“Bonjour!” I cried to the first toll-booth attendant who welcomed me to rob me of my money as we entered France. I didn’t even mind.
So the problem with reading a lot of literature in order to prepare oneself for trips abroad is that you learn things you didn’t necessarily need to know. One of those things for me was the driving. I realized that driving in the States is organized chaos but I had read (and heard) that driving in the EU was absolutely frightening. Regardless I was mentally steeling myself all morning and vowed that I would overcome my almost paralyzing fear by facing it head on…which I did…magnificently may I say.
As soon as we hit the road I gauged, adjusted and then jumped into the fray with zest. When we entered France I spotted a sign that said that the speed limit was 130kph. In Spain it was 120! I was shocked and again a bit unnerved. How fast was 130? The number boggled my little metric retarded mind. Before I knew it however, I was speeding along at 139kph (P hollered for me to slow my ass down which I did for about 10 minutes, then returned to zooming down the highway). I was in heaven Crickets, absolute heaven. Anyone who has sat in a car with me can attest to the fact that I am a bit of a speed demon. It is not unusual for me to be cruising along at the legal speed limit only to have some smart ass blow past me and instantly see a definitive change to my attitude. My eyes narrow, my nostrils flair and I grit my teeth as my foot becomes leaden and my car lurches forward not only to catch the speeding fool, but to overtake him/her. Its instinctive this reaction, not something I can control at all and one that I don’t even try to.
So imagine me, with P strapped securely into the passenger seat, zipping down a European highway at top speeds practically preening in triumph. Here’s something I noticed: Most cars move in groups. Faster travels with faster, slower with slower. Trucks stay on the furthest right lane, regular cars usually stay in the middle lane while speed demons go flying down the left lane only to return to the middle lane. I observed this over and over again as small compacts accompanied me in-route to Nice. Of course the US is pretty much the same but now up each lanes speed by about 50mph and you have the total picture.
Oh also, and yes P knows I feel this way, Spanish and French men (at least those I laid my eyes on)…YUM! Every car (including trucks) had a delectable specimen in them and they do appreciate women who can drive fast. *grin*
The one disheartening part of this journey? The tolls! Holy rob ‘em blind Batman! Jeez. Each toll cost about 20 euros and there were about 1500 of them on our way to Nice. P’s fingers almost cramped from opening and closing his wallet. The very, very positive part about driving? Why the gorgeous Spanish and French Countryside’s crickets studded with lush pastures, gorgeous mountains far (and sometimes not so far) in the distant, the rambling stone hacienda’s and chateau’s, castles and even forts! They were everywhere and I gasped my way through the 7 hour drive hardly noticing even one bit of it (except when confronted with the seat-less French toilets which I will explain in a later blog entry).
Arriving in Nice at about 7:30pm we were underwhelmed with our hotel (it’s a quaint little hole in the wall which if we had visited first would have been fine but after the Melia Sitges became downright tawdry) and in particular with the parking situation. The lift was scary, the room like a monks cell but the saving grace? The hotel is situated right off the promenade des Anglais right on the coast in the heart of Nice. We deposited our bags in the room (I think we made a hasty retreat from the room because it depressed us so and figured that maybe on fuller bellies it wouldn’t look so bad) and while still dressed in our traveling clothes (me: wide-legged jeans with a black t-shirt that says “live laugh love” in muted silver and black sandles; P: navy shorts, white t-shirt with blue horizontal stripes and loafers as well as a geeky black backpack) we padded our way down the sidewalk towards anything that appeared to be ‘restaurant’-esq. We scored, ate, strolled, hasted back and I can now assure all of you, the room is much quainter and charming than I had first thought (though still a bit ugh). One small note: P was very despondent upon noting that most of the men (and women) are very well attired in Nice. He and I looked like tourists, him more so because not one single man sported shorts. I laughed of course and poked fun of him. He assured me that tomorrow would be different and that he would stun the berets off the locals (no we haven’t actually seen anyone wearing the popular headgear except for in, funny enough, Barcelona).
To end the evening, P and I sat on our little wrought iron balcony enjoying ice cream (no not gelato) and watching straggling passerbyer’s. In fact even as I type this, I’m in bed (P having nodded away ages ago), the French doors to the balcony are thrown open allowing the cool night air to blow in while the combined sounds of the traffic (consisting of lots of buzzing scooters and the occasional emergency vehicle in the distant), laughter of late night revelers, far away hum of planes and the errant breezes which riffles through the palm trees, manage distract me every now and then.
Tomorrow P has promised to let me sleep as late as I wish while I have given him permission to ditch me in order to pursue his own interests (swimming, jogging, whatever-ing). We will figure out where there are more tours (which indeed we plan to take…bite me) and have already decided upon where we shall partake in our evening meal.
I have a sneaking suspicion that even aside from the rank hotel, we will love Nice.
Bon Jour for now Mon Amour!
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