May 9, 2012
To Paris

Of all the days in Nice, today is the most sunlit. I arise at 6:00 a.m. and bicycle to the boulangerie on Avenue Buffa, which is already open, and serving locals --a man comes in wearing his pajamas, bedroom slippers and a happy coat. Having purchased his fresh bread, he walks next door and returns to his apartment. I buy coffee and pain raisin to enjoy sitting in one of the bright blue metal beach chairs by the Plage Westminster, across the street from the hotel of the same name.

Having done so, I take the bicycle and ride west, on the beach road past the airport, towards Antibes, 20 kilometers away, then turn around --I will go there on another trip.

I have an early lunch in the Vielle Ville at La Storia, a Nicois restaurant in Cour Saleya, where Matisse once had a studio. Then I walk to Fenocchio, Maitre Glacier to have a last ice cream cone --scoops of caramel, sabayon and amarena (black cherry) in a giant cone-- an unforgettable pleasure of the Vielle Ville. I have time to go to the post office to buy some stamps and mail postcards thanking the friends who put me up in Frankfurt, Bad Doberan, Rome and Bologna, then return to take one last spin with the bicycle to the beach, stopping to buy an espresso to have there, once again sitting in the blue chairs watching the waves and the sky and the people now actually swimming in the ocean, it is warm enough.

At 4:15 p.m. I return to the Hotel, wash up and change in the toilet on the first floor. Cyril calls a taxi for me, and just as I step outside walks me to the door and gives me to small containers of olive oil --by Nicholas Alizari, the brand without its own groves. I am sure it will be delicious with the loaf of bread I brought for the train trip. I wait for the taxi in the hotel courtyard, a garden of palms and shrubs.

It is not difficult to get to the train station from l'Hotel Oasis: the station is less than a kilometer away, Cyril, the receptionist on duty tells me, so I will pay a prix forfaitaire, which is French for more than is reasonable. The taxi driver arrives and takes my baggage, and I sit in the cab. I address the price issue right away, but he doesn't respond to my questions about the cost of the trip directly, saying Bah...ca pouvait etre 10 ou 11 Euros. --It might be 10 or 11 Euros. I give him 10 Euros, end of story.

Once I am at the Nice train station, always a madhouse, I look on the board for information about the TGV track, but it is too early. A TGV to Marseille comes in on Track A right opposite the central hall, due to leave at 15H 27. I realize that I will not be walking my things to the car, but have to go down an escalator, then up the stairs. I go to the information booth, where I am told that for 5 Euros a porter will take my bags to the track. It seems money well spent, and she calls a porter, who is available. In the meantime she takes my ticket and laboriously writes out my train number, my car number and my seat number, along with the date and the price.

The porter, a sizable man, young and bald, with glinting blue eyes, easily picks up my heavy knapsack, hoisting it onto one shoulder. I tell him to slip on the second holster to help his back bear the weight, but he is too broad across the shoulders and rib cage to put on my "woman's" pack, so he continues to walk with the knapsack hanging from one shoulder, my yellow polka-dotted caddy --a cheap wheeled trolley I bought in Monoprix, the French five-and-dime-- carried in the other hand. He asks me to carry a lightweight bag in which I have put my little red knapsack, which is on its last legs, the seams starting to give way after years of use.

My porter trundles through the crowd, inadvertently touching a man a little less tall and less strongly built, who criticizes the porter. They have a staredown, Did I offend you? says the porter--

Yes, you offended me-- says the slighter man.

Well-- says the porter, locking eyes with the slighter man. I see the muscles at the back of his neck tighten.

Well, you offended me--

That's it, then says the porter, holding his gaze and when the other man blinks, goes on his way, lurching through the crowd with my knapsack, dangling two hiking poles and a folding seat.

A bit further on, as we reach the down escalator, an even slighter adolescent boy, stopped in his tracks by the barreling porter, makes a comment, reproaching the porter. From my perspective, he is only trying to do his job, but in France, every man is a king --whether man or woman. There is a freedom to reproach publicly that is characteristic. Even in the train car where I am writing this, (the quiet car where cellphone use and loud conversations are impermissible) the woman opposite, hearing me type, tells me how loud the keyboard is, and will I be typing throughout the six-hour ride. (I say only for ten minutes and hasten to write this post.)

I tell the porter I think it is not polite to upbraid him for only doing his job.

Doesn't bother me, I know how to deal with them --in my way he says, as he walks down the corridor and up the steps to Track F, where the TGV is waiting. `
He takes me to the head of the train, all the way down the track and to my train car, still carrying my articles, muscling through the car to the rack nearest my seat. He then writes me a receipt for the service he rendered. I already have an extra two Euro coin in my hand to give him.

That's nice! Have a good rest of your trip, he says as he strides out of the carriage.

The whole experience was like spending ten minutes with the young Jean Gabin, if you know what I mean.

***

11:45 p.m.

The ride on the TGV goes well, the train filling up by the time we reach Avignon, after which the train speeds directly to Paris, another three hours. I start bringing my luggage forward twenty minutes before the train arrives at the Gare de Lyon, the Paris station from which all trains south depart. I want not to have to wait a long time for a taxi --big city rules apply now.

I am out of the station and at the taxi depot quickly, and taken by a young man of African descent to rue J.P. Timely, where I have never been. The All Seasons there is a tiny hotel, and when I walk in there are children playing in the small lobby under the watchful eye of their mother, who is sprawled on the pink vinyl sofa. Behind the desk is Samir, a young Indian man wearing glasses with aviator friends. He is ready for me and hands me the key to Room #1, just around the corner. He accomopanies me to the pink door and opens it: I am in a room at street level. The shutters are open, so I could call down the street if I needed to. Actually, what I want to do is close the shutters, sleep, have the breakfast (included in the 101 Euro price of the room), and go on to the second hotel I will be staying in, which is nearby. I hope I am not on the first floor there. I ask Samir whether he will be on duty all night: I m relieved to hear him say "Yes".

I set my things down and remember I forgot to ask about free WiFi. I come back around the corner and see an American looking man in a polo shirt, light pants and a yamulke talking to Samir. This man looks like lots of the men in New York City: Jewish. This sign from home, is strangely comforting. I do indeed, get free WiFi with my room, although if the sounds outside my door don't abate soon, it won't be an easy night of sleep. That's travelling.