The longest day

We knew we were in for a long day. I had never been to the French Rivera so we picked the excursion that covered the most ground. It was a cruise, it did say the activity level was strenuous, but how bad could it be? Famous last words.

Up at 6:00, although amazingly early for a vacation, it was worth it. Pulling into Nice during sunrise is a spectacular sight, the pink, orange, blue and purple backdrop to the lighthouse that juts out into the sea and the lights of the mansions built into the rock like fireflies dancing on the mountains mesmerized me. I had my camera out in a flash snapping pictures of the sky, water, skyline and yachts as far as the eye could see.

We were out of our room by 6:30 and up to the buffet, which we lovingly referred to as “the trough”. After downing some quick carbs we ran across the enormous ship to make it to the theater for our 7:00 designated meet-up time.  There were almost a hundred people there, all wearing round stickers of various colors with group numbers . Ours was red with 23 on it. It only took a short while for them to call our number and we were off to trek back across the ship to catch our tender into town.  When we reached shore we were again arranged in our groups and off on a ten-minute up hill trek to our bus.

My friend had run to the washroom so I was very concerned that she wouldn’t make it before the bus left. I kept trying to tell someone that she had been left behind but it was falling on deaf French ears. Bus after bus left and no sign of her. Finally, she came pushing up the hill moments before we left. Relief.

Okay, we were on the bus, no one left behind, it was time to relax.

“My name is Sylvie, I’ll be your tour guide.” She proceeded to give us a brief history of the area and an overview of the route we were going to take from Ville Frenche where we landed into Nice proper. If you’ve ever been to the area you would know that the amount of time it takes to get from one city to another is less then the time it took her to explain where we were going.

We arrived in Nice by 8:00. Everything was closed. This was the first round of a new game called “chase the tour guide”. By the time we stepped off the bus she was almost a block away. We chased her through a park. Every time we caught up she had just finished explaining something to the more spry of the group and with an “allez allez” was off again. We finally made it into the city center and I was unhappy to learn that we arrived on the one day of the month that the flower market was replaced by a flea market. After a brief dash around the flea market Silvie granted us a whole 20 minutes on our own informing us “If you’re not here, I gone”. We took a 3-minute walk to see the beach, but beside that there really isn’t anything to do that time of the morning in niece, so we walked back to the square where we were to meet Sylvie, grabbed a café and sat on the steps. As promised, she was there in precisely 19 minutes and 1 minute later we were off, “allez allez”.

Monaco was a short drive away, though the walk through the park to the palace was long, hot and a sprint from the moment we stepped off the bus. We were told for the third time in a thick French accent that Monaco was built “from land reclaimed from the sea.” .Brightly colored buildings with flower filled balconies flashed by in a blur. I held out my camera and snapped pictures as I ran though the cobblestoned streets.  The dash ended outside the royal palace. Again we had 20 minutes to explore on our own. With her right hand sweeping against her left, like a plane taking off, she said, “20 minutes, you not here, I go” and she disappeared into the crowd. This time 20 minutes was plenty. Monaco, though beautiful, is tiny. Some time with the souvenir vendors, pictures of the palace and a brief tour though the church where Princess Grace is buried and I had pretty much seen Monaco. 

Winding through the mountains to the medieval village of Eze we were regaled by the litany of celebrities that lived in those mountains and who’s house was whose. Elton John’s house must have been pointed out six times as was Bono’s house, guesthouse and guest’s, guesthouse. And again we were reminded that the land we saw below was “reclaimed from the sea”. By the time we parked at what I thought was Eze it was in the mid-nineties outside and not a cloud in the sky. This is where I understood the “strenuous” part of the description. The actual village of Eze was two and a half miles straight up and cobblestoned. Not only that, but we were supposed to follow the most fit 60-something woman I have ever met up this enormous hill at breakneck speed. I kept up for about three-quarters of the climb but then my friend became concerned that my face was the color of a ripe tomato and when she asked me if I was alright, I gasped for air and sputtered, “no”. Since she wasn’t doing that much better we had a little rest at the bottom of the final ninety-degree stone-stair push to the top. Of course, by this time Sylvie was quite out of site. I think I caught an “allez, allez” on the wind.

By the time we finally made it to the top the more fit of the group had had a bit of a rest and were heading into the village itself, which meant if we wanted to stay with the group, no rest for us. The Village is a series of stone steps going up and down in a snake like pattern, two stories down, one up, two down, three up, so on and so forth. Uneven ground with no handrails is not a good combination for someone whose nickname growing up was klutz. For safety’s sake I went as slow as I could keeping Sylvie’s “allez, allez” within earshot, even if I could no longer see her.

The hill was so steep that the walk down to the restaurant where we were having lunch was not that much easier, not to mention the midday Mediterranean sun. It was heaven to sit down and have a quite tasty lunch with a very fun couple from Canada. Our respite was short lived though.

Soon we were off again. Back through the hills where we learned yet again where Sir Elton John lived. I had barely gotten my stuff re-organized in my backpack when we arrived in Monte Carlo. The bus traveled the route of the grand Prix and then parked in a parking garage with seventy other busses. Sylvie informed us that the casino was another two miles uphill. I had read that you really couldn’t go in the casino unless you were dressed properly, which I wasn’t, and you certainly couldn’t gamble.

Sylvie told us that anyone that did not want to make the walk could hang out in the Japanese garden above the garage. My friend decided to make the trip to the casino, I opted for the garden. Surprise, if I was not at the bus in half-an-hour “she go”.

I took pictures of the Koi fish and relished in the bit of shade over the bench I was sitting on. I pulled out the completely squished almond croissant I had purchased in Nice seven hours ago. I was going in for my second delicious bite when a police officer approached me. He said something in French and when I showed no recognition, he pantomimed that I was not to eat in the park. No eating in public parks, what was that about? I put my croissant away and pulled my camera out again and looked at the day’s pictures.

We arrived back at the bus park at 4:30 after of course having Elton John’s house pointed out to me again and being told how everything was “reclaimed from the sea”. I have never not tipped a tour operator until that day. I almost limped down the hill and back to the tender port, “allez allez” still wringing in my head.