Shopping and biking in Nice

We head out with an actual itinerary today. We will wander to the stalls of the market in Old Nice then rent bicycles to ride along the boardwalk next to Ouai de Etats-Unis. So, after hostel breakfast of the usual bread, jam, butter, coffee and OJ we hop on the tram a block away and get off at the Opera House. It's now 11:30 and the only market sellers we have made it to are the fish mongers in Place St. Francos and a couple of souvenir shops crowded within the dark alleyways. We now sit at one of the ambiguous cafe/bars-Le Bec Fin, with a very small cup of coffee (always with sugar) and a tea. The aluminum tables and chairs spill over into the street taking up parking space for the few cars and many motorcycles at the curb. The proprietor stand in the doorway with arms folded as he surveys his realm, watching tourists cluelessly meander from the train station across the street or give a courteous "Ca va?" to passing neighbors. Sarah knits and slowly drinks her tea. My little bitty cup of coffee is long gone. Off to the market...

Made it to the huge market along Cours Saleya where it has been since the birth of the city--flowers and olives and spices and cheese and cheesy souvenirs  and more olives. Sarah bought a small amount of olive de provence for later snacking. We saunter across the square in front of Palis de Justice and listen to a grifter play sax accompanied by amplified iPod. He's smooth, he's good, I buy his CD. We decide on pizza for lunch and settle in to a table on the same square at Ceyenne K' fe. Surprisingly there are locals here in addition to the tourists. The waitress asks "English ok?" then double cheek kiss the well dressed folks at the next table. Good pizza. Fried egg sitting yellow and white right in the middle.

Bicycles rented at a little shop facing the sea. Two bikes, one with a basket at Sarah's request, in exchange for an Oregon drivers license and a "merci". Rode slowly along the bike lane of Promenade de Americains. Originally a boardwalk built so the upper crust didn't have to get their feet soiled has they took their evening stroll it is now a concrete top of the seawall curving the length of Nice to the airport. We find the Premier Classis Hotel with first class views of the runways and make a reservation for tomorrow. After a few minutes of watching old men toss steel balls and stand around with bowed heads and a "ces't bons" debating distances we park our bikes and hit the beach. No sand here, except where it has been trucked in for a volleyball area, the beach consists of polished smooth round rock not unlike our familiar river rock. 

We hollow out sitting areas and join the scattering of other sun worshipers in their assortment of lawn-chairs or beach towels and in shorts, jeans or bathing suits (yes, some sans tops). The gentle crystal clear green surf laps against the beach as the rocks roll and click their reply. A few sails interrupt the horizon and the tan terraced hotels and apartments curve off left to the east. Hills rise into the haze above the town blanketed with red tile roofed  buildings; the white domed top of an observatory at 8 o'clock and a lighthouse at 10. We take our shoes and socks off and roll our pant legs up and hobble into the cool water. We stand in the Mediterrian.

Returning the bikes we wander back into the maze of streets and alleys of the old city and take a small round table against the grimy outside wall of Les Distilleries Idiales at the corner of Ru Benoid Bunico and Rue de la Prefecture. A popular, apparently local, hangout despite the surly waiter. Across the street is the back of Notra Dame Chapelle with stonework or antiquity on display. Across from that is a tobacco shop, an Indian import shop, a tattoo and piercing parlor called "The House of Pain" (I assume there is no reference to bread here) and La Provencal d' Alimentation, seller of fine wine cheese and pork. Lots of foot traffic of tourist eating gelletto and looking lost, locals heading home from work or walking their ever present silly little dogs and school children with pink backpacks and soccer balls. Light still shines on the clock tower in the square down the street while the alpenglow on the mustard yellow  side-buildings is punctuated only with the blue, white and red of the French flag. Sarah knits, I write, the man on the corner plays the harmonica but lacks the enthusiasm for handouts and the world goes by.

Sarah is upstairs taking a shower. I'm in the lobby transcribing from my journal. Dinner tonight will be near by. Probably our last "real" meal in France.