Bonjour,
When we left you last time we had puffed our way through a hungover Cinque Terre walk, and I had been frozen in fear by Italian recycling. But it was time to leave the Italian complexities behind and make our way into France. It was hard to leave the comfortable embrace of Italy and we had been warned that France is more difficult with children. But the hazy memories of our last trip here pre-kids was of a country with plentiful wine, cheese and groping – meaning that is was already starting on a very solid footing. We kicked off our French experience with a trip to see some of Krys’ family in Aix-en-Provence near the Southern Coast. And what a visit it was. We were welcomed so warmly and filled with so much wine, meat and cheese that I’m surprised that any animals, grapes or productive udders are left in Southern France. Our motto on this trip has been “if in doubt, say yes”. But perhaps we should set some limits. And it appears those limits sit at a 4th bottle of wine, a 2nd cow or a 3rd wheel of cheese. I hope the French family don’t make their way to Australia anytime soon as our entertainment efforts of some sausages on white bread, a mid range shiraz and some Coon squares on Jatz will fall well short of their amazing hospitality. It’s like a mate bringing Jessica Alba to your 21st but in return all you can offer up is a tetchy Theresa May.
Then it was onto Nice where we were spending a week with Krys’ mum (Liselle) and dad (Larry). We’d found a quaint little terrace to stay in the Old Town, but getting there was proving an epic in itself. Our visit had co-incided with a major Triathlon race. So not only was this causing issues with my self image (if I wore lycra I’d resemble a contorted water balloon wrapped haphazardly in string) but major road closures meant trying to find the place was almost impossible. Google maps was not set up for indiscriminate road closures and sadly the phrase “hey Google – this road is blocked so go f#ck yourself” didn’t help to get its directions back on track. And the French Police were about as helpful as singing lessons from Meatloaf. So I dumped the family as close to the house as I could (without keys and with an almost urinating child it turns out), and circled Nice for about an hour, all the while screaming words that I think lacked a direct French translation. But finally I snuck up an alleyway that allowed me to find a park around 2kms from home. It was good enough.
And this was just the start of what was a less accommodating experience with “Niceians” (if that’s the word). It appears that the people of Nice are not quite as accommodating of children as Italy was. This was brought home on our first morning when we were out for a walk. The girls had spotted a fluffy dog that was having its tummy rubbed by a young girl as two middle aged French ladies sat at a cafe behind sunglasses so large I thought they may have ripped some tinted windows from their homes and attached them to their heads, and with noses held so high you could determine by sight when they last blew their nose. We have told the girls to always ask the owner before patting a dog, and given someone else was already giving it a pat we thought it ok to ask. The response from Grumpy Niceian 1 was to look at the children like she was looking at dog faeces on her shoe and say a terse “non” before turning her head abruptly away. I haven’t seen such harsh and unnecessary rejection since I had asked Krys for a “special cuddle” about 2mins before her parents were to arrive home from breakfast that morning (I still claim I would have got the job done with time to spare). This was followed up later in the day as Krys and the girls sheltered in a doorway from the sun while I got some groceries. Another French lady violently swung open the door almost knocking Olivia off her feet. The response was again a look of disdain while Grumpy Niceian 2 sniffed at the children “well you shouldn’t be standing there”. Vive le asshole indeed.
But we were staying in a beautiful part of town in a cute terrace. The house we were in was wonderful and spread across 4 levels, but with a small loungeroom which meant that any bad weather meant kids and parents going a little stir crazy. I came back one day from getting breakfast to find naked children running laps of a 2m square lounge room and a self medicating wife (how I wish those rolls were reversed). But the most interesting parts came from our doorway being used as a “hangout” by the local youth. We first discovered this when we came back on Day 1 in the late afternoon after a grocery run. As we came home we see a young Frenchy who we’ll call “Mr Smooth” sitting on the steps to our apartment with a lady friend. Almost seemed an inconvenience to ask them to move so we could get into the house – I think Mr Smooth was hitting a rhythm and our disruption to his courting was unwelcome. Then as we shut the door they sat back down – and given this is a thin door that opens directly into the lounge room we can see and hear them clearly through the door; him mumbling French sweet nothings and her giggling like a lady who knew she was in the midst of a countdown to pash-town. Despite two kids running rampant to nursery rhymes 5ft away from them, Mr Smooth was not to be deterred, and continued his courtship until we could see two head shapes finally vigorously mashing together. I applaud him for “closing the deal” to the strains of “The Wheels on the Bus”. Thankfully post pash I think our kids were enough of a warning of where things could end up so our two lovebirds took their leave to find some contraception before taking their amorous escapades any further. We then had subsequent nights when the local kids would turn our doorstep into a children’s disco, complete with French techno music until asked to move on. I came to admire the work of our next door neighbour who would emerge to spread pigeon poo on her steps in the late afternoon to ensure that her doorstep wasn’t the designated local hang. Unfortunately I couldn’t find any pigeons to help me out, and the 3 wheels of cheese I ate in Aix-en-Provence had blocked me up and prevented me from filling the gap.
We also found food surprisingly difficult in Nice and it started with trying to find simple breakfast cereal for the girls. I thought that “Chocolat” was just a movie and not a French theme to live by but it was almost impossible to find a cereal that wasn’t either coated in, or made almost entirely of, chocolate. I sniff a Twirl and my pants “shrink in the wash” so I have no idea how the French aren’t all replicas of Gerard Depardieu? I’d love to know their secret.
Our restaurant experiences with food weren’t much easier. Not only were restaurants far from accommodating of children (I thought of putting them on leads and getting them to bark to improve their acceptability), but the food was of a complexity that seemed highly unnecessary. Sure you can smother snails and frogs legs in butter and sauces to make them edible but the question remains, why would you? And where does this edible animal experimentation end? Should I look at the sphincter of a wombat and think “with a smattering of taco sauce and Nutella I might just be able to eat that?”. And because I could, should I? I guess I’ll always take a packet of taco sauce camping with me just in case. And despite the complexity of the food we also found that any requests at variations even for children was met with a swift “chef would not like that”. Krys’ mum Liselle did provide a restaurant highlight one evening though as the restaurant manager did the rounds to ask whether we all enjoyed the meals. Of course the rest of us did the usual “it was lovely thankyou” despite the meal being unlikely to figure in the “top 2,000 meals I’d like to eat again” list. But Liselle quite matter of fact stated “I actually didn’t care for it much”. Such an appraisal would be harsh at the best of times, but the ashen face of the restaurant manager was explained as he blurted out in his best accented English “I will let the chef know – she is my wife”. Given we had dessert still to come, needless to say we all ensured that Liselle chose her dessert first, and no-one replicated her choice. If they were going to do a bodily fluid based revenge bombing on dessert, we wanted to make sure the target was clear and isolated. And now I finish every family dinner at the house of Liselle and Larry with a “I didn’t care for it much”. To date I don’t think she has doctored my dessert? Although last time the icre-cream was surprisingly nutty?
But there was one restaurant experience that was exceptional. In large part due to the performance of my wonderful wife. The restaurant was beautiful – a Michelin starred restaurant tucked in a quiet street behind the port in Nice. This was to be our fancy dinner for our trip, with the kids left at home with the grandparents. The entertainment started with the transformation of my wife from laid back sandal wearing commoner to high heeled champagne sipping Princess all conducted behind a rather smelly bin just 10m from the restaurant. Then it continued as course after course and glass after glass was placed in front of us. It felt like we had hit a wall after course 3, but with half of the degustation menu still to come it was time to lift. And lift Krys did until faced with a teeny tiny plate of dessert, where it took substantial mockery from me before she overcame her claims of feeling so full she felt ill before she hit the finish line. And hit the line she did – as we wobbled out of the restaurant (partly due to food, partly due to wine) Krys took on a decidedly green look to go with her claims of “I don’t feel so well” escalating. As she retreated towards the same bin that saw her transition from commoner to Princess, I witnessed a different type of transformation take place – from Princess to vomiting trashbag. It really was a mix of emotions from me – there was immense pride that Krys had shown an incredible level of resilience and a determination to “finish the job” despite being full hours earlier, mixed with the horror at seeing about €200 of food and wine regurgitated and splattered in a gutter. For a second I debated whether the splattering could be collected for high quality leftovers (if people eat snails here surely pre-chewed lamb blended with liquefied tiramisu would be acceptable?) but then thought better of it. So we left it there and stumbled home.
While we were in Nice, Australia was playing in the soccer World Cup, so Krys, Larry and I went to an Aussie bar to watch one of the games. While we always want to “go local” while travelling it was nice to take a break from the attitude of Niceians, and to again be ensconced in some very simple Australian culture. I could tell we were in comfortable territory when I heard an exchange while going to the bathroom. It seemed that it was “John’s” shout but John had disappeared to the bathroom at the time of delivery. So his friend “Mark” had come hunting for him. Upon finding his shout dodging friend in a bathroom stall (he was checking under the stalls for John’s feet – I get the feeling this isn’t the first time John had gone missing when owing beers), Mark exclaimed “hey c#nt! What are you doing in there? Having a wank? Get out here and buy me a beer”. And the feelings of home washed over me. The night ended with Australian losing the soccer, Krys and I drinking cafe patron chased with cocktails then dancing on tables to a very average cover band. So all in all a night just like at home.
We did manage to find some entertainment for the children in Nice, although it was on the more dangerous side compared to what we were used to. In keeping with the Niceian approach of aesthetics over functionality laced with child hostility, the water park and play area were visually appealing but a potential death trap for kids. The water park was beautiful, with a wide open tiled space and water that danced to a tune. The downside being that the water jets would recede then almost wait for children to put their face over them before firing a jet of water that could decapitate an elephant. Millie’s head went back and to the left so hard I began to look for a 2nd shooter on the grassy knoll. But thankfully her whiplash was just water related. Then the play equipment again looked beautiful; carved wooden dolphins adorned the side of a children’s slide, complete with a thick velvet netting for the kids to climb up. The only issue was that this netting had very wide gaps – and extended across the top of the platform with a fall onto concrete below. It was almost like they had constructed a Ninja Warrior obstacle for infants, with only a child Bear Grills capable of getting to the slide without fracturing a skull.
So our time in Nice was mixed. It was a beautiful city and it was wonderful to spend some quality time with the grandparents; the kids loved having quality time with Grandpa and Mamere. But the “Niceians”…… well they are like a very attractive girl with a terrible personality. You cut them some slack for the first few days hoping they will warm up, but then realise that they are not as hot as they think they are and probably not worth the effort. Sure if you are a hipster rollerblader looking for a partner with attitude to help you knit a colourful velvet cardigan for your pure bred poodle, you may happily sink into a Niceian’s tepid embrace. But for us it was hard to get settled. Even the beach has a certain attitude to it. It looks magnificent; a seemingly endless strip of coast with turquoise water that wraps as far as the eye can see. But to try and enjoy it is another matter; the beach is covered in uncomfortable stones and the steep shoreline means that waves sweep in and thump on the rocky shoreline – not exactly a place of ambiance when looking to swim with two children. The only thing to do comfortably on the beach was to practice the Timeless Art of Seduction.
We have since moved onto Carcassonne; the home of Robin Hood which has been a lifetime obsession of Krys. But more on that later…..
Au revoir.
Trent, Emelia, Olivia and a Krystal surprisingly resistant to my beach-side seduction techniques
smallthoughts 