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beccaislearning · 6 years

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Valbonne is trés bonne, and Nice is SO NICE.

I’m catching up on myself now, so forgive me the time lag between events and their corresponding blog posts. I’m a busy nomad at the moment. Places to see, busses to catch, vino to drink, pasta to eat. Werk, werk, werk, werk, werk. I know, your heart bleeds.

So in between the long mornings and slow afternoons at the beach in Antibes, I took myself on a couple of mini excursions.

In fact, the original plan included way more trips all over the south coast of France, potentials including St Tropez, Cannes, Monaco, Grasse, and maybe even Marseille. The problem was that faced with the reality of how lovely Antibes was, and also the reality of how likely it was to be able to do all these things well in five days and really enjoy myself, I narrowed my outings down to two: a morning in Valbonne at the beautiful Friday market and a day in Nice. With hindsight, I think I made GOOD DECISIONS.

Valbonne’s market was as vast and as beautiful as I hoped. I would say that it had a good ratio of chic classy French wares to tourist tat, say about 90:10. It’s not even that I think the tourist tat is always to be avoided, sometimes it’s worth a trip just for the tourist tat. My case home from China was building with some of the finest tourist tat that this world can offer and last year I spent a good fifteen minutes trying to take a good picture of a woman modelling her wares of dog baseball caps on her Yorkshire Terrier. I didn’t get a good picture, but by no means do I consider that time wasted.

However, Valbonne I kind of went to channeling my hopes to dive into the real life version of a book I recently read (A Pig in Provence, Georgeanne Brennan) that persuaded me that Provençal living is the finest kind of living, and that fresh goats cheese tastes more interesting than it actually does. So for me, Valbonne was a slice of French magical realism, and it hit that desire almost as well as any market could. To be fair, I just love markets as well. All it had to do to tick my boxes was sell any stuff from a trestle table under a plastic red canopy, with the potential of a haggling-type exchange.

I didn’t buy anything to take away with me, but I did eat some rather good Provençal street food: socca (a kind of chickpea pancake from the region that is crispy with good and black crunchy bits on the outside and tender like wet scrambled eggs on the inside) served with heaps of pepper and beignets of deep fried courgette flowers in batter. I loved Valbonne, but I did nearly die of melting away from the coast. I returned by a beautifully air conditioned bus that took me through some gorgeous villages, with a plan to jump straight into the sea. Feeling all adventurous, I nipped to the adjacent-to-Antibes Juan-les-Pins, but all that did was to satisfy my smugness at staying on the right side of the Cap d’Antibes. Too many private beaches, too much noise, and far too many crisp packets and floating plasters in the water.

Now Nice, if I’m honest, I kind of went to begrudgingly, reasoning with myself that I would just go back to Antibes if it proved disappointing and not worth wasting my last full day in France for. I was worried that it would just be too much of a city with less personality that a beautiful little town or village. I was wrong.

I hopped off of the train and walked towards the coast, through the city centre. Straight down the Avenue Jean Médecin, which is a generic (though not unpleasant) main shopping street, complete with packed trams zipping up and down. It wasn’t until I got to the bottom at the Place Masséna and Fontaine du Soleil that I was really impressed, and got to see a little of the Niçoise personality. It is paved with fabulous monochrome tiles, covered in plinths hoisting up crouching white statues, with public fountains-cum-water-parks to your left and right, one shooting up unpredictable and energetic spurts of water from the ground, the other steaming up cooling and calming mist that create iridescent little rainbows as the sun hits their clouds.

I moved further away from the city to the famous Promenade d’Anglais that I feel might be a little overrated (though in all fairness I was recommended to visit in the evening) and the packed out long-but-narrow strip of beach that runs along the promenade. The beach was heaving, with many private beaches, like Juan-les-Pins, and instead of sand there were piping hot pebbles that were being baked in the sun (alongside the many stretched out in glamorous swimwear on their glamorous towels). Though I can’t genuinely pooh-pooh the beach because, though packed and pebbly and a little sold-out, had a sea of the brightest aqua blue that impelled me to whip my clothes off right there and then (awkwardly shuffling around under my towel to be fair) and jump in (in my swimsuit). I believe that being in sea that beautiful makes you feel beautiful. It makes life feel beautiful and your soul shines. It’s just the science of the Mediterranean.

I hopped out and wandered up through the pretty Vieux Nice (the old town of Nice). I met Philippe who grabbed my arm and told me that he needed to show me the Cathedral. He kindly did, though sadly when we parted ways, I had to assure him that we would not be keeping in touch. Almost a holiday romance, but I find myself ok with missing what could have been. I marched my way up to the MAMAC (Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art).

MAMAC is a well regarded, though not one of the most famous art galleries to go to in Nice. Had I had more time I may have gone up to Cimiez that hosts the Chagall museum and the Matisse museum. But I didn’t so I went for contemporary art, as that is probably my favourite flavour. I bought a ticket at MAMAC and found out that actually I got a 24 hour ticket to many of Nice’s museums, so if I’d have planned better I may have taken an arty day in Nice, starting earlier. But you live and learn.

Anyway, MAMAC was wonderful. It was as surprising, shocking, inspiring and varied as any good contemporary art gallery. There was an exhibition on the theme of ‘Earth, Air, Fire and Water’, that for some reason spoke right to my soul. The whole gallery was laid out in an incredible building- amazing exhibition spaces, great and generous resting areas, and an amazing roof space made up of turrets, terraces, bridges and roof gardens that gave way to beautiful views across the city and coast.

After this I had a brief wander around the area known as the ‘Petit Marais’ for its elegant coffee shops, that is just next to the gallery. Then a final beer and socca (having got a taste for it), before hopping on the tram and heading back to the station for Antibes, and my final night in France...

#france #travel #valbonne #market #socca #mamac #art #artgallery #nice #provence #cotedazur

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nothingnoteworthy · 7 years

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Chapter 2: “Home”

Althea did not enjoy sharing her apartment with a demon. She didn’t enjoy many things, but this was high on the list of things she disliked. She did what she could to ignore the presence. Kept to her own spaces. Cooked. Worked. Cooked at work. Work was cooking. It was a steady chopping, peaceful counting, the smoothness of a knife slicing through carrot pieces, even, crunchy, smells nice. Cool round pieces in her hands. Sizzling with the onions and garlic in the pan. Smells sweeter now, better. Celery went next. It was stringy and less pleasant to cut. But it felt nice whole. Althea preferred putting it into a food processor, letting the machine chop it so she wouldn’t have to deal with the strings much. She dropped the chunks into the pan, stepping back and watching everything soften for a few minutes. Kept her eyes on the pan. Refusing to look up. Whenever she did, Caroline would be looking back. With those big, fake eyes. Dead eyes. Cold. They were there now and Althea knew they were. Ruining the light from the window. Tainting the smell coming from her pan. Awful.

There wasn’t much choice to living with her either. If Caroline was allowed to leave than someone would die. Many someones probably. So she had to stay. Althea just wished there were more rules. Maybe they could keep her in a closet. Chain it shut. Throw those prepackaged microwave burritos that she shoved in her face by the dozen through a small hole. Gross unreasonably sticky burritos. Althea could make better ones. Not necessarily authentic, but she could cook meat and put it in a tortilla. And it wouldn’t be sticky. Why were they sticky? The thought made her skin crawl, trying to consider any possible reason why the burritos were sticky. Sweat kept popping into her mind and that wasn’t making it much better. That was grosser than just thinking about them being sticky to begin with. Maybe if you fried them they wouldn’t be sticky but you still knew that they would be if you put them in the microwave. And how could you eat them knowing that? And-

“Excuse me, Althea? May I get something to drink?”

The sound made her jump and push her back into the corner. She relaxed slowly. Wren. Gentle, sweet Wren. Warm brown skin and warmer brown eyes. Eyes that never forced contact. She kept to her own space. Looked at your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, off into the clouds and the sky and wherever it was that she went when her face went soft and her mind vanished from the space she stood in. Her arms flexed, squeezing her fingers into her elbow, trying to warm her hands. She’s the only one that found herself very cold. Althea disagreed.

“Sure. Careful. Pan’s hot.” Althea cracked the cap of a box of vegetable stock, careful to keep it away from her. Stock always smelled too much. But it was better than making it herself. That would be messy, and she didn’t have much time as it was. Plus she would have to deal with possibly greasy bags and that was, unacceptable. Greasy textures were the worst. Slimy and sticky at the same time. Boxed was easier, better, faster. It flooded over the vegetables, covering their smell for just a moment. Her knife moved again. It was faster with squash, squash was softer, and the thick rings gave the soup a touch of pretty yellow. She watched Wren out of the corner of her eye, pouring cranberry juice into a narrow glass. Sweet but mostly bitter. It bit you, dried you out. Wren flowed too often towards bitter things. Took too much bitterness in. She avoided sugar, sweet, soft and light. Chocolate was sometimes, but only when it too was bitter. Heavy and Strong. She had plenty of sweetness on her own, smiling at Althea with a bright warmth. But still. Althea wanted to bake her cake. Instead, she decided to bake buttery, fluffy biscuits. Sweet was what she wanted, but savory would do.

She finished the soup in a hurry. Squash went in, then broccoli, then chicken that she’d baked and pulled. Done, ready to be alone, simmer and combine. Then flour. Soft and dusty. It got everywhere and cleaning it was a nightmare. But it was lovely when she was working with it. The butter was less fun. Only flour made it doable. And quick choppy movements. Buttermilk in the center. Mixing again. Sticky but not the wrong kind of sticky. Not the right kind either. Neutral, good and neutral. Althea flicked her eyes towards Wren, perched on the edge of the couch, glass loosely clutched between her hands, with the demon just a bit too close. They were talking about the show. About nothing. Too close. Made folding the dough easier. Pressing flat. Cutting. She stopped, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. A laugh too sharp. A quieter snort. The loud echoing noise of the door being opened and closed.

“It’s me!” Eliana tossed her keys onto their hook, stretching her arms and taking a long breath in. “The restaurant’s going to be packed tomorrow, remember. Tourists are going to start pouring in again. It’s the season!“

Eliana matched Althea’s height but always came across as slight and graceful. Her energy pushed her across the room, slamming into her favorite chair with an electric laugh. The woman was as gorgeous, flawless dark skin, luxurious thick curly hair. All goodness and light. A living sunshower chasing the demon back to the corner of the couch. Wren relaxed. Eliana made her feel safe. Althea understood. Their friend was the real hero of the bunch. The kind that you got a poster of to put on your wall. Althea had one, though she had to order hers custom. When Eliana saw it, she laughed for days. Buying the poster was a good idea.

“I stopped at Mom’s afterwork to hang out and watch tv. Mostly that show where they mess up each other’s cooking with crab outfits or firecrackers or somethin, you know the one right, Althea?” A rich voice, smooth. Althea nodded.

“Yeah. That one and the grocery store one are the best” She hummed. The other poster on her wall. She actually learned her biscuit recipe from the host’s other show. She jumped, remembering her biscuits, tearing the pan out of the oven. Still that pretty golden brown. She needed to remember to set timers. When the house was full it became too distracting to cook without the annoying beeping. Shrill, incessant noises were better than burnt biscuits. These were okay. A little smear of butter and they’d be good. Nice, warm, filling. Tumbling into a soft white napkin in a little metal basket with birds decorating the metal rings. Set gently at the center of the table.

“Hell yeah the grocery store one. I left when they made this one chef use top ramen to make spaghetti. I don’t think that ended well.”

Althea pretended not to notice Wren nearly sliding off of the couch, holding herself up by sheer thigh strength alone, watching the table. No one liked bread quite like Wren liked bread. Especially fresh baked, buttered bread. No matter how often Althea baked Wren always looked at it like she was fresh out of the desert again.

Althea checked the soup, waving at Eliana when she was pleased with the consistency. Wren was first up, as always, lingering by the entry to the small galley kitchen, waiting for Althea to serve herself first. Althea grabbed her favorite bowl and carefully spooned in the right ratio of broth and fillings. Too much broth and she’d leave a puddle to splash around the yellow porcelain. To little broth and she’d be left with mushy vegetables. Maybe a string of chicken or two. She rested the bowl on a small plate, carrying it to her corner of the table. The heat pulsed from the bowl, steam twisting up, carrying warmth and humidity and the deep, comforting heaviness of a warm meal. The best times were always centered around food. Everyone gathered around it. Close. Together. The fastest track to peace.

Althea gingerly picked up a biscuit, shuffling it in half with a butterknife. Wren sat in the chair next to her, using a bowl that was probably meant more as a serving dish than as an eating one. She grinned at Althea, already grabbing a biscuit and dropping it on a napkin. She bit her biscuit whole, smiling, clearly delighted. If only it was that easy to keep the smile there. Just bake and bake and bake until every bad memory was buried in flour and butter. Eliana had a spoon in her mouth before she hit her chair, nodding approvingly at Wren. As long as it was kosher Eliana wasn’t hard to please either. Althea had never had much problem getting either her or Wren to eat anything that she cooked. It was comforting. She didn’t think she would get rid of the nervous prickling when she watched them take that first bite, but it would go away quicker and quicker. Like Wren’s biscuit. She sheepishly wiped the crumbs off her lips before grabbing another. This one she was a little slower with, lightly spreading butter between two halves.

“Thank you Althea. I could eat nothing but biscuits.” Wren hummed.

“You already do eat nothing but biscuits.” Eliana replied. Wren laughed, quieting with the withering look Caroline was sending her. She set her biscuit down, opting for slow sips of the soup from a deep spoon.

“I could totally do it too though if there was enough butter. For the calcium.” Eliana was still grinning, taking careful spoonfuls of veggies visibly trying to keep the spoon from overflowing with broth. “Although, I guess multivitamins could be used for calcium. But that’s less fun. And less delicious.”

“Are you saying my biscuits need butter to be good?”

“Oh No, I- oh wait you’re playing with me. How cruel. Caroline can you believe this?” Eliana dramatically draped herself against Caroline, resting a hand on her heart. “I’ve been betrayed. How will I ever recover?”

Caroline rolled her eyes, but put on a smile anyway. “How could you, Althea. Our poor, sweet Eliana. She may die from this you know. History has a lot of records of young women dying from heart break.”

“Most of those are like. Plays.”

“Hush Eliana, let your death come quietly. The records are official, from hospitals at the time. That certainly were not speaking from ignorance or mind control or any combination of the two.”

“Oh yeah, yes. Very official. So sad. Am dying.” Eliana nodded, stretching her jaw and making loud exaggerated groans. Caroline raised a hand to her own face, as if dabbing tears away from her eyes. Both seemed intent to carry this on as long as possible. Althea narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

“Oh no, that’s sad. And I think, Dead people don’t do whatever it is you’re doing with your face.” Wren chirped, wiping a spot of broth off their face. “Then again, maybe they do if they’re dying of heartbreak. I’ve never seen that happen.”

“Just say the word and I can show you.” Caroline smiled, batting her eyelashes. Elthea shoved herself back up.

“Thanks for being a creep mate. That’s one way to end a joke. Hope you’re ready for an exciting night of not sleeping. I for one am glad that my life is controlled by adhd and thus I would be awake anyway.”

"Yeah, yeah. Can't we just sit here while Wren eats biscuits." Caroline snarked rocking the chair backward. "You don't even use the night properly. What's the point if you're just going to intentionally attract attention. Why not use the daytime."

"We do, when we can. But some of us work during the day." Eliana pushed her chair in, carrying an armful of dishes to the sink.

"Yeah, because they don't want to do things the right way. I mean. Come on. Don't certain people just deserve to lose a few bucks? From my experience, they hardly notice anyway. Don't you agree Wren?" Caroline cooed, standing up and leaning over the table, managing to make herself tower over the others despite being the shortest.

"I, well, No. That wouldn’t be right. We're trying to be the good ones." Wren muttered, getting up to help Eliana clean the kitchen.

Caroline smiled and murmured so softly Althea could barely hear her. “Try harder.”

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#3rd #June #2017 #June 3rd 2017 #Nothing Noteworthy

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