May 2, 2012
Marseille to Nice

I have enough time in the morning to walk all the way up to Nortre Dame de la Garde one last time. As it was my first stop in Marseille, it seems a fitting way to end my visit. I arrive in the Crypt just as the Eucharist is elevated during the Mass, which is attended by local people. At its end, I go up to take one last look at the gorgeus mosaics, and then take in the city one last time: the Prefecture, la Cite Radieuese, the Montee des Accoules in the Panier, the Bourse, the Opera, Le Roy d'Espagne. I will miss Marseille, along with the lovely all-female staff of the New Hotel Vieux Port.

The taxi driver arrives promptly at 11:15, and I am at the Saint Charles station in ten minutes. The train comes in early enough for me to settle myself easily before it leaves promptly at one minute after noon. I present my ticket to the cheminot (the French slang for a railroad worker of any sort), and aside from noting that I was supposed to write in the date of my journey, he finds nothing amiss.

The ride takes in the Mediterranean coast and the beach towns of Juan-les-Pins, Antibes, Cagnes-sur-Mer and others before arriving in Nice. The weather is warm enough that holiday-makers are in their bathing suits, sunning themselves under a clear blue s.

Two hours and forty-five minutes later, I am in Nice. I remember the train station well: it is not particularly clean and in the high season a madhouse, but the season is just starting, so I have no trouble obtaining a taxi. The Hotel Oasis, at 23 rue Gounod, is nearby ; the ride costs thirteen Euros. It turns out to have been visited by Anton Chekhov: he was a guest in 1897 '98, 1900 and 1901. The climate of Nice must have eased the discomfort of his tuberculosis, from which he died in 1904. Vladmir Illich Lenin In 1911, six years before the Russian Revolution. (The Cote d'Azur has always been popular with Russians, whether aristocrats or Communists.)

I meet Cyril, the hotel receptionist, who shows me a dark room in the back. I ask if there might be another. He puts me in a slightly smaller room, but with a small terrace overlooking the entrance of the hotel, with is in a secluded courtyard off rue Gounod. Prior to becoming a hotel, It was known as the Palais Fajvt.j

Cyril answers two important questions for me: one, he tells me there is a place where I can rent a bicycle for the week at the end of rue Meyerbeer, which rue Gounod becomes further down. Second, I ask whether he could tell me of any where I might be able to watch tonight's debate that might be more lively than my room.

"The UMP headquarters are just down the street on rue Clemenceau."

We have a conversation about the election and the future of France. Unlike everyone else I have spoken to, he says not a word against President Sarkozy, just observes that people are angry that some ministers have been enriching themselves while average people have to pull their belts in. It turns out he is of Spanish origin, his family from Asturias, the one place in Spain where there was no Moorish penetration. However, he has difficulty following my salutation in Spanish, he is so thoroughly French. I am very grateful for the warmth of his welcome, and for accommodating my requests.

I make my way to the UMP headquarters first. An elderly man is railling against a campaign worker whom he said "aggressively" handed him literature. Pointing to the image of Sarkozy on the La France Forte poster that is the President's calling card in the election, he shouts that he voted for him in 2007, but nothing doing. He picks up the folding chair in front of him and throws it down for emphasis. A camaign worker of African descent says soothingly,

"Papa, what's the problem? Calm down, no one tried to assault you--"

The man storms out nevertheless. I am referred to the receptionist for the campaign office and introduce myself as an American fascinated by French politics who would be interested in watching the debate....

"Well come here, it will start at nine o'clock."

After this, she tells me that she is actually on camera shaking Barack Obama's hand, and her colelagues, overhearing, also invite me to come by.

After this, I walk to rue Gounod and then rue Meyerbeer almost to its end. I find an enormous space that rents all sorts of bicycles, from cruisers to mountain bikes to racing bikes. They open at 8:00 a.m. and have many bikes to choose from. I can think of no better way to spend my time in Nice.

I am beginning to feel that bourgeois Nice may be just the spot for, not a pilgrimage, but an actual vacation.