day5-the Fall

There was a Fall which terrified Patrick and which I somehow survived. We were near the edge of a harbor below the cliff, taking pictures of the 13th century fortress nesting on a steep cliff, when Patrick warned me of a big wave coming to splash us. I stepped back to stay dry, and the next moment, I was on the concrete ground two feet below where I had been standing. Miraculously, I didn't crack open my skull, nor did I smash my camera which I was holding in my hand. I only scratched an elbow and a knee, and my camera added a legion d'honour a millimeter off the lens (pfew!). And that was it. Or so I thought. It shocked me nonetheless, so it took me some effort to contain the shake of my knees and put smile on my face in order to assure terrified Patrick that I was all right. "Thank God I didn't kill myself or destroy the camera," I joked. (It was a joke because neither of us believe in Gods or Goddesses of any sort, but the word almost seemed appropriate.) With my sleeve rolled up lest it get smeared with blood from the scratch, we started to climb the long and shady stairs leading to the fortress. From the cliff, seagulls were casting half sympathetic, half mocking gazes of the superior upon the clumsiness of poor wingless creatures that I just displayed.

fortress of St. Marguerite Island
Originally uploaded by uBookworm.

day5-St. Marguerite Island, morning dew, eucaliptus scent, seclusion

St. Marguerite Island was a trap. A beautiful trap one would not regret to be caught in. We ended up spending most of the day in the seclusion of the island, willingly giving up the other destination of the day—the sleepy village of Biot and the Fernand Leger Museum there. Only a few minutes walk on the island was just enough to make us decide to postpone the ferry by two hours, immersing ourselves in the rare treat of sunshine, of sea breeze, and most importantly, of being away from towns filled with people.

The 15-minute ferry ride was in itself a delight, with a magnificent view of snow-covered Alps in the background and the coastal towns in the foreground. Occasional shower of sunlight through the break of the thin blanket of cloud brought a dramatic glow to the white mountain sides. Buoys tucked together with a tie, safety floats hanging on the side of the boat, ropes tied in accordance with the seamen’s tradition, every naval detail on the ferry intensified our excitement. Being in the off-season, there were less than ten passengers on the boat; some tourists, the others seemingly locals, taking a little excursion to the island. The fortress on the cliff still kept its vigil on the Mediterranean, centuries after its construction. Wooden piers on strikingly clear, indigo water received us onto the island.

A signboard at the port was made of pottery, with its roughly textured base terracotta brown and its glaze various tones of blue-green. Complete with streets names curved in on the surface, it was a delightful juxtaposition of function and beauty.


A small pond with an even smaller island in the center was found in the Western edge of the main island, where numerous water fouls were enjoying the seclusion of the island. The pond was surrouned by a low wooden fence and bushes of vine plants clinging to it. Green of the tender leaves and reddish purple of the plump but miniscule berries came alive with the sunlight, which shined on the morning dews on these plants.


The moisture of overnight rain also had a beautiful effect on the feather. Resting on a bed of fuzzy leaves, the fibers of the feather had been arranged into a graceful shape by the moisture, seeming almost impossible by any human intention.


Inland was a savanna-like pasture with gnarled aleppo pines, tortured for centuries by the incesant wind from the sea. Farther inland, a boulevard of eucaliptus trees were emitting a strong, refreshing fragrance. The smell was so intence and permeating the forest so much that it felt almost artificial to me, who was a shameful child of modern, synthesized chemical products. The scent, though, was probably the most refreshing smell I had ever experienced in my life, even more so than trunks of conifers freshly cut for Christmas trees.

Listening to the wonderful noise the pebbles make as waves rolled them along the shore, we wandered the island, feeling liberated and envigorated. A shady, eucaliptus-scented boulevard took us to the fortress overlooking the pier we disembarked earlier. We had about an hour before the 2pm ferry would leave the island.

day5-ambitious plan defeated, Cannes ferry port

We woke up with an ambitious plan—way too ambitious, as it would turn out, unfortunately. Despite the fact that we had gone to bed past one last night, we were aiming at the 9 am train to Cannes, where a ferry to a secluded monastery island supposedly were leaving every hour. According to my ambitious plan, we were going to one of the “hawk’s nest” villages of Coat d’Azul, so called because of their location on top of rocky mountains, overlooking the Mediterranean, in order to avoid attacks from whatever the enemy they had at the time of the construction. From about a dozen attractive “hawk’s nest” villages around Nice, our attention had been drawn to Biot, which had, described my guide, “a peaceful and quaint feel of a sleepy village life and a burst of vibrant colors found in Fernand Leger museum located just outside of the village.” If we could catch the 10 am ferry and come back on the one at noon, we would barely make it to the lethargic village and the cubist museum, accessible by local bus from a station somewhere between Cannes and Nice.

Upon accommodating ourselves in the seats, Patrick fell asleep. A terrible toothache kept him awake all night, with his heartless, cold-blooded girlfriend fast asleep, only murmuring some suspicious sympathy to his misfortune in her half-consciousness. I also had to fight against the slumber devil lest we miss the Cannes station. To keep myself awake, I wrote this belated travelogue—I had been too busy and tired to keep as good an account of our trip as I should have. The train ran through the typical seaside scenery with occasional small resort towns, abundant palm trees, beaches of white sand, and lash mountains pushing the railroad right onto the ocean. The narrow strip of land between the mountain and the ocean was reminiscent of Japanese coastal towns on the Pacific. Only thing that was missing from the scenery was the signboards of hot springs… Consecutive days of rain had washed off every single particle of pollutant from the air, allowing the sky to glow crisply with generous sunshine, with the calm ocean throwing back the blue hue. It was going to be a lovely day, in fact the first lovely day we would have in cloud-covered winter of France.

Cannes was a smaller yet livelier resort town than our adopted hometown Nice. The shorter walk from the station to the seaside cut through a busier, but less corporate and more relaxed commercial district, compared to that of Nice, adding to the local charm of the town. It was far from Cannes in my imagination, gleaming with celebrities walking on an obscene red carpet, bathing the shower of camera flashes. Down-to-earth modesty of local everyday life had replaced the ephemeral, frivolous grandeur we would associate with the town of the international film festival. From a friendly pharmacist willing to help us clueless tourists, Patrick purchased a package of aspirin to cope with the persistent toothache.

Ferry port was hidden behind a fair ground. It was so well hidden that they had to put up a booth on the way from the station to guide helpless tourists to the port. On the backdrop of a makeshift stage for a nightly comedy show, drops of water retained the whole miniature universe of fair ground: the purple airplane perfect with red throttle, saddled white horse with silver mane, gleaming Harley Davidson with orange flame. We, and a few seagulls were the only disturbance in the moist, silent stillness of the fairground waiting for the evening when it would open again to entertain a new set of excited children and dreamy lovers.

The ferry port was at the very end of the fair ground, around the corner of a popcorn stand, covered with a vinyl sheet for the night. We found out that the ferry to the St. Honorat Island were not leaving until noon, placing the final “rejected” stamp on our plan to go to both the island and the “hawk’s nest” village. The other, more commercialized St. Marguerite Island, to which there was a 11 am ferry, became our compromise destination. Being in an off season, there was a fair prospect of finding some secluded natural scenery even on the larger island, we consoled ourselves as we opened a bag of pastries from a bakery on our way to the station in Nice. Patrick’s gigantic (atypical for a French pastry) chocolate brioche was mediocre (in French standard, that was), but the apricot pie I had was excellent with tartness of fresh apricots (obviously not from a can!) blending with the buttery crust and sweet glazing. Taking pictures of the boats and the port in a soft light coming through a thin layer of cloud quickly filled the twenty minutes we had to wait.



waterline, Cannes
Originally uploaded by uBookworm.

day4-nocturnal strollers, miniature fire engine

Finally, finally, the sky had cleared up. And when it cleared up, it was super clear. Everything was sharpened like a brand-new German knife. The air crisp, the sky indigo with a nearly full moon. Smart enough to know the moment was rare, we rushed back to the hotel, grabbed our cameras, and came back out again to enjoy the old town when it was not drippy. Some streets, studded with cute little restaurants and hip bars, were pleasantly busy with young locals enjoying the end-of-the-year night. Others with residential apartments were deep in slumber, as the sand of time quickly flew. Taking whimsical turns at corners, peeking into displays of storefronts, climbing up and down occasional stairs, admiring craftsmanship of street graffiti, we appreciated the nocturnal hospitality of the town to the full.

It was nice to feel competent again, after hours and hours of frustrating waste of time, due to our unfamiliarity with the town and its function. So many things had worked out so poorly, from the quest for an umbrella in the morning to the desperate hunt for only a few small change to get on the bus, that I had been feeling incompetent discouraged. But now, I was back to my usual self, capable of enjoying what was in front of my eyes.

Suddenly a siren shrieked through the night, and several miniature fire trucks flew by, barely squeezing through the narrow streets. We had to press our bodies hard against the wall of an apartment building lest we have our nose scraped off. With a passing glance I saw a firefighter crouching in the rear so as not to bang his head against the low ceiling of the truck, which was no larger than a very small mini van. Two girls, apparently tourists, speechlessly stared at the fire truck as it sped through the street, in disbelief. "Wow," said one after a pause. "Wow," replied the other, as they resumed walking. We felt the same way--the miniscule size of the fire truck (but fully equipped) and the mismatch of the modern equipment and the quaint streets were surreal.

It was past midnight before we knew it. Diners and drinkers had started to go home. Still attracted to the charm of the town, we reluctantly joined the journey back home, well, in our case, to the hotel. There was tomorrow, and there were things to anticipate.

fine hand of death
Originally uploaded by uBookworm.

day4-traumatizingly good French food

The bus dropped us in front of the now-familiar SNCF station. For the hundredth time in 12 hours we walked back to the hotel. Or so it felt. After a short period of rest in the hotel room, we came back out to the street for dinner, craving for a real meal after days of hasty, snacky meals and sometimes even no meal at all. (There were so many reasons not to eat properly; we might be more tired than hungry, our soaked shoes might be too nasty to put on once we took them off, or simply we might not be at the right place at the right moment.) At any rate, we had no intention to miss numerous local specialties again. A restaurant listed in Patrick's guide seemed to be the one to go: "genuine Provence specialties in an unpretentious atmosphere."

The small restaurant in the old section was bustling with diners of all ages, sitting at rustic tables with cute gingham check table cloth, only a foot or so apart from each other (typical French way of seating diners). Blocked by the legs of our table and the diner one inch behind the chair, I had to lift my legs one at a time over the chair to under the table, being cautious not to topple over the glasses on the table all the while. It was quite a task, to say the least, to someone so used to the sometimes too spacious American restaurants. A big bowl of chick pea salad was circulating around the tables, apparently as an appetizer, from which one self-serves as much as one's appetite demands. It was a nice custom based on the mutual trust between the diners and the restaurant--modesty and trust still are in existence in the other part of the world. Nobody piled up the plate with ladles full of chickpeas when they easily could. They knew it would be indecent and the restaurant knew that their customers would not prey on it.

With the usual help from the Rick Steve's phrase book, we picked a plate of assorted beignets, a salad with endive, anchovies, and boiled eggs from appetizers, and gorgonzola gnocchi and mysterious "scoops of meat in tomato sauce" from the entree. I took some pictures of Patrick with my plush monkey. Minutes later, Patrick pointed toward the counter. As I looked up, one of the waiters were taking pictures of the monkey with his camera-phone, and smiled. He's become an idol in France, we joked.

Beignets of various vegetables and seafood were close to divine with the golden batter perfectly crunchy outside, light and melting inside. The bitterness of endive was a great companion to the intense flavor of the anchovies, which could have been the best I have ever had--I usually avoid anchovies, fearing the fishy oiliness of the food, but this was a sublime exception. "Scoops of meat" turned out to be two huge meatballs, not too far apart from what the name suggested. Appropriate blend of herb gave a nice accent to the tender meatball of finely ground beef. The true surprise, however, was the tomato sauce. Tomato sauces somehow have hard time becoming anything exciting. They are usually tasty and hearty, but rarely are excellent. But this one was (again) a sublime exception (which happens so pleasingly often in France when it comes to food!). The fruity, refreshing flavor of tomatoes was perfectly preserved, but it was not at all acid. It was probably cooked in a very short time so that the flavor would not be destroyed, and it also was very fresh. Any tomato sauce that had been sitting on a stove top for more than half an hour could taste that fresh. Patrick's gorgonzola gnocchi was exceptionally good, too, but the tomato sauce smoked it.

Though the pear compote on a table we saw as we came in was a considerable attraction, we were too full to accommodate a single cell of the pear. We had espresso (excellent, too) and left, satisfied beyond belief. It was the first real meal in days, and it was excellent.

day4-an outstanding example of an exceptionally large collective ego: Asian Art Museum of Nice

The white wall of the Asian Art Museum had the grayish cast from the gathering darkness of the evening. It stood with clean grace, its curved walls interconnecting with each other, over a small artificial pond in a corner of a large botanical garden by the coast. Tens of water fouls unfamiliar to us paddled around gaily on the water, some with baby blue cheek on chocolate brown feather, others with pink beaks streaked with a thin red line. Upon entering the museum, a moss green Japanese pottery on a bamboo mat, holding two twigs of azalea with three magenta flowers, carefully and exquisitely arranged, greeted us.

“This sculpture of an important Indonesian god, with the breathtakingly intricate decoration on its heavenly attire, marks the very crest of the aesthetic sophistication of the era, approaching the universal and eternal beauty” proudly announced the recorded voice of the audio tour device, which came with the admission. The sculpture was indeed beautifully done. “This Japanese tea kettle was made by a group of Buddhist monks renowned for their outstanding use of Japanese lacquer. Its simple yet graceful curve along with the fine balance of vermillion and black are an sublime tribute of the highest point of this art,” said the device in a deep, solemn voice. Maybe. “This rare example of the late-12th century Indian tapestry, combining, the delicate refinement of the middle eastern tapestry and the bold and lively expression typical of the native India, presents the pleasurable fruit the sublimation of two distinguished, yet radically different cultures,” continued the Authority. Everything exhibited in the museum seemed to represent a sublime example of a highly developed, incredibly sophisticated, technologically amazing, evidence of past human activities throughout Asia. Throw in some description of the pleasing intermarriage of diverse cultures, liberally sprinkling tongue-biting adjectives, and anybody could compose the script for the device. The audio guide’s endless, energetic emphasis on the “exceptionally high” quality of their collections made me feel as if I had been stepping into, and being smothered by, the collective ego of the museum, proudly showing off its aesthetic judgment and impeccable taste. “Notice the beautiful fluid line of the firm buttock of this young Buddhist monk. It is one of the best examples of the blooming Thai culture of this era,” demanded the authoritative voice. Sure he had an attractive, “firm buttock!” It was probably the first and last time I hear a museum guide mention a sculpture’s butt, however adorable it might be.

Apart from the egotistical exaggerations of the audio guide, however, the presentation of the collection was, in itself, so tasteful and sophisticated, with fine attention to details, that being in the museum was a sheer pleasure. The ample circular room in the center, with plenty of light coming from the large windows facing onto the pond, artifacts arranged with plenty of distant between one another, on pedestals of square glass plates on simple metal support, the precise lighting that accentuates the beautiful contour of the faces—the museum’s ego wasn’t huge for no reason. It was obvious that none of the exhibits was there just because it was the easiest example of a culture of a given time and space. All that was there was there because of both their representative quality and their aesthetic high achievement. The museum wasn’t falling into the common trap of trying to show every historical and artistic stage of Asia. It bravely and haughtily defines its role as a museum of fine Asian art, refusing to be a general museum of Asian artifacts of all levels of quality. Its assertive ego could be somewhat overwhelming and intrusive, but it did succeed in what it intends to be—a provider of an experience of beauty and refinement. Everything from the space itself to the selection of exhibits, to the beautiful carmine paper bag of the gift shop was tuned to that effect, to perfection.

Two pelicans were meticulously glooming their feathers on a pedestal of a spotlight in the pond. Marble passageway on the water, circling around the square building in the center, gently took us onto the roof of the museum with pots of gnarled oriental trees and panels of horrible Tibetan gods. Leaves of nearby bamboo bushes made wet rustling sounds against the coastal breeze. The garden below seemed to be worth exploring, with all the different water fouls and large glass conservatory, but the closing time was only five minutes away. It was time to go back.

On the bus back to the town, we were pleasantly filled with satisfaction, having been in an absolute refinement, simple yet graceful. I was thankful to Patrick’s persistence on visiting the museum, which, to be honest, formerly irritated me to a considerable extent, for if not for that, I would have abandoned the idea of pouring so much effort into an obscure museum in an inconvenient location out of town.



Asian Art Museum in Nice
Originally uploaded by uBookworm.

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.

day4-buttery smell, soggy umbrella hunt, Godzilla Nicoise

After a delightful encounter with the hotel's four-legged hairy inhabitant--a Siamese cat, whose striking resemblance to Patrick's cross-eyed Sweetie Pie reminded us of home-sweet-home, we headed for a bakery the helpful lady of the hotel recommended for breakfast. The initial blinding brightness that speared our eyes upon coming out of the dim stairwell quickly receded, for it was yet another day of thick cloud cover, mixed with sporadic showers. The bakery was only a minute's walk from the hotel, facing a little plaza shiny with rain on stone-paved surface. Once inside, overwhelming aroma of butter struck our nostrils, torturing our hungry stomachs, as our eyes were under severe attack from vibrant colors of glazed fruits on boats of pastries. It took us a few minutes to order an apple pie and a pear pie, because of not only our hopeless French (coupled with unhelpful self-esteem) but also their incredible selection of pastries, croissants, crusty bread, quiche, and so many other temptations I don't know the names of. From our corner table, we watched an endless stream of customers coming in for a couple of baguettes, a bagful of croissants, or for a morning hot chocolat and a toast with an abundant helping of apricot preserve. The pies were excellent: the crust golden and flaky, the fruits fresh and full of flavor. We were still missing big steaming mugs of American coffee, however. Our espresso lasted only for three or four sips, leaving an insatiable desire for more.

We definitely needed to find an umbrella for Patrick. The past two days was enough to teach us to expect more grey days with unpredictable patches of rain during our stay in France. Plus, the insufficient rain gear had proven to be a very good way to transform me into a whining child with a foul mouth and a typical reluctance to explore and appreciate. Our educated guess took us back to the station. After a considerable walking around the rotary, it became apparent that there was only one shabby-looking store that had umbrellas. It was typical of stores in front of a resort station serving both the locals with no taste whatsoever and the tourists, desperately in need of a replacement luggage or, like us, an umbrella, who otherwise would never imagine shopping anything in such a pathetic store. A white-painted metal wagon was pulled out under the awning, with all stripes of cheap umbrellas piling up. It was hard to imagine that in the present day of two thousand and four, there is anybody who manufactures umbrellas with horrible patterns in even more horrible color combination--one, to give only a glimpse of the horrifying pile, had a beige-colored fake wood handle, checker pattern printed in pink, yellow, and deep green zigzag lines against a navy background, and of course, the bones were painted gleaming gold. There were, of course, other staples of a store of this kind: zebra-lined tee shirts that would go perfectly well with the panther-dotted fabric of the trunks on wheels. Patrick picked up a plain black folding one after a long digging, sighing, and thinking. It was barely large enough to cover him, but it was not screaming, "Look at me!! I have such a horrible taste!! I'm a mummy resurrected from the '60s!!" like other ones did. For a short while I suffered from a bad flashback of painfully obsolete "fashion" stores of my hometown in the Far East.

Finally fully armed against the unpredictable French weather, we started marching to the Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art in Nice. More or less fruitful yet definitely time-consuming hunt for the umbrella, aggravated by the fact that our hotel, the station, and the MMCA are scattered in the town, however, had made our spirit somewhat soggy. My verbal attempts to keep our spirits from crumbling to the wet ground had started to sound hollow. We needed to truly start our day--one dedicated to the real tourist activity, untainted with trivial concerns.

MMCA, with a glittering monster stomping around its elevated front plaza, by the hands of a female sculptor with a long exotic name I wish I could remember, did the trick. A staircase led us to a circular courtyard surrounded by a column-shaped, charcoal-colored building of the museum with a hollow space at the center (where the courtyard is). The dramatic entrance was followed by a number of coloful scuoptures scattered around in the slate-paved courtyard. Looking up, each of the big curved glass windows of the museum were decorated with different kind of artworks--one with a great number of small chairs painted blue, other with (again) an astronomical number of rusting metal shovels, sickles, and giant scissors. In the ample space inside, the collection was very enjoyable and extensive, ranging from paintings to video installations to a crushed car from the '50s. Dry and entertained, our spirits came back to their usual height again. Now we needed food.


shiny monster of Nice
Originally uploaded by uBookworm.