Meanderings in the French Riviera (October 14, 2022, the severed branch)
My thermal sweatpants were discordant with the heavy heat and opulent attire of the people I encountered there, but I still enjoyed my scenic explorations of Nice, Eze, Antibes, and Monaco
A view over Eze after following Nietzsche’s Footpath (all photos my own)
The warm weather and the general opulence of Nice seemed to jointly condemn me for walking down the promenade by the beach wearing black thermal sweatpants and a Holiday Half Marathon t-shirt. The sun beat down on us from the clear blue sky, and I felt myself already sweating profusely in the heat of the unshaded concrete walkway extending along the sea. Aside from leaving me physically uncomfortable beneath the sky’s ruthless October furnace, my unkempt appearance was certainly discordant with the high-end clothing storefronts, perfume shops, and upscale restaurants. My friend pointed out a stylishly dressed young man passing us by. Looking me up and down, his face contorted with disgust. I averted my eyes from him, fixating my view instead on the startlingly pristine light blue color of the Mediterranean just beyond the beach.
The next day, when I was set to go for an hour-long hike beneath the scorching sun up to the village of Eze, I decided to surrender myself to the locals’ demands that I dress more presentably. I thought briefly to wear my gym shorts, but instead I donned tight-fitting jeans. My soul yearned for the fall cold; I was in denial that it was still summer. It was as almost as if I felt that I might somehow change the temperature for the better, attracting clouds and rain to chase away the sun, if I merely dressed for different temperatures. Within just ten minutes of my lengthy hike up onto the small mountain, my thinking proved to be an awful mistake, and I found myself wondering why I hadn’t just worn my shorts today. Hoping to get some reading done on the train, I was also lugging my laptop and a few books around in my daypack, causing my whole back to overheat. I was soon sweating so profusely that the liquid seeped through my bag’s lining and drenched the paper in a small notebook. My whole body called for me to strip down to my boxers in the French Riviera, but instead I persisted, even passing people on the way. It was all worth it for the magnificent views. Frequently needing to take rests and chug from my big bottle of water, I was pleased to have the extra excuse to stop now and then and simply appreciate the vistas over the mountainous islands and rocky capes that jutted out into the glittering sea.
As I made the trek on an uneven surface of crumbling and jagged stones, which were occasionally arranged into a form somewhat resembling stairs, I took in stunning views of the crags and capes jutting out into the Mediterranean. “Nietzsche’s Footpath,” this hike is called, since the great philosopher took it himself one day for inspiration. I had learned all this on the Internet the night before when searching for things to do around Nice, and I felt fortunate to have chosen this rewarding activity.
In a smelly, filthy, spiritually fulfilled state, I finally reached the castle and “exotic gardens” at the topmost point in the village of Eze. Strolling into a town lined with pricey souvenir shops and deluxe eateries, I made my way past elegantly dressed couples stepping out of the cars they had taken to get up here. That is rarely the way I like to attain a view. A glutinous manic depressive in need of physical and emotional treatment, I must pass through punishing and reflecting hikes to deserve such beauty. It makes me feel as if I have earned it, or like I have gotten something out of it. But at the most basic level, when I am not overanalyzing, it is a way to savor it all for longer.
The uneven conditions of Nietzsche’s Footpath, an hour-long hike up to the village of Eze
As I walked through my fancily restored medieval surroundings, the thought came to me that I was in a place I had hardly ever planned to visit. And that is often my favorite kind of travel, those trips when I am visiting a new destination purely because I have never been to it and have no idea what to expect when I get there. It is all for nothing more than the sake of exploration rather than the fulfillment of a bucket list wishlist. In this case, of course, I was hardly off the beaten path, but that is something different. I don’t need to be off the beaten path to go somewhere I know nothing about ahead of time. And if I was over-clothed for the weather, having hoped to spend more time in the chilly or freezing climates to the north, so be it. I was embracing the unexpected, the deviations from the original vision. I had foreseen myself walking peacefully through European city streets lined with autumn-colored trees. But once I reached the top of that warm and summery mountain in Eze, I was instead standing among cactuses in Eze’s “exotic garden.” I lingered in the embrace of an awesome view of a church tower against the backdrop of mountains and seawater. It was cooler up there, and I was able to set my books and laptop down while chugging water.
I would have loved to have a drink up there, but the offerings were far beyond my budget, a situation I encountered time and time again in the French Riviera. But the whole region is a paradise for the travel influencers who dream of profit and validation from the quick clips they create and post on social media. Often, I’ve noticed that these clips exhibit not the rugged travel experiences that entice so many backpackers, but rather vacation trips dominated by the presence of hot people donning expensive designer outfits, eating food from fine restaurants, and drinking wine or champagne. The French Riviera is a natural habitat for this type of influencer-traveler, whose glamorous lifestyle leaves me with much more envy than contempt, and I found myself beside one of them at the highest point in Eze.
A view of the French Riviera from the “exotic garden” at the castle top in Eze
She was standing near me in the “exotic garden” at the zenith of the posh old town. A revealing black dress, no doubt produced by one of the many luxury clothing brands with stores in seemingly every town near Nice, partially covered her body. She did two takes in the garden for a reel she was making, and I was intrigued by the opportunity to witness such a production in action. Here I was, taking in the making of a movie that would make countless viewers feel jealous and shitty about their own boring lives, enticing them to apply for Sapphire Reserve cards and organize their ambitions around attaining similar experiences.
We were standing in a large, walled-in space that had the vibe of a castle top, surrounded on all sides by mountains and sea, manicured gardens and medieval architecture. She started at the top of some pristine stone steps, positioning herself so as to perfectly capture the rocky green slopes and church tower behind her. The woman’s much older partner filmed her walking down the steps toward him. He stood back just enough to capture the church tower, the thickly wooded mountains, the shining blue seawater, and the villages built right into those staggering cliffs. It all rose majestically into the sky behind her. Moving gracefully, she didn’t look at the camera for even a second; her beautiful environment seemed to totally absorb her.
But for a full effect, these filmmakers sought to capture the view from both ends. He shifted the camera to follow her as she passed him, so that instead of her frontside he might capture the contours of her back, and her ass swayed faintly from right to left. Nothing about her seemingly natural and delicate movements seemed mechanical or designed; she was seasoned in these endeavors, her instincts feeling the camera upon her. With practiced and effective seduction, she stepped right up toward the wall on the opposite side from where she had started, lightly running her fingers through her long black hair. Just as she arrived against the short stone wall, she casually tossed some strands behind her shoulders. Then she rested her hands on the stone barrier before tilting her head in apparent appreciation of the utterly stunning view, one which must look ludicrously dazzling to the homebound viewers on Instagram. She lingered there with the climax of her recording, posing with unrehearsed appreciation of the scenery, and she gently extended her ass out to the side behind her.
She was gazing upon a distant horizon into which the water vanished. The whole sky was almost completely clear of clouds; the blue in the Mediterranean seemed to spill out from it. Spiky cactuses fanned out below, and the quaint red rooftops of homes were visible along the deadly drops beneath her feet. Once she had settled into her final pose, she was still as a marble sculpture, seeming to worship the jagged yet fertile islands stretched out into the Mediterranean. With the slithering mountain highway thrown into the mix, it was like a scene from To Catch a Thief, and I imagined a man sneaking into her hotel room in the middle of the night, gently snatching her jewelry right off her body while she slept in the bed of a princess with silken sheets.
But the recording wasn’t to her liking, perhaps because I had been walking right behind her in a sweat-drenched shirt during the first take. They repeated it twice. She did everything just the same, making some changes only to the hair toss. Traveling twelve years ago before the advent of Instagram, I’d never witnessed anything like this. The closest I’ve come to it in my own life comes from my own behavior. How many times have I asked people to re-take pictures of me, simply because there is some minor issue with the framing or my appearance? Far more than three times per picture! This aspiring model, who calmly provided feedback to her partner without showing the slightest frustration, had achieved notably greater efficiency than I ever did, and I departed her presence with a mixture of amusement and discipleship.
A view over Nice from a lookout point near the old town
I stayed up there for around half an hour, just relishing the views over the Mediterranean and the small mountains which ran along its coast. Eventually I persuaded myself that I had absorbed the imagery enough for my spirit to be satisfied. But I still wanted to appreciate it more while returning to the train. Rather than taking the bus or driving in a car, I walked back down the rocky stone path that had led me up here, hoping that going downhill would be easier on my body. Since my head was not constantly turned upward toward the mountains or downward toward the treacherously uneven rocks, as it had been during my ascent, the views of the Mediterranean were even more overwhelming when descending.
Despite the beauty, I was feeling guilty about not writing enough that day. Then I came across a sign with a Nietzsche quote on it. He counseled me never to trust ideas coming from people who came up with them by sitting hunched over a notebook, but only to trust those which came when on the move, out in nature, absorbing stimuli. His advice seemed true; every turn seemed to bring forth some new image of lush highland beauty. And I thought to myself: Jesus, how many more years am I going to be someone who quotes Nietzsche without having read him? I remembered my wife, making fun of me for saying I was a Marxist even though I hadn’t read Marx. I resolved to finally tackle the collection of key Nietzsche texts I had back in New York. What had dissuaded me for so long was that they are in German, but being in Europe only left me more determined to re-engage with that wonderful language. I reached the bottom of the hike feeling energized by nature, grimy with the sweat that was soaking through my tight jeans, and starry-eyed with plans to read Nietzsche.
Traveling up and down the French Riviera, with Nice as a base, is exceptionally easy. One train line covers the whole coast within an hour in either direction. I boarded that train and took it back to the south, passing back through Nice before finally arriving at my second stop of the day, Antibes, which proved to be the bougiest place I have ever been. Right away, I was greeted by a castle perched up imposingly on a towering, green, rocky hilltop. Stretched out at its base, there was a vast dockyard packed with countless enormous yachts, and I could hardly even believe there had once been any room here for the Russian oligarchs. I walked nearly a mile along the dockyard without once fully discerning exactly where this huge luxury harbor might end, but then, after working up yet another round of sweat that would send my jeans to the wash after just one wear, I arrived in the medieval center of Antibes.
The portion of Antibes where the poor people keep their boats
The architecture was the kind of charm for which I had hoped, though it was juxtaposed with the constant temptations of luxury consumerism. Once I passed through the gates of the large fortifications, I found myself lost in the narrow streets of a town from the sixteenth century. Sturdy stone walls and ramparts, running picturesquely right along the sea, enclosed me within their dreamy embrace, just as they coaxed people to walk along them for gorgeous views of the harbor and beach.
In the old town itself, I wandered down numerous little alleyways. One of the first restaurants I saw was called “The Brooklyn,” and I realized there was no escape. Sprinkled within the streets were numerous gift shops and bars, restaurants and perfume stores, designer clothing and CBD vendors, yacht brokers and shoe dealers. All these tiny streets twisted into confusing labyrinths before suddenly opening up into large town squares with enormous amounts of outdoor seating.
These open spaces were the kinds of European paradises which any American returning across the Atlantic soon begins to miss. Alcohol, coffee, fine foods, church bells, and quaint window shutters saturated the atmosphere. But Antibes was a also different kind of experience, a bit like a Disney World without the kids, commercialized substantially by an unreal proliferation of stores selling luxury items ranging from fancy soaps, expensive scents, and high-end souvenirs. There was such a wide range of dresses, hats, and shoes that I thought I had found the ultimate destination for Emily from Emily in Paris, or perhaps for the traveler-influencer woman whose magnificent production I witnessed in Eze. The scenery was complete when I beheld a beach closed off by medieval fortress walls against a backdrop of yachts. Being on a budget, I could not afford to partake in any of these delights, so it was easy to try and haughtily judge. But the pleasure I felt simply taking in all this tempting and sexy elegance quickly drowned out any conceited condemnation I might cast against my environment. As a person who sometimes calls himself a Marxist but who still hasn’t actually read Marx, I knew what I should think about it. And yet I didn’t care about that now. “If only I wasn’t on a budget,” I thought.
The square in Nice where we enjoyed our final drink on our final evening
Realizing it was getting to be time for an afternoon shower followed by dinner, I took the train back to Nice. There in my ten-bed hostel dormitory, a very young American guy with a mustache was mentoring a very young American guy on a gap year.
“Yeah bro,” he was saying, drawing out the bro so that the “o” was three times the length as the “br,” “this place is amazing. You know there’s an Irish pub up the road bro?”
“No way bro,” said the American on a gap year. His “bro” sounded forced and unnatural, like he was trying to fit in with his new friend. “That’s awesome.”
“Yeah bro,” said the American with the mustache. “Last night I was out at the Irish pub and it’s literally like totally full of Irish people. It’s all Irish people there bro! How awesome is that bro? An Irish pub in the middle of France! All the staff are Irish people! And I was just drinking Guinness, and then we were just dancing there at this Irish pub in the middle of France bro late into the night. An Irish pub in the middle of France!” He started laughing, still reveling in the memories.
“That’s awesome bro,” said the American guy on a gap year. “An Irish pub in France, wow!”
“I know man,” said the American guy with the mustache. He started speaking more slowly, steadily, in the tone of a father advising his son. “You know bro,” he said, ”I came here with a plan. I had every day mapped out.” He spread his hands out, as if indicating the size and complexity of the plans he had left behind him. “I’m going to do this and this and this, I said. Every day. But now, I’m just going with the flow. Someone wants to go do something, I go do it bro. That’s the best way to travel. No more plans, just doing whatever. That’s how I ended up just dancing in that Irish pub.”
“That’s so awesome bro,” said the American guy on a gap year, nodding excitedly.
Later, the American guy with the mustache explained his upcoming travel plans. He had met an Italian girl from Milan, he said, and she had invited him back to Italy with her. They were going to stay there in a hotel together. “It’s going to be a nice change of pace,” he said, “staying with this Italian girl in the hotel.”
The next afternoon, I was in the room with them again when the American guy on a gap year asked the American guy with the mustache what his plans were that day. “It’s my last day in Nice,” mustache said. “I’m planning on just going over to the Irish pub and getting drunk. Just going to slowly get drunk all day bro. You should come.”
“Where is it?” asked the American guy on a gap year.
“Oh it’s just up the road bro,” the American guy with a mustache said.
“You can’t miss it,” I interjected, having been there twice myself, “huge Irish flag.”
The mustache guy pointed at me with delight. “Yassss bro,” he said. “Yaaassssss. Irish people bro,” he pointed at me with the lazy gesticulations of a debilitated stoner, “y’all are… Y’all… I mean… Irish people, Scottish people, they are crazy people bro, they will just fight you out of nowhere and then the next moment you’re great friends again. But Irish people. They are fucking crazy people but they’ll hug it out with you bro.”
Then the mustache guy left, urging his mentee to meet him at the Irish pub later.
I conversed for a while with the mustache guy’s pupil. We discussed our travel plans and experiences, and he seemed impressed that I had been to many of the cities on his agenda. I thought about how this kid and the mustache guy were something like 7 or 8 years old when I first started staying in hostels, and I realized I was now one of the old people I remembered encountering on my past travels. As if the young American girls playing beer pong near the lobby hadn’t been enough. We soon parted ways, and I watched him head out using Google Maps to navigate to the Irish pub.
A view from my early morning walk beside the main beach in Nice
I had gone to the Irish pub partly out of a yearning for Ireland. The heat of Nice had drawn me into nostalgic thoughts about the cold chilly glory of Ireland last year in November and a few years before that in February. I found myself caught between wishing I was there again and knowing it was best for my soul to see something new. But having already enjoyed the Irish pub a couple times, my last day in Nice was a bit different than the mustache man’s.
I woke up early in the morning before sunrise and went to the beach. I walked for an hour on the promenade along the seaside, listening to Phoebe Bridgers on my headphones while the light slowly emerged from behind a large cape jutting out into the sea. I loved that dawn, listening to my favorite Phoebe songs and slowly watching the sunrise over the Mediterranean. Faint yet vibrant colors shifted constantly on the surface of the water, so that every second was like a new painting, and I regretted each moment I averted my eyes from the scenes I would never get back. It partly took me back to Dublin in the cool autumn, where I had spend hours walking around the parks listening to Phoebe, but soon I found that my beloved activity was equally enticing here in the morning. Once the sun had finally risen and the gentle, mystical light evolved toward a more punishing heat, I sat down at a French bakery to write and read.
A couple hours later, I met my friend back at the hostel. We went to Monaco for the day, where I walked happily among the Ferraris in my black sweatpants. I had finally abandoned the jeans, but I still clung fervently to the hope that I might hasten winter’s arrival with my delusional and defiant clothing choices. We watched the changing of the guard for the reigning Prince of Monaco and son of Grace Kelly. All around were dazzling views of the mountains which surround that tiny country, and we strolled through the lobby of the Monte Carlo casino. My friend and I then spent the late afternoon back in Nice. We had a final drink in the central medieval square, enjoying the old and magical atmosphere one last time before heading back to the hostel to pack up our things and prepare for an early bus departure.
Soon it was dark and I should have gone to sleep. But I needed just one more walk along the Mediterranean Sea at night. I don’t like relaxing on the beach in the sun; the summer does not correspond to my wintry mental dispositions, and the idea of relaxing in the sand in a bathing suit fills me with dread. But I love the beach in my own way, because I love to walk along the water. I ended the day as I had begun it, simply seeking the moonlight and the blackness of the sea, complimenting the sunrise which had captivated me for so long that very morning. To the hour I had spent walking along the promenade that morning, I added two hours that night walking beside the beach while listening again to Phoebe Bridgers on my headphones.
The sky was totally clear and black. The sea would have been a huge portal of nothingness but for the moon. She was full, bright, and startlingly luminous up in space. Her lunar rays poured out serenely onto the sea, depositing a vast triangle of bright reflected moonlight onto the water’s surface. The glowing moon pool’s soft colors rippled with the waves. Its base was far away on the horizon; it narrowed gradually as it approached the shore, always seeming to move along beside me as I made my way in the night. With that lovely moon above me, the Mediterranean beside me, and the cherished music playing in my ears, I could hardly justify ending my walk. I was afraid I wouldn’t savor it enough, like maybe I hadn’t savored my hike enough, and I continued along the promenade until I was simply too exhausted to avoid making my way to my bunkbed. The next morning, we set forth for Marseille.