day4-amazing cafe au lait, more fruitless errands, naked chick for sale

The Guy up in the sky who controls the weather seemed to be determined to keep us soggy all day long. Reluctant to walk around in the rain, we decided to go to a nearby restaurant run by a fish market, recommended by my Japanese travel guide. “Enjoy fresh seafood in a family-like atmosphere with the locals,” promised the guide.

The restaurant was a little more than a neighborhood café/bar, but their menu was seriously seafood-oriented, not too surprisingly. Clients were obviously locals (a good sign), gulping down large silver plates full of oysters with a generous squeeze of lemon into each one, vigorously peeling the thirty-fifth steamed shrimp, or throwing shells after shells of mussels onto an already-towering pile of the empty armors of molluscous, while they engaged in wine-spurred energetic conversation with their companions. Their appetite for seafood was at the realm of incredulity: the couple next to our table had a wash-basin-sized bowl full of wine-simmered mussels after about a dozen large oysters each, along with slices of thin, moist rye bread smeared with aioli. We ordered fish soup, the famous local specialty bouillabaisse minus the actual fish pieces. Served in a big white jag, from which one pours into individual plates with a ladle, along with croutons, shredded cheese, and aioli, it was a warming dish, if not particularly filling. The soup had a rich and complex taste deriving from the fish, used in its entirety, from head to bone to tendons. However, to a great disappointment on the part of me as a great garlic lover, was that the aioli, supposedly homemade mayonnaise with a garlicky edge, did not seem to be homemade, and was lacking the garlic taste. To their credit, however, the café au lait we had was far beyond our concept of café au lait, with the fantastic natural sweetness of the foamed milk and the pleasing aroma of excellent coffee. Easily the best in our lives, we agreed.

Casting a wistful glance on a nearby stand of socca, another local specialty like a crepe made with powdered beans, but not quite daring to try one (for one thing, the food in question seemed to have been sitting on the flat top grill for too long), we headed toward what we thought was a bus terminal that would take us to the Asian Art Museum located a few miles away from the town center. The way to the Asian Art Museum turned out to take far more time and power of will than one would apprehend—especially when one was thoughtless enough to use all the small change to pay a restaurant bill, when no other possible place to get small change was open. By the time we found an open brasserie, after a wearisome and time-consuming quest, it was close to three o’clock, leaving us only about two hours to get to the museum and see the exhibit. Not knowing what else to do, we rushed back to the nearest bus stop with the hard-earned French coins firmly clenched in our hands.

After some frustrating wait, the bus finally arrived and took us to the museum through the typical second-class yet more down-to-earth resort town atmosphere outside of Nice, with palm trees and aging resort apartments with balconies from which one can enjoy a thin strip of Mediterranean between the two other ghastly painted apartments. Fluorescent lights of video stores and flickering neon signs of cheap eateries added to the somewhat pleasing, humble atmosphere. The afternoon had started to dissolve into the evening. Mannequins put for sale looked out of the window of a gone-under store, in a seductive poise, oblivious of their smooth, naked bodies.


naked chick for sale
Originally uploaded by uBookworm.