The evening was filled with warm conversation as they devoured Mami’s deeply satisfying boeuf bourguignon, perfect for such a chilly winter evening. A roaring fire in the nearby hearth was the perfect touch to the comfortable ambiance. It felt like home should.
The four of them spent a relaxed breakfast together and, after a visit to the goats, who were now bigger and calmer, Nora got behind the wheel and they were back on the road. Pierre planned to drive when they reached the coast so Nora could fully enjoy the Mediterranean.
ChapterFifty
Pierre knewthe precise place to stop for a coffee and to switch drivers. Soon, the countryside changed to lighter brush, which he described as garrigue, and olive groves amongst vineyards. Dramatic Aleppo pine trees silhouetted some hilltops. After a short while back on the road, they crested a hill and Pierre pulled over to the shoulder. Nora gasped.
Before them in all of its glory was the sparkling Mediterranean Sea, kissed by the sun. Brilliant turquoise shades blended into deeper blues farther out. The French Riviera. La Côte d’Azur.
Pierre drove down to the shore and stopped at a sun-bleached restaurant with tables right on the sand. He explained to Nora that by the time they reached Nice the beaches would all consist of galets—pebbles.
As always, Atticus was greeted first by the restaurant staff. The owner came to say hello and looked at Pierre first with a wide grin and then a frown once he took in Pierre’s splint. It was obvious they were friends, and he demanded an explanation of the injury, after he had been introduced to Nora and greeted her with a bise.
The owner guided them to a table on the beach in the shade of a gnarly fig tree, and he and Pierre chatted in the fastest French Nora thought she had ever heard.
The smells of grilled fish, olive oil, and garlic were hard to ignore as Nora and Pierre made their menu selections. They dined on freshly caught dorade seasoned with lemon and fennel, accompanied by a simple green salad with vinaigrette and what Nora declared to be the best frites ever. When they finished, the owner pulled up a chair and brought them each a digestif.
Back in the car, Nora thanked Pierre for such a memorable introduction to the Riviera. He smiled and said, “Ce n’est que le début, ma belle.”
Nora loved that he’d said it was just the beginning and even more loved that he had called her ‘ma belle.’ It was a first. And she liked it.
In two hours, they were less than an hour from Nice and Nora commented on the heavier traffic.
Pierre shrugged. “Unfortunately, every season is tourist season around here now. Although this is nothing compared to the summer.”
They followed along the coast as the two-lane road wove past sun-drenched rocky shorelines and through seaside towns, not yet packed with tourists.
Pierre suggested they roll down the windows, and the van filled with the scents of salt, pine, and aromatic herbs growing alongside the road.
“In France la Mediterranée is often referred to as La Grande Bleue and you can see how the colors change as the waters stretch toward Africa. We love this sea. It offers a unique way of life, and a special Mediterranean culture and cuisine. Generations come here and create their own special history. It’s hard to believe that until the late nineteenth century, people did not swim in the sea for recreation. Fishermen ruled the waves. Artists came for the unique light. And you know the history of the twentieth century—after the first World War is when the glamorous Riviera life really began. Artists, aristocrats and dreamers arrived, ushering in an era of glamor, jazz and sun-soaked decadence.”
“I love your history lessons,” Nora said. “Keep telling me more.” And he did.
She couldn’t stop commenting on the colors of the water. They changed from brilliant turquoise in the rocky coves near the shore to sapphire in calmer water, and then to a deep indigo in the distance. The waves glistened in the sun as windsurfers in wetsuits and small wooden fishing boats shared the water with gleaming mega-yachts.
Now, after having shared so many interesting stories along the trip, Pierre checked to make certain Nora was not getting tired of them. She said no, and he told her they were on the Bord de Mer, his favorite coastal road which connected Antibes to Nice.
The traffic was heavy. Cars and cyclists shared the road, which ran right alongside beaches for most of the thirty-minute drive.
“Antibes is the town I love best on the Riviera and I will bring you back soon, if you like. This is the newer part, but what you need to see and will love—I guarantee it—is the old town which goes back to Roman times and even before.”
In just over a half hour, they were driving along the Promenade des Anglais, the storied street bordering the sea from one side of Nice to the other. The broad Promenade was busy with cyclists, runners, and people strolling or sitting in the iconic blue chairs, which offered rest and perfect spots to contemplate the sea.
As they drove slowly along, Pierre gave Nora a short history of the area, going back thousands of years. She kept sighing and murmuring about the beauty of all she saw. At one point, she reached over and took Pierre’s hand.
“Thank you so much for bringing me on this trip. It was incredibly special in every way. Every minute of it was unforgettable.”
Unable to lift his hand from the wheel, he maneuvered his hand in the splint to touch her arm. “I am glad. I love my country and am happy to show it to you.”
Once they reached the heart of the old town, he drove into an underground parking facility and pulled into a spot under the market street of Cours Saleya. Pierre said to leave everything except Atticus in the van, and then they walked up a short flight of stairs and stepped outside.
When she commented on being in the middle of a street full of restaurants, Pierre explained the road served as the market street every morning, then transitioned to outdoor patios at lunchtime and became a bustling street pulsing with life at night.
Nora could not stop looking around and exclaiming about the colors of the buildings and the completely different vibe from Paris. Pierre was right. She could fall in love with this town.
“Un coup de foudre!” He told her. Love at first sight.
They walked through the labyrinth of narrow cobbled streets where pastel-colored three- and four-story buildings leaned in close. The scents of baking, butter, and garlic drifted around them. Pierre’s gallery took over the ground floor of a corner building, and he was heartily welcomed back by two young men and a middle-aged woman. He introduced Nora and invited her to sit in one of the comfortable armchairs, but Nora was too intrigued by the old town.
