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Published: July 28th 2008
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Flying boy
A teenager shows off near the main beach at Nice. Poor Nice, having a name like that bland English adjective. Sparkling would be a better name. A city that's not quite classy but extraordinarily fun.
I arrived late at night to a raging party at the hostel. As a result I woke up with what felt like a hedgehog in my throat, unable to make any sound other than a high-pitched croak. Tant pis. A slight cold wasn't going to stop me from hitting the beach. But first, I had to buy a swimming costume.
It's at least two years since I wore a bikini, and yet my tan is fantastic... from my knees down. I slunk into the first shop in the canyonesque old town, trying not to be noticed by the super chic sales girl. She was typically friendly and haughty at once, in the true French manner.
I dived into the changeroom, whipped on two pairs of togs, and stripped them off again in horror. My mumbled excuse to the salesgirl was that I couldn't decide. "Ben oui, there you have two completely different styles", she replied. And no doubt would have continued, "and I can't believe you bothered trying either of them".
And
so I wandered further along the narrow market street, surrounded by tanned legs in sarongs and men leaning against the walls watching them (even I managed several not-very-old fashioned "proposals" in Nice).
At the next shop the salesgirl was quite kind, asking me if I had any style in particular in mind. Sadly, my French was not good enough to reply that I simply wanted to avoid looking like a deep-sea creature. In any case, all that came out my throat was a squawk. Given I had also woken up with bright red hair, she understably assumed I was not-quite-all-there.
By the time I entered my third shop, even deeper into the orange shade of the old town, word had obviously gone around that I was a raving lunatic.
I asked (in several octaves at once) if I could try three pairs. The sales-lady looked at me if I had asked to wipe my noze on them. Grudgingly, she told me three pairs were the maximum. I later told her in my best French that they were all ugly.
It was three hours and a twenty-minute train ride later before I could summon the courage to
Highway town
Overpasses, underpasses, tunnels and other crazy things in Monaco. enter another swimwear shop, this time in glistening Antibes, with its sandy beaches and impressive ramparts, which still fail to protect the town from hordes of sun-hungry Brits.
Here the sales lady - and a true lady she was - let me in on a secret. Local women own at least three bikinis: a brown one for when they still have the complexion of cottage cheese, a bright one for when they're semi-tanned, and a white one for when they have the best-cooked bod on the beach.
I now have a brown and orange bikini.
The next day I went to Monaco to test it. I arrived at the station where a stream of tourists was trying in vain to locate a way to the waterfront almost directly below. It took about half an hour to navigate through the maze of ramps. When I reached the esplanade, I immediately regretted it, and tried to make my way back to the station. One hour and a tour de ville later, I made it.
And so I retreated to the Cap d'Ail, a stunning beach with azure water and sea caves. After a cooling dip in the still
Separatist graffiti?
Perhaps this beach will be the next Monaco. water, I modestly untied the top of my bikini and settled face down to sunbake, feeling enormously French.
But alas, the cooking process was interrupted by a series of enormous waves. At first I only heard the tell-tale squeals which should have been my cue to move from the water's edge. But the second wave tickled my feet a little. The third swept up around my hips. And as the fourth roared in I remembered my unclipped bikini top and contemplated a terrible decision: save my camera, or save my dignity?
The camera won. I held it aloft as a wave swept over my head, stole my sunglasses, and covered me with leaf litter. One after another they thundered over me. When the battering stopped I looked up, soaked and covered in debris, to find half the beach crowd was staring at me. Then I burst into laughter, and so did everyone else.
Mustering whatever pride I had left, picked myself up, rinsed my sodden towel in the sea, and settled down to sunbake again as if such things happen to me every day. At least the interruption prevented me from getting sunburnt.
On reflection, it
Summertime rendez-vous
A couple chat in the centre of Toulouse. really wasn't my best couple of days, but I still enjoyed myself immensely in Nice. That evening I dumped my towel in a bin and went to meet an American girl called Clare, another solo traveller who I had met on the train. I arrived at her hotel but the concierge assured me there was no Clare from America. Oops.
I then ran out of money and traipsed round for an hour to find an ATM that would accept my card. Enfin, c'etait un peu chiant, but I did get some more "proposals". Ah, nice.
And here are some photos of the rest of France, too...
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Stephen Crisdale
non-member comment
Now that's a ripper of a yarn!
Thanks for the smile your tale brought to my face Jacqui. There's probably a few Frenchmen also wishing to thank you for the heart warming, life force rejuvenating entertainment your actions rather than your words have provided!!