cheese to eat with my left-over half breadstick for lunch, then wandered around town in the sprinkling rain. Why didn’t someone warn me that that it rains on the Riviera? I assumed the sun shone brightly all year around!

I stopped to ask directions from two nice  young Frenchmen in a big fancy convertible. Only Pierre spoke a little English and asked where I was from. When I told him, he repeated it to his friend and they both had lots of questions. Pierre asked me if I’d like to see some more of the Riviera and offered to drive me around for an hour.

Well, why not? How often does one get the chance to roar along the French Riviera in a convertible, with the South of France wind in your hair, not to mention a little rain for good measure?

They took me back to Cannes!

At least this time I saw more than a quick flash from the train window. It was very similar to Nice. In fact, you can just about see the entire Riviera from any one place, it stretches for miles – from Marseilles to the Italian border, and then some! (But then it’s the Italian Riviera.)

Jean-Claude was very interested to know more about Australia, but as he spoke no English our conversation was a complicated 3-way translation, He asked questions in French, Pierre translated them into hesitant, broken English, I tried to choose simple English words and tried to get my tongue around a few basic French words, then my answers were translated back into French for Jean Claude. Goodness knows how it all ended up after back and forth translations, but I doubt I convinced him to sell up and move to Aussie!

I’m amazed at how quickly you can pick up a language when you have the choice of ordering in French or starving to death.

The boys were very sweet and well behaved, drove me all over Cannes and pointed out places where various events connected to the Cannes Film Festival occurred, and even bought me lunch. On their recommendation, I had what looked like a hot dog but was a soft sausage wrapped in a pastry, sort of like a French horn but with sausage instead of cream! Yummy! I don’t know why everyone here isn’t grossly overweight! I’d sure as heck expand rapidly if I stayed much longer!

 They drove me back to Nice, dropped me at my hotel door and wished me well on my travels. So far I have mostly found people to be so kind and helpful when I thought that being alone and without a second language, I’d be a turkey in a chookpen!

It was a lovely day, and to think I nearly missed Cannes.

I spent the following morning just wandering around or sitting on the deserted beach watching the fishermen pulling in their nets.

There;sa definite Italian influence here — Italian magazines, pizzas and spaghetti. I’ve even been able to try out a little of the Italian I’ve learnt on shopkeepers and most seem to understand it better than English. Well, we’re only about 50 miles or so from the Italian border.

Early on the third day, I made my way to Nice station and boarded the train for Monaco. I’m told that the changing of the guard at midday should not be missed.

I do hope Princess Grace received my letter with arrival times and has arranged a luncheon in my honour.

MARSEILLES

by pegasuseducationgroup

Extracts and extras from YESTERDAY: A BABY BOOMER’S RITE OF PASSAGE

I impressed myself by finding my way back to the Gare De Lyon station for my overnight trip to Marseille, but once inside I could only stand in a dazed state of confusion bordering on panic. People, platforms, more people, exits, entrances, signs in French … I had no idea where my train might be hiding and was terrified I’d board the wrong one and end up who knows where! I tried asking a few people for directions, but their response was the usual Parisienne shrug.

Then, my knight in shining armour materialised. 

Not only did Jean Louis speak a little English, he was on leave from the air force and on his way home to Marseilles. He took my suitcase, accompanied me to the train and located my compartment.

As we pulled out of Paris I stretched out on my couchette – I would have called a bunk bed, but couchette certainly sounded more exotic – content in the knowledge I was indeed heading to Marseille and not back to London with a side trip to Turkey.

Suddenly, the other 5 people in the compartment all started addressing me in French. I had no clue what they were saying, so responded with the Parisienne shrug and “no francaise. Parle anglaise? ” That really set them off. They started yelling and waving their arms about in a most alarming manner. Suspecting my life might be in danger, I made a hasty exit and took off down the narrow corridor hoping to find Jean Louis. Fortunately, he responded to my call and once again came to my rescue. We arrived back in my compartment and a 6 way conversation revealed that my crime, no doubt punishable by guillotine, had been to occupy the wrong couchette! All was solved and once again, peace reigned supreme on a night train rattling through France.

Well, all was quiet at least until the people in my compartment got hungry at about 2am. Then they all started talking, singing and sharing food and wine around. Of course (and perhaps fortunately, based on the smell) none was offered to the ignorant couchette-stealing foreigner!

It was still pitch dark when we came to a ear-piercing, metal grinding halt in Marseilles at 5.15 am. I staggered sleepily down the steep steps onto the platform and wondered how I would fill in the time until daybreak, but my luck was in. Jean-Louis caught up with me and said (I think) that it was not safe for a girl to walk around Marseilles in the dark. He helped me store my suitcase in a station locker, explained to me how to retrieve it, then escorted me to a cafe, bought coffee and pastries and stayed with me until it grew light.

That was to be the first of many kind gestures I would encounter from strangers during the months I spent on the continent. We left the cafe at daybreak and exchanged a kiss on each cheek, then Jean Louis and I said goodbye and good luck on a deserted wind-swept street at around 7.am.

We were never to cross paths again, but I’ll never forget his kindness.

It was early March. I shivered in the icy wind coming off the Mediterranean. Then I reminded myself where I was! This was the south of France! I’d seen the Pacific and the Atlantic, and now, I was about to see the Mediterranean. I remembered the words of an old song …

I’ve seen the Pacific and the Atlantic

and the Pacific isn’t terrific

and the Atlantic isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.

Well, I loved ’em all!

I had only allocated a half a day in Marseilles and wondered if it was enough, but after Jean Louis went on his way, I wandered around for a few hours and thought I’d seen it all. My train wasn’t due to leave until 11am, so at around 9o’clock I decided to visit the imposing Notre Dame de la Garde monastery that overlooked the city.

I asked a man how to get to it— or rather, I shrugged and pointed to a bus and said “Notre-Dame?” and he wrote #59 on a piece of paper. I could only hope we understood each other.  I jumped on a number 59 bus and when I disembarked, I found myself in a whole other world … a town built entirely on the side of the cliff.

It looked as though the 20th century had never touched it. Old stone houses crowded together on both sides of narrow winding streets. It was so steep that each house was above instead of behind the other. I had to climb about 50 cobble-stone steps between each street.

The shops had craftsmen working on their wares in shopfront windows—cobblers making shoes, tailors sewing suits, glass blowers, potters, milliners, etc.

The sky was a glorious vivid blue. and The air was so clear I could see right over Marseille, across an expanse of the Mediterranean and as far as the mountains of northern Italy! Breathtaking!

Time stood still as I wandered around in awe of this ‘Brigadoon’ type township. I was so entranced, I forgot my original intention had been to visit the monastery. Suddenly I realised it was time to head back to the station.

I could have kicked myself for not heading up there earlier. Perhaps … another time.

I collected my suitcase, unaided. I boarded the correct train – again, totally unaided. I settled into a window seat and silently congratulated myself. Yes, I was starting to get good at this!

Next stop, just 3 hours away, was the famous French Riviera! Yippee! What a life!

franceFrench RivieraMarseilles