In April, I accepted to be a France Revisited guinea pig and test the Normandy Hotel for a weekend in Paris, where I was rendez-vousing with two cousins from America. My assignment: Have a good time, meet Gary (editor of France Revisited) for lunch, send an honest hotel report.

The hotel has a must-be Right Bank location, especially if it’s your first time in Paris. You’re within a few blocks of the Louvre, Place Vendome, Opera Garnier, the Tuileries Garden, window shopping galore, many restaurants (naturally tourist-leaning), and several convenient metro lines. I’d been to Paris a number of times before but this was a first for the cousins. But no matter how many times you’ve been in Paris, you can’t go wrong when you’re staying in a hotel where there are about six gourmet chocolate shops within a five minute’s walk, including the famed hot-chocolate venue Angelina. So the fun part was assured, as was lunch with Gary (a Japanese restaurant on rue Sainte-Anne, see the 2-Minute-Radius Guide that follows below this review). Now for the honest hotel report.

The Normandy Hotel is a former grand hotel that has clearly seen better days and that is biding its time while awaiting the corporate go-ahead for a thorough refreshing. So I’ll begin with the conclusion: if you’re looking for a good price on a central-as-can-be hotel that clearly has history and don’t mind a haphazard, somewhat worn décor then you’ve come to the right place. The cousins and I felt that we’d come to the right place.

The Normandy Hotel, like the other large hotels near the Louvre and the Tuileries Garden (Meurice, Ritz, Louvre, Westin, etc.), was built to cater to the British clientele who would arrive in Paris after debarking in Normandy. It opened its doors in 1877. The overwhelmingly British clientele of the period also explains why this is called the Normandy Hotel rather than the French name and spelling Hotel Normandie.

We were able to check in early, which is another advantage of choosing recession-era travel since hotels are less likely to glower at you for arriving even a minute before check-in time. However, oddity number one, we checked in at the reception, but then we received our key at the concierge’s desk on the opposite side of the lobby, as though following some 19th-century logic. Not a problem per se; it just seemed strange. The concierge was always helpful and best of all there was a distinct lack of snobbery in his attitude. Same goes for other members of the staff. In general, service was fine.

Though in need of refreshing, the Normandy really is quite appealing in a 19th-century sort of way, a welcome change from the modern minimalist hotels that have you trying to figure out what some Philippe Stark-like contraption is doing in your bathroom or wondering where they hid the TV and the mini-bar.

The décor throughout the hotel is a comely mix of French styles, with a clear longing for the Belle Epoque of the late 19th century. I didn’t notice the styles at first because I was immediately struck upon entering the lobby by two chandeliers, a mix of art deco boldness and Florida resort opulence, looking for all the world like big, ungainly slabs of cut glass stuck into wood. They were undoubtedly once a sign of elegance, but now they mostly look like suicide tools for spurned lovers. Gary commented that sometimes the point of decoration in a hotel (or a resort) is simply to be noticed and to let you know that someone had to be awfully careful hanging the damn thing. I did, however, like the circular marble staircase at the back of the lobby, leading to the room; it reminded me of European museums that you visit as much for the space as for the art.

The part of the hotel that truly exudes luxury is the breakfast room. That’s in part because it’s the one area of the hotel that has been restored since it recently made an attempt at being a chic Italian restaurant. It didn’t quite have the right sauce for that, so the restaurant closed, but it makes for a stunning breakfast room with its high ceiling decorated with the gilded initials of the hotel, NH. The breakfast buffet served there was typical and plentiful, including eggs, bacon and sausages for the Americans, cheese and sliced deli meats for the Germans and wonderful croissants, pastries and cereals for the French.

Though the hotel is no longer defined by its British travelers, the bar still leans stiffly to England with its dark wood and stuffed leather chairs. As with many English-style bars it comes off as a rather masculine place. Unfortunately, the cousins and I didn’t find any men there, by which I mean barmen, since it was always closed when we rolled in after midnight with thoughts of a nightcap. That may be the natural result of staffing shortage in a delightfully faded hotel, or perhaps just someone’s way of telling us that we’d had enough and should go straight to bed.

We had modest rooms that were ideal for our needs and budget. The bedding in our rooms was superb and everything was clean. Bizarrely, all rooms come with two heaters; the real heat comes from the heater/ac floor unit that, quite frankly, is not pretty and takes up valuable floor space in the more modest rooms. What were the vents in walls near the ceilings for, I wondered? Bizarre point number 2: my room came with a whirlpool bath, but there was no way to turn it on. Someone had sealed up the controls. Now, I did not ask for a whirlpool bath when reserving the room, and I was simply excited at the prospect of having a bath—my apartment in Nice only has a shower—but I was a bit disappointed to find that the whirlpool bit did not work. The bath though was heavenly. A white, fluffy robe completed the bliss.

On a tour of the hotel with Gary and the hotel’s assistant director, I also visited three different junior suites, all spacious, airy and decorated in 19th century British or French style and colors; the ceilings were tall and had the original cornices. We sometimes had our doubts about the details but didn’t mind the old-fashion atmosphere. The décor in some rooms is a bit threadbare and faded; not in a way that put me off, but it was obvious that the hotel group that operates the Normandy had also sealed up the knobs that control the flow of refurbishment money. Though the assistant director assured us that funds were on their way, she just couldn’t say when.

The rack room prices posted on the back of bedroom doors run about 300-500 euros but that’s just someone being hopeful. Gary and I decided that as the hotel now stands (spring 2009) the Normandy Hotel is a worthwhile choice for travelers if you can get a room for under, say, 180 euros (under $250 at the current exchange rate), and a very good chose at under 160 euros for the standard room, perhaps up to 190 euros more for those worn yet spacious junior suites.

For travelers not on a 4-star budget, let’s hope that the funds don’t flow anytime soon so as to take advantage of current pricing as found on the hotel’s website and further discounted on sites such as Expedia. Breakfast may or may not be noted as being included in the indicated price, but when contacting a hotel directly, there’s never any harm in asking them to include breakfast in that indicated price.

Allow me to repeat my conclusion mentioned above: if you’re looking for a good price on a central-as-can-be hotel that clearly has history and don’t mind a haphazard, somewhat worn décor then you’ve come to the right place. We did.

Normandy Hotel. 7 rue de l’Echelle, 1st arrondissement. Metro Pyramides or Palais Royal. Tel. 01 42 60 30 21. www.hotel-normandy.com. The Normandy is part of the Hôtels de Paris group of hotels, www.leshotelsdeparis.com.

© 2009 Stephanie Sommers

Your Normandy Hotel Two-Minute-Radius Guide
By Gary Lee Kraut

Half your guidebook is filled with sights and museums within a mile radius of the Normandy Hotel, so plenty to discover on foot from here. The quarter might be defined by tourism and luxury but that doesn’t make it any less a neighborhood. Here is the two-minute-radius guide for the neighborhood.

Places to keep in mind for:

Your morning jog: Tuileries Garden. See Paris on the Run, an article joggable garden and parks in Paris.

You introduction to the business of operating a café-brasserie: Le Musset Café, 5 rue de l’Echelle. There’s no better introduction to witnessing how things operate in a large café-brasserie in Paris then sitting at any time of day at the copper counter across the street from the hotel.

Your gas station if you forgot to fill the rental car before entering Paris: Esso, 342 rue Saint Honoré

Your grand view: Standing on Avenue de l’Opéra with a view of the Garnier Opera, the Comédie Française, the Hotel du Louvre, the Louvre, and the metro entrance circa 2000.

Eating and Drinking

Polished bistro: L’Absinthe, 24 place du Marché St Honoré. Tel 01 49 26 90 04.

Old-fashion wine bar: Le Rubis, 10 rue du Marché St Honoré. Tel 01 42 61 03 34.

Japanese restaurants: Rue Sainte-Anne, on the opposite side of Avenue de l’Opéra, is full of Japanese restaurants since food-wise it is Paris’s Little Japan.

Charming little café terrace: Le Passage Saint Roch, 15 rue des Pyramides.

Chocolate: Michel Cluizel, 201 rue St. Honoré. As mentioned in the review above, there’s more chocolate beyond the 2-minute radius, including hot chocolate at Angelina, the famous tea room.

Fine hotel bar, when yours is lifeless or closed: Hotel du Louvre, Place André Malraux. The Hotel du Louvre was the first luxury hotel of Paris when it opened in 1855 at what is now the Louvre des Antiquaires, across the square from the current location, which opened in 1887. The hotel is mentioned in several of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories. Sigmund Freud stayed here in 1910 while trying to figure out the relationship between Mona Lisa’s smile and Leonardo de Vinci’s childhood.

Also in the ‘hood

Unique boutique: Le Comptoir de l’Aviation, 3 rue d’Argenteuil. Articles for aviation enthusiasts. Tel. 01 42 60 26 66.

Oh la la!: L’Abys, a swinger’s club at 13 rue d’Argenteuil.

Museum: Musée des Arts Décoratifs, 107 rue de Rivoli. Click here for museum site. Click here for article about its permanent collection on France Revisited.

Historical notes

Famous Frenchmen entombed nearby: Pierre Corneille (1606-1684), playwright; André Le Notre (1613-1700), father of French gardens; Charles de l’Epee (1712-1789), abbot who codified sign language; Comte de Grasse (1722-1788), count who fought in the American Revolution, notably the Battle of Yorktown, and who is honored by a plaque placed by the Cincinnati Club of France in 1931. The tombs of these men are found in Eglise Saint-Roch, corner rue St. Honoré and rue St. Roch. St. Roch is a handsome parish church whose first stone was laid in the presence of young Louis XIV in 1653 and that was completed 70 years later early in the reign of Louis XV.

Famous Frenchwoman who lived nearby: Olympe de Gouges had a pied à terre at 270 rue St. Honoré. Born 1748, widowed at 18, she was ahead of her time as a female combatant for social equality under the monarchy and then during the Revolution. She made her voice known as an abolitionist deploring black slavery and as a feminist who drafted the “Declaration of the Rights of Woman and of the Citizen” (1789) at a time when the men expanding the Revolution were touting “Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citzen” (1791). She famously declared that if a woman has a right to climb the scaffold (i.e. go to the guillotine) she has the right to climb the rostrum (i.e. to speak out). During the Terror she spoke out against the dictatorship of those who had taken power and of the need for greater democracy, which led to a cursory trial where she wasn’t allowed to be represented by a lawyer, and the “right to climb the scaffold” in November 1973.

Stephanie Sommers spent two nights at the Normandy Hotel, April 2009

Two-minute-radius guide © 2009, Gary Lee Kraut

The post A Night at the Normandy Hotel, Paris appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

Before I moved to Nice I had been warned by friends in nearby Provence that this was a city of little old ladies and small dogs and that I should always look down at the pavement while walking in order to avoid the ubiquitous “ca-ca.” Their comments were perhaps inspired by the Provence-Riviera rivalry, but even in Nice I’d been told that the locals easily distinguish the tourists from the true Niçois by the fact that the former look up as they walk while the latter look down.

Nice is a big city with much going on, but those little old ladies—usually widows, I imagine due to their lack of male accompaniment—are as much a part of the city as the famous Promenade des Anglais that follows the curve of the bay. It’s not unusual to see their tan, wrinkly, svelte bodies lying around the beaches below the Promenade in groups of two or three.

I arrived in Nice just after the New Year. This wasn’t my first time in the city of widows, but I had only ever spent the odd weekend here. I chose the Cote d’Azur for the mild winter weather and Nice in particular for its language schools—it was time to master the language of Molière once and for all. As a bonus, I arrived just in time to witness one of the most famous winter festivals in Europe, Nice’s celebration of Carnival.

Carnival (Carnaval in French) is the period of festivities that precedes Lent—not that many people in French now pay attention to that religiosity. Basically, Carnival is Mardi Gras. Though Mardi Gras is technically Fat Tuesday, the day that precedes Ash Wednesday, it’s non-religious connotation (i.e. party time) has now led to it referring to the full period of festivities. Call it what you like, it’s party time!

Pre-Carnival buzz

Nice’s Carnival began on Friday evening, Feb. 13, but all that week there had been a buzz in the air. Nice is one of the larger cities on the Cote d’Azur so there’s activity in the streets all year, but beginning early in the week I noticed the arrival of an increasing number of people looking up—tourists no doubt. Despite the cold weather, the widows were out in force, bronzing themselves in preparation for the upcoming festivities.

The fabulous Promenade des Anglais—think the Champs Elysées of Paris but along the sea—is never really empty unless it’s raining, but it was getting increasingly busy. Bleachers had been in place for a few weeks already, and on Monday a massive TV screen was installed in historic Place Massena on which the various parades would be shown. The Nice Tourist Office was the first to decorate, putting a giant colorful lizard head up on the roof.

Nice’s Carnival, France’s largest, has been around for 125 years. Another major Carnival takes place in Dunkerque in northern France. Nice’s Carnival lasts for two weeks. There are festivities every day, punctuated by major events described here: the opening ceremony, the Flower Parades on Saturdays and Wednesdays, the night parades on Tuesdays and Saturdays and then the grand finale on the last Sunday.

This year’s theme was “King of Masquerades” whose inauguration was staged in a parade with 20 monumental floats, accompanied by over 200 big ‘heads’ much like the above-mentioned lizard.

Arrival of the King

The King arrived on Friday evening. By then it had become apparent to me that a lot of Niçois have never actually attended the Carnival because when I asked various locals what happens on the King’s arrival I never got a clear answer. They all seem to know the history: The King’s arrival commences the Carnival, and at the end of Carnival two weeks later is taken out to the sea and burned so that he can rise from the ashes the following year. But everyone was vague on the details.

What actually happens, I discovered at the opening ceremony, is this: There is a huge party staged in Place Massena with two enormous floats—the King and the Queen—that come from the direction of the large shopping street, Avenue Jean Medécin. The square is packed with revelers; confetti and Silly String are thrown about in huge quantities. Everyone is in a festive mood and dances in the middle of the square to the pop music blaring from loudspeakers.
Quite a few of the revelers were masked.

I asked one of them why and they said that this year the theme, The King of Masquerades, was an invitation to hide your identity and become someone else. This made it impossible to resist dancing and frolicking in the streets with perfect strangers. My friends and I made the most of it. Then suddenly we all realized that the King and Queen were bearing down on us, and we were in a panic as we all tried to make way for the giant floats to pass. As they passed by, you could see that there were masked people in costume inside the floats, waving and throwing confetti and spraying the crowds with Silly String. Revelers also sprayed each other. At first I wondered where all the aerosol string was coming from but after the parade I saw a few street vendors still hawking the stuff.

Trailing after the floats were various semi-organized groups in costumes, including a gaggle of children and some acrobats who danced in the streets. The whole experience reminded me of an exotic New Years Eve in Times Square as for a few hours strangers from around the world danced, laughed, and sprayed each other with Silly String. It was fantastic.

La Bataille des Fleurs – Battle of the Flowers a.k.a the Flower Parade

Honestly, someone should have warned me that the Bataille des Fleurs, the Battle of the Flowers, was not a contest between the flower floats in a parade but rather an actual “battle” to catch the flowers being thrown at the spectators throughout the parade.

The Bataille took place Saturday afternoon on the Promenade des Anglais. I was seated in the bleachers thinking that I had lucked out for picture-taking because seated around me were hundreds of gentle, sedate senior citizens who would never jump up in front of my camera. They were mostly couples, arms linked rather romantically (occasionally you saw one lone man with a few ladies seated around him; I’m guessing these lucky men were favorites of the widow crowd). “Aw, how cute” I thought, wishing I had someone special with me. As it was most of my friends had refused to pay the hefty 25 euro fee to sit in the stands and had opted to stand in the crowds on the other side of the street. And my one friend who had been willing had lost her ticket. So I was friendless in the stands.

The parade started with a bang when loud Brazilian music accompanied by an even louder announcer scorched our ears. I noticed a few of the seniors dialing down their hearing aids.

The first dancers to arrive were Brazilians scantily dressed like flowers. I had to laugh at the men in the bleachers trying hard not to look too much and the women acting scandalized when they caught their men ogling the dancers. One particularly Brazilian-shaped (read: nicely formed) dancer was sans flower and very nearly naked, shaking her bootie on uber-high heels. How could you help but stare!

Then the first flower-drenched float arrived. It moved slowly. I noticed there was someone just walking alongside the float with a cartful of flowers. The walker then started throwing flowers into the stands. This caused a roar from the crowd, and suddenly everyone was lunging forward trying to catch flowers. Fights erupted between the men who, I now realized, were supposed to try to catch the flowers in order to give them to their significant others. It was utter chaos. The formerly placid old men surrounding me who didn’t look like they could move unless assisted were now jumping up like grasshoppers, sometimes knocking over their loved ones in the process. Several times a few aggressive younger men very nearly came to fisticuffs. Their women gave each other the evil eye all in order to catch a flower or two.

This process went on throughout the parade. It was evident that this was a time-worn tradition as the women knew how to duck and weave whenever the flowers were thrown. A few were unlucky and knocked off their chairs but they just got themselves back up—in a very dignified manner, I might add. I myself was nearly knocked over a few times, but I managed to catch a few flowers, although the old ladies, seeing that I was manless, just sniffed and turned their backs on me.

The parade was fantastic—it’s hard to describe all of the various floats and costumes that passed by in the two-plus hours—and it was a photographer’s delight, but I think the real event was the battle. As the parade was coming around a second time the flower-tossers were now pulling flowers from the floats themselves and throwing them into the crowds. The competition got even more fierce. Slightly shaken, I decided to scurry out of there lest some loved-up senior decide to arm wrestle me for my armful of flowers.

Corso Illuminé

The Corso Illuminé is the night parade that circles two times around Place Massena on Tuesday and Saturday nights. The two corsos, or corsi, I attended were spectacular. There were enormous harlequins and huge floating caricatures of what would have entertained royalty back in the day, a rather fierce dragon (my personal favorite), and groups from various countries who entertained us in between the grotesque processions with acrobatic dances, drum-playing, or baton-twirling. They slowly passed by as the crowd heaved to and fro, filling in the spaces between each float.

It was interesting to see the spectators get up close and personal with the floats, and armed with aerosol string cans (boums, in French) and confetti, they would spray the heck out of the floats, the groups, and each other until everybody and everything was covered in string and confetti.

Those of us who chose not to buy boums and confetti were frequently targeted with stealth attacks from behind as if the boumeurs (think bombers) were saying, “Hey, you there, blocking my view and my chance to spray a float, this one’s for you!”

I was told by my French teacher Jean-Philippe (probably referring to pre-aerosol string days) that years ago they threw little plastic balls a bit bigger than bb pellets and which weighed a bit more than bb pellets (I’m guessing) as there were always a few eyes put out and, according to my informer, a couple of near deaths. As Carnival became increasingly popular with tourists from other countries they finally banned the pellets and switched to paper confetti and the infamous boums.

After a few days of partying and picking string off my clothes I stayed home one evening to do research into the origins of Nice’s Carnival. Nice’s Carnival is mentioned various times in the journals of royal patrons during the Middle Ages. It appears to have been particularly popular with dukes from France and Italy and that in 1889 the Prince of Wales (future Edward VII) came to light the procession stake to commence Carnival.

My favorite float, the dragon, is called a “babau” and first appeared as a float in 1882 to honor the tradition of grotesque mythology that is prevalent in most Carnival histories. Here is where mythology and Catholicism meld. Winter Carnivals are now said to be a celebration of the advent of Lent, which is why Mardi Gras (literally “Fat Tuesday”) commemorates the end of the Carnival period and incorporates a huge feast so that Catholics can get ready for eating meagerly (specifically no meat) for Lent, the 40 days leading up to Easter. Nowadays my Catholic friends usually resolve to give something up like sugar in their coffee or white wine. (Notice they don’t say all wines.) According to tradition, then, all manner of wild behavior and voluntary madness is allowed during this Carnival period as you would pay penance during Lent. Perhaps this explains the folly of Silly String.

Street food in Nice: the socca party

I could write at length about how, after a week of cool weather, we finally had a beautiful sunny day, and how my friends and I gathered together on the Promenade des Anglais along with a few thousand tourists to watch the parades most days. But what I really want to do is write a love letter about a Niçois street food called the socca.

Socca is a thin, moist-on-the-inside, crispy-on-the-outside pancake made of chickpea flour, olive oil and salt and baked in huge pizza pans in wood burning ovens. It is delicious, especially if, like me, you have been living it up all weekend and are moving just a bit slower than usual on a Sunday afternoon. It is served on little paper plates. You just add pepper.

I’m not the only one who loves socca. In the Albert 1er gardens next to Place Massena, the Carnival held a socca party and everyone queued for over half an hour just to get a plate of socca. The line was so long that kids waiting with their parents were bored silly and as a result used up most of their aerosol string cans on all of us waiting in line. Other targets included the wandering bands of Spanish singers, a few clowns and the occasional palm tree. On most Sundays the queues are just as long at the socca restaurants in old town Nice.

The socca in Vieux (Old) Nice is served alongside other local specialties such as pissaladière (caramelized onion pizza sometimes with bits of anchovy and black olives), pan bagnat (little buns brushed with olive oil, then filled with green pepper slices, black olives, onion slices, anchovies, tomato slices and hard-boiled egg slices — all drizzled with vinaigrette), niçois farcis (vegetables like zucchini, peppers and onions cut into bite size pieces and topped or stuffed with delicious fillings made of meat or fish or other vegetables), and beignets (shrimp or meat fillings dunked in a thick batter and deep fried).

All of these are finger foods—although your fingers tend to get very greasy—and families, couples, and friends gather together at brunch time to sit at the picnic tables outside, eat some Nice street food, and wash it all down with a glass of rosé. Yum!

While Nice parties through Carnival, Menton hosts its Lemon Festival

While Nice was holding its Carnival the pretty Riviera town of Menton, sitting between the Italian border and Monaco, holds its Lemon Festival, la Fête du Citron.

I’d visited the Riviera a number of times before moving here but for some reason I’d never thought to go east of Monaco. Now I think it’s a shame that it took me so long since Menton is indeed worthy of at least a daytrip.

The Lemon Festival is also basically Carnival/Mardi Gras/party time while being directly linked to that fact that the climate in Menton is ideal for growing lemon trees and other citrus. Known as the City of Lemons, Menton distinguishes itself from the rest of the French Riviera by having a subtropical climate that, in addition to its attractiveness to lemon trees, has earned it a special place in the heart botanists and garden-lovers.

The town has won many awards for being the top “floral” town in France. Botanists have been coming here since the 1800s to plant rare species of flowers and plants because they can thrive in this climate. About 115 acres (46 hectares) of park space surround the town, with contemporary gardens created in the very heart of the city. During the Lemon Festival the garden at the center of the town becomes the setting for the jardins illuminés or illuminated gardens/gardens of light.

During an afternoon reconnaissance mission from Nice I was struck by the fact that although this is on the coast and therefore should be loaded with tourists and little old ladies with tiny dogs, it isn’t, so you can walk through the pedestrian area without having to watch your step. Menton (pop. 29,000) has its charms but isn’t quaint per se, though it has an elegant feel that is sometimes lacking in Nice. It is one of the few towns in France where the population is actually getting younger, and the downtown area appears to be particularly clean.

In preparing this article I didn’t actively set out to test restaurants but I can nevertheless report that of I’ve enjoyed the several meals I’ve had here. In Nice, on the other hand, which has some great food possibilities, haphazard selection can lead to some bad and overpriced meals and hit-or-miss service.

The Lemon Festival, first held in 1934, runs about three weeks. The theme for 2009 was “Menton celebrates the Music of the World.” And indeed the night we went everything from African tribal to American country music was being played in different venues in the gardens. My friends and I were delighted; a town that actually encourages music and dancing is a town that we can love.

Since my army of friends marches on its stomach, no sooner had we arrived then someone suggested we find a restaurant. We stopped at La Tagliatelle, an Italian restaurant across the street from the beach and promenade. It was absolutely fantastic and came complete with two huge Italian waiters. They’re brothers and they look like Mama breast-fed them pasta from the day they were born. Jolly as they were, it was the clientele who spoke volumes: La Tagliatelle must be a badly kept secret amongst the Italians as I heard no French in the restaurant, only Italian. (Remember, Italy is only a few miles away.) We each had a different pasta and left nothing behind. The lemon tart, tarte au citron, was fabulous, with no complaints about Le Colonel, a lemon sorbet topped with lemon vodka topped with a tiny bit of whipped cream.

After the meal we attacked the night garden event, and within five minutes a big stuffed clown thing was flirting and dancing with me… and trying to touch my bum while we were dancing.

Swiftly moving on, we came upon a quite good mariachi band which had us shaking our booties once more. Through the evening we frolicked amongst several other musical venues: country, disco, tango, rock-‘n-roll, etc. The venues themselves were each shaped a bit differently—there was a house, a chateau, a boat, a car, even a ‘moulin rouge’—all composed of thousands of lemons and oranges! Officially, the Lemon Festival uses about 145 tons of citrus fruit.

Open for dégustation throughout were small stands selling some of the best limoncello (sweet digestive liqueur made of lemons) I have ever tasted.

At the far end of the gardens Grand Marnier, makers of the famous orange liqueur, had set up a creperie that was serving warm Grand Marnier and coffee. By this time it was late and we were tired, so we all had a glass of Grand Marnier, tipped it in admiration to the magical music village, and caught the last train back to Nice.

We returned to Menton for a second evening of lemon festivities for the parade and fireworks. The parade itself was a little disappointing since it contained few surprises as it mainly consisted of the various village settings made of oranges and lemons that we had already seen. Or maybe the parade was a bit disappointing because we had been going to the far more spectacular night parades in Nice where the crowds were enormous and more international and showed more enthusiasm in the streets. Nice’s Carnival attracted more than a million visitors in 2009 whereas Menton’s Lemon Festival drew about 230,000. The crowds in Menton seemed mainly to be French, and the French, in my experience, don’t publicly dance or express themselves at such events like the English, Americans, Germans, Swiss, Dutch, etc.

Nevertheless, Menton is quite elegant and easily manageable for the tourist who wants a French seaside town flavor without all of the excessive tourist trappings, and that extends to its Lemon Festival as well. The benefit of attending Menton’s parade compared with Nice’s is that when Menton’s slows down you can walk right in between the various acts to take pictures. Another advantage is that there is far less Silly String in Menton.

The fireworks were rather special, particularly as they illuminated the sea—and who doesn’t love fireworks?! The whole event, while sedate compared to the Nice Carnival, was nicely presented.

Afterwards we all headed for the train station, satisfied with the food and festivities… but soon to be unsatisfied with the return home to Nice. As befitting a typically subdued town, there are no buses leaving Menton after 8 pm, so everyone without a car must take a train to get home if they don’t live there. The majority of people seemed to be headed east, as we were, in the direction of Nice and Cannes. Add the fact that the SNCF, the French rail service, had cancelled the two trains before the last one heading east, which was also delayed for over an hour, and you have a recipe for chaos.

The fireworks had ended around 10 pm but at nearly midnight there were still hundreds of people waiting for a train. The police were already there in advance, waiting to quell any possible riots and to keep people from being pushed off the platforms, but it would have seemed more reasonable to send in train reinforcements rather than police reinforcements.

The train finally arrived, and for about 10 minutes we couldn’t breathe, let alone move as the crowds—a not very young crowd at that—pushed forward to the doors. It was a nightmare that really only ended when we arrived in Nice. In short, check the bus and train schedules if you aren’t staying at a hotel in Menton.

The burning of the King and the end of Carnival

Back safely in Nice, I again turned my attention to the Carnival, which came to an end on a Sunday night. The burning of the king in the sea marks the end of the festivities and the start of Lent. Legend has it that by burning the King he will then rise again next year from the ashes to reign once again during the Carnival.

It was one of the more frenzied nights of the Carnival period. By 9 pm tens of thousands of revelers were gathered in Place Massena to escort the King to the sea. With music blasting over loudspeakers everyone danced in the streets, working themselves up for the ritual burning. The Silly String and confetti were flying everywhere; I had hoped that maybe they would have sold out of the stuff by now but it was actually even worse. I saw one little girl of maybe 5 or 6 being completely covered by Silly String by her parents and elder siblings, after which they threw confetti on her. My friends and I wondered whether that might constitute child abuse, but the child seemed to be enjoying it.

When the King started to move, the crowd roared bloodthirstily and followed the King down to the sea. My friends and I raced ahead to the Promenade des Anglais to take pictures of the procession. Then, as the King rounded the corner, we realized that the crowds at the beach were so immense we would never be able to see the King out at sea.

This is where I admit to having a slight advantage over typical visitors since I found the most official-looking person in the crowds, flashed my press badge, and asked where the press area was. We soon found ourselves in a private viewing area on the Promenade des Anglais, directly in front of the boats out at sea that were set up for the burning and the fireworks afterwards.

But the King was already out there! How was that possible when we had just left him at the corner? I soon discovered that they don’t actually burn the massive grotesque King we had all seen in the parades; instead an effigy made of paper maché is burned. Considering that the real King is made mostly of hard plastic this actually makes sense.

As we waited, the crowds behind us grew more bloodthirsty. Their chant of “Brule!” (Burn!) got more and more intense. Suddenly the announcement came that it was about to happen, and there was a brief pause in the yelling and screaming as they lit the King on fire.

As the fire took, the revelers found their voices again and they roared through the 5-6 minutes it took to burn the effigy. As the fire died down, so did the voices, save for one child’s voice who yelled out one last comment: “Au revoir, Sarkozy!” We all laughed.

Immediately after the burning of the King the fireworks began, and it was evident where a good portion of the city’s 6-million-euro Carnival budget went. They were spectacular. Four boats out at sea shot off fireworks in tune to approximately ten different songs as we watched from our advantageous press-passed position. The fireworks seemed endless.

Then it was over.

As my friends and I waded our way through the Silly String-and-confetti-filled streets we noticed that the formerly frenzied crowd had lost its energy and vitality. Everyone shuffled back to their home or hotel. The party was over, and we all knew it was time to take off our Carnival masks and return to our real lives.
Tourist Offices and Festival Information

Nice: Nice’s official Carnival website.

Menton: Menton’s official Lemon Festival website.

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Back safely in Nice, I again turned my attention to the Carnival, which came to an end on Sunday night. The burning of the king in the sea marks the end of the festivities and the start of Lent. Legend has it that by burning the King, he will then rise again next year from the ashes to reign once again during the Carnival.

It was one of the more frenzied nights we experienced so far. At 9 pm tens of thousands of revelers were gathered in Place Massena to escort the King to the sea, and with loud music playing everyone was again dancing in the streets, working themselves up for the ritual burning. The Silly String and confetti were flying everywhere; I had hoped that maybe they would have sold out of the stuff by the end but it was actually even worse this night. I saw one little girl of maybe 5 or 6 being completely covered by Silly String by her parents and elder siblings, and afterwards they threw confetti on her. My friend Gaby wondered aloud as to whether this might constitute child abuse, but the child seemed to be enjoying it.

When the King started to move, the crowd roared bloodthirstily and followed the King down to the sea. My friends and I raced ahead to the Promenade des Anglais to take pictures of the procession, and I got a good shot of the King as it turned the corner. Afterwards we realized that the crowds at the beach were so immense we would never be able to see the King out at sea.

This is where my official Carnival press badge truly came in handy. (Thank you Gary, for arranging that!) I found the most official-looking person in the crowds, flashed my badge and asked where the ‘press area’ was. We soon found ourselves in a private viewing area on the Promenade des Anglais, directly in front of the boats out at sea that were set up for the burning and the fireworks afterwards.

But the King was already out there! How was that possible when we had just left him at the corner? This is when I found out that they don’t actually burn the massive grotesque King we had all seen in the parades, but in instead an effigy made of paper maché. Considering that the real King is made mostly of hard plastic this actually makes sense.

As we waited, the crowds behind us grew more bloodthirsty and you could hear chants of “Brulé!” (Burn!) Suddenly the announcement came and there was a brief pause in the yelling and screaming as they lit the King on fire. As the fire took, the revelers found their voices again and they roared through the 5-6 minutes it took to burn the effigy. As the fire died down, so did the voices, save for one child’s voice who yelled out one last comment: “Au revoir, Sarkozy!” We all laughed. It is pretty evident, the longer I stay here, what most of the French think of Sarkozy at the moment. Personally I don’t think he’s that bad but the French president’s popularity certainly seems to be at a low point here in Nice. “Sa femme si belle”—his pretty wife, however, is all right, said the security guard sitting next to me.

Immediately after the King’s burning the fireworks began, and it was evident where a good portion of the Carnival budget was; these were ten times more spectacular than the Menton fireworks. Four boats out at sea shot off fireworks in tune to approximately ten different songs as we watched from our advantageous position. (Thanks again, Gary and the Nice Office de Tourisme!) The fireworks seemed to go on forever.

Then all of a sudden it was over, and as my friends and I waded our way through the Silly String-and-confetti-filled streets we noticed that the formerly frenzied crowd had lost its energy and vitality. Everyone shuffled back to their home or hotel. The party was over, and we all knew it was time to take off our masks and return to our real lives.

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Another night in Menton; another great meal. Thursday my friends and I went to Menton’s night parade and fireworks display, the last one during the Lemon Festival. We ate beforehand and I wish I had the name of the restaurant as it was brilliant, but alas, I forgot to write it down and nobody remembers the name. It’s a shame, as that was one of the highlights of the night.

The parade itself was a bit disappointing as it mainly consisted of the various village settings made of oranges and lemons that I reported on earlier. Or maybe it was a bit disappointing because we had been going to the far more spectacular night parades in Nice where the crowds were enormous and more international and showing more enthusiasm in the streets, with people always dancing and having fun. The crowds in Menton were mainly French.

At this point I must make an observation about the French; they are lovely people but at musical events they just don’t dance or express themselves like the English, Americans, Germans, Swiss, Dutch, etc. I once went to a Status Quo rock concert in Marseille and NOBODY got out of their seats until the last song. (Except us.) How anyone can sit through Status Quo’s rocking tune, “Whatever You Want” without even moving their heads is beyond me.

Most of the people in the crowds were elderly as well, and the rest appeared to be parents with small children. I recall a remark by my teacher Jean-Philip about Menton, that the population was mostly retirees and that he hadn’t visited Menton in a while because there was nothing of great interest to do there. I understand his point but I still hold to my opinion that Menton is quite elegant and easily manageable for the tourist who wants a French seaside town flavor without all of the excessive tourist trappings.

There are benefits to attending a smaller parade like Menton’s: when it slows down, you can walk right in between the various acts to take pictures. To illustrate this point I present a photo taken in the middle of the parade. I also had my friend Gaby take one of me and a flower boy while the parade was stopped. And since the theme was “Music from Around the World,” we were treated to different tunes throughout the parade, of which my favorite was the country and western band—it reminded me of my home state of Texas. Oh and I must mention that the amount of Silly String was probably less than 10% of that used during the Nice parades.

The fireworks were rather special, particularly as they illuminated the sea, and well, who doesn’t love fireworks? The whole event, while sedate compared to the Nice Carnival, was nicely presented. We all headed for the train station, satisfied with our meal and the festivities.

Here’s a little rant about France’s lack of services for public transport, particularly during special events like the festival. There are no buses leaving Menton after 8 pm, so everyone must take a train to get home if they don’t live in Menton. The majority of people seemed to be headed east, as we were, in the direction of Nice and Cannes. Add the fact that SNCF cancelled the two trains before the last one heading east, which was also delayed for over an hour, and you have a recipe for disaster. The chaos that ensued was palpable.

The fireworks ended around 10 pm but at nearly midnight there were still hundreds of people waiting for a train. The police were already there in advance, waiting to quell any possible riots and to keep people from being pushed off the platforms. I was with a bunch of Swiss friends who complained about the lack of services and how in Switzerland this would never happen. I have to agree; the timing was pretty bad and in many countries, including the US, there are usually special buses and trains added to the schedules whenever there is a special event like a festival. But not France. Why not France? I would really love an explanation to this phenomenon.

Anyway, the train finally arrived and for about 10 minutes we couldn’t even breathe, let alone move as the crowds pushed forward to the doors. Most of those in the crowd were senior citizens who moved ever so slowly onto the train, which delayed us getting on and prolonging the feeling of being crushed. I worried that some elderly person would have a heart attack and still end up on the train as we were slowly ‘carried’ to the doors. It was a nightmare that really only ended when we arrived in Nice, at which point I vowed to never again stay out past 8 pm outside of Nice.

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Concurrent with Nice’s great Carnival that I’ve been blogging about, Menton, the pretty French town sitting between the Italian border and Monaco, has been holding its annual Lemon Festival. If, like me, you have visited the Cote d’Azur many times but for some reason never thought to go to Menton (known as the City of Lemons), allow me to twist your arm a bit.

Menton distinguishes itself from the rest of the pack by having a subtropical climate that allows it to grow citrus fruits (particularly the lemon) and holds many French awards for being the top ‘floral’ town in France. According to the Tourist Office, botanists have been coming here since the 1800s to plant rare species of flowers and plants because they can thrive in this climate. About 115 acres (46 hectares) of park space surround the town, with contemporary gardens created in the very heart of the city, which is where I was last Friday evening, viewing the “jardins illuminés” (illuminated gardens).

I spent an afternoon checking out Menton last week, and what strikes me as most special about the town is that although it’s on the coast and therefore should be loaded with tourists and little old ladies with tiny dogs, it isn’t, so you can walk through the pedestrian area without having to watch your step.

Menton isn’t quaint per se, but it has an elegant feel that is sometimes lacking in Nice. It is one of the few towns in France where the population is actually getting younger, and it also has a clean feel to the downtown area.

Another thing I like about Menton is its restaurants, at least the ones I’ve tried so far. They are rarely overpriced and I have yet to have a bad meal there, unlike in Nice, which is nearly always overpriced (even my teachers complain about this) and the food and service in Nice can be a bit hit-or-miss.

This year is the 76th Lemon Festival. It runs about three weeks and ends on March 4. The theme this year is “Menton celebrates the Music of the World.” And indeed the night we went everything from African tribal to American country music was being played in different venues in the gardens. My friends and I were delighted; a town that actually encourages music and dancing is a town that we can love.

You should know that my army of friends marches on its stomach and that my friend Gabriela in particular can’t pass a tarte au citron (lemon meringue pie) without wanting a taste.

We stopped at an Italian restaurant across the street from the beach and promenade. This restaurant, called La Tagliatelle, was absolutely fantastic and came complete with two huge Italian waiters. They’re brothers and they look like Mama breast-fed them pasta from the day they were born. Jolly as they were it was the clientele who spoke volumes: La Tagliatelle must be a badly kept secret amongst the Italians as I heard no French, only Italian spoken at all the tables. (Remember, Italy is only a few miles away.) We each had a different pasta and left nothing behind. The tarte au citron was fabulous, but fellow student Andre and I went for Le Colonel, a lemon sorbet topped with lemon vodka topped with a tiny bit of whipped cream. Did I mention that this is why I will never be skinny?

With renewed energy we attacked the night garden event, and five minutes later a big stuffed clown thing (see the picture—your guess is as good as mine) was flirting and dancing with me. “Vous êtes mechant, vous. Arrete!” I said, shaking my finger at him when he tried to touch my bum while we were dancing. Only in France.

Swiftly moving on, we came upon a quite good mariachi band which had us shaking our booties once more. Through the evening we visited (more like frolicked) amongst several other musical venues: country, disco, tango, rock-‘n-roll, etc. The venues themselves were each shaped a bit differently—there was a house, a chateau, a boat, a car, even a ‘moulin rouge’—but they were all composed of lemons and oranges! I must ask the tourist office later this week just how many citrus fruits are actually used in the fabrication of this tiny village-cum-garden.

Open for dégustation throughout were small stands selling some of the best limoncello (sweet digestive liqueur made of lemons) I have ever tasted, and at the far end of the gardens Grand Marnier (makers of the superb orange liqueur) had set up a creperie that was serving warm Grand Marnier and coffee. By this time it was late and we were tired, so we all had a glass of Grand Marnier, tipped it in admiration to the magical music village, and caught the last train back to Nice.

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While Nice is holding its Carnival the pretty Riviera town of Menton, on the other side of Monaco, is holding its Lemon Festival. I went to the Citron festivities on Friday night but I’ll write about that later this week because I want now to tell about a rather gorgeous Sunday I passed in Nice’s Carnival epicenter. I could also write at length about how we finally had a beautiful sunny day, not too cold, and how my friends and I gathered together on the Promenade des Anglais along with a few thousand tourists to watch the parades. But what I really want to do is write a love letter about a very typical Niçois street food called the socca.
Socca is a thin, moist-on-the-inside, crispy-on-the-outside pancake made of chickpea flour, olive oil and salt and baked in huge pizza pans in wood burning ovens. It is delicious, especially if, like me, you have been living it up all weekend and you are moving just a bit slower than usual on a Sunday afternoon. It is served on little paper plates. You just add pepper.

I’m not the only one who loves socca. In the Albert 1er gardens next to Place Massena, the Carnival held a socca party and everyone queued for over half an hour just to get a plate of socca. The line was so long that kids waiting with their parents were bored silly and as a result used up most of their Silly String cans on all of us waiting in line. Other targets included the wandering bands of Spanish singers, a few clowns and the occasional palm tree. On most Sundays the queues are just as long at the socca restaurants in old town Nice.

The socca in “Vieux Nice,” the old part of town, is served alongside other Niçois specialties such as pissaladiere (caramelized onion pizza sometimes with bits of anchovy and black olives), pan bagnat (little buns brushed with olive oil, then filled with green pepper slices, black olives, onion slices, anchovies, tomato slices and hard-boiled egg slices — all drizzled with vinaigrette), Niçois farcis (vegetables like zucchini, peppers and onions cut into bite size pieces and topped or stuffed with delicious fillings made of meat or fish or other vegetables), and beignets (shrimp or meat fillings dunked in a thick batter and deep fried). All of these are finger foods—although your fingers tend to get very greasy—and families, couples, and friends gather together at brunch time to sit at the picnic tables outside, eat some Niçois street food, and wash it all down with a glass of rosé. Yum!

So as I had a fabulous weekend (which also meant that once again I didn’t study enough) I am skipping writing about the Lemon Festival for the moment in order to pay homage to simple Niçois street food. I will pick up the Citron in a few days, but I leave you with this tasty preview: it’s all about lemons and oranges and a tasty little pie called the tarte au citron, a very French lemon meringue pie…

Oh no. I’ve made myself hungry again. That’s why, while I may not be fat, I will never be skinny.

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The Corso Illuminé is the night parade that circles two times around Place Massena on Tuesday and Saturday nights. I’ve been to two corsos, or corsi, now and they are rather spectacular. There are enormous harlequins and huge floating caricatures of what would have entertained royalty back in the day, a rather fierce dragon (my personal favorite), and various groups of people from various countries who entertain us in between the grotesque processions with acrobatic dances, drum-playing or baton-twirling.

All of these slowly pass by as the crowd heaves to and fro, filling in the spaces between each float. It is really interesting to see the spectators get up close and personal with the floats, and armed with cans of Silly String (my teacher told me the French call aerosol string cans “les boums,” like bombs) and confetti, they spray the h*** out of the floats, the groups, and each other until literally everybody and everything is covered in string and confetti.

Those of us who have chosen not to buy les boums and confetti are frequently targeted with stealth attacks from behind. It’s as if the boumeurs (think bombers) are saying, “Hey, you there, blocking my view and my chance to spray a float, this one’s for you!”

According to my teacher, Jean-Philip, this is actually much better than the alternative that was employed not so long ago. Years ago (I’m guessing pre-aerosol string days) they threw little plastic balls a bit bigger than bb pellets and which weighed a bit more than bb pellets (I’m guessing) as there were always a few eyes put out and, according to Jean-Philip, a couple of near deaths. As Carnival became increasingly popular with tourists from other countries they finally banned the pellets and switched to paper confetti and the infamous boums.

Enough ranting; I will now move on to the promised carnival trivia. As this year’s theme is King of Masquerades, it is fitting that I mention that the Nice Carnival was mentioned various times in the journals of royal patrons during the Middle Ages. It appears to have been particularly popular with dukes from France and Italy, and in 1889 the Prince of Wales (future Edouard Vll) came to light the procession stake to commence Carnival.

My favorite float, the dragon, is called a “babau” and first appeared as a float in 1882 to honor the tradition of grotesque mythology that is prevalent in most Carnival history. Here is where mythology and Catholicism meld together. Winter carnivals are now thought to be a celebration of the advent of Lent, which is why Mardi Gras (literally “Fat Tuesday”) commemorates the end of the Carnival period and incorporates a huge feast, to get ready for eating meagerly (specifically no meat) for the next 40 days. That is if you were a Catholic in the Middle Ages. Nowadays my Catholic friends usually resolve to give something up like sugar in their coffee or white wine. (Notice I didn’t say all wines.) Another interesting fact; apparently all manner of wild behavior and voluntary madness was allowed during this Carnival period as you would pay penance during Lent. Perhaps this explains the folly of Silly String.

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Honestly, someone should have warned me that the Bataille des Fleurs, the Battle of the Flowers, was not a contest between the flower floats in a parade but rather an actual ‘battle’ to catch the flowers being thrown at the spectators throughout the parade.

The Bataille took place Saturday afternoon on the Promenade des Anglais, the main street running parallel to the beach. I was seated in the bleachers thinking that I had lucked out for picture-taking because seated around me were hundreds of gentle, sedate senior citizens who would never jump up in front of my camera. And they were mostly couples, arms linked rather romantically (occasionally you saw one lone man with a few ladies seated around him; I’m guessing these lucky men were favorites of the widows’ crowd). “Aw, how cute” I thought, wishing I had someone special with me. My friend had lost her ticket and I was alone in the stands. My other friends hadn’t wanted to pay the hefty 25 euro fee to sit in the stands and had opted to stand in the crowds on the other side of the street.

The parade started with a bang, and loud Brazilian music accompanied by an even louder announcer scorched our ears. Well, at least my ears were scorched, and I did notice a few of the seniors dialing down their hearing aids.

The first to arrive were the scantily-dressed Brazilian dancers dressed like flowers. I had to laugh at the men trying hard not to look too much and the women acting scandalized when they caught their men ogling the dancers. One particularly Brazilian-shaped (read: nicely formed) dancer was sans flower and very nearly naked, shaking her bootie on uber-high heels and even I couldn’t help but stare.

Then the first float drenched in flowers arrived. It moved slowly. I noticed there was someone just walking alongside the float with a cartful of flowers. The walker then started throwing flowers into the stands. This caused a roar from the crowd, and suddenly everyone was lunging forward trying to catch flowers. Fights erupted between the men who were suposedly trying to catch the flowers in order to give them to their significant others. It was utter chaos. The formerly placid old men surrounding me who didn’t look like they could move unless assisted were jumping up like grasshoppers, sometimes knocking over their loved ones in the process. Several times a few aggressive younger men very nearly came to fisticuffs and their women gave each other the evil eye all in order to catch a flower or two.

The parade was fantastic—it’s hard even now to describe all of the various floats and costumes that passed by in the two-plus hours, and it’s even harder to choose from all of the wonderful photos I took, but I think the real event was the battle. As the parade was coming around a second time I noticed that they were now taking flowers from the floats themselves and throwing them at the crowds. The competition was getting fiercer. Slightly shaken, I decided to scurry out of there lest some loved-up senior decided to arm wrestle me for my armful of flowers. I’m glad I did. I still smell their scent as I write this.

My next blog will be the Corso Illuminé which is another parade held in the evening and I plan on filling you in on some Carnival trivia that Gary has handily sent me from Paris. Apparently the first Carnaval de Nice was held in 1294. I wonder if even back then the men were battling for flowers to impress their women; maybe that’s how French men have such a reputation for being romantic.

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The King arrived at 9 pm on Friday. By then it had become apparent when I asked various Niçois what happens on the King arrival that a lot of locals have never actually attended the Carnival. They all know the history: The King’s arrival commences the Carnival, and at the end of the Carnival (in two weeks) the King is taken out to the sea and burned so that he can rise up from the ashes the following year. But everyone was vague on the details.

What actually happens, I discovered last night, is this: There is a huge party staged in Place Massena with two enormous floats – the King and the Queen – that come from the direction of the large shopping street, Avenue Jean Medécin. The square is packed with revelers; confetti and Silly String are thrown about in huge quantities. Everyone is in a festive mood and dances in the middle of the square to the pop music blaring from loudspeakers.

Quite a few of the revelers were masked. I asked one of them why and they said that this year the theme, The King of Masquerades, was an invitation to hide your identity and become someone else. This made it impossible to resist dancing and frolicking in the streets with perfect strangers. My friends and I made the most of it. Then suddenly we all realized that the King and Queen were bearing down on us, and we were in a panic as we all tried to make way for the giant floats to pass. As they passed by, you could see that there were masked people in costume inside the floats, waving and throwing confetti and spraying the crowds with Silly String. At first I wondered where all the Silly String was coming from but after the parade I saw a few street vendors still hawking the stuff. I am still picking bits of it off my clothes this morning.

Trailing after the floats were various semi-organized groups in costumes, including a gaggle of children and some acrobats who danced in the streets. The whole experience reminded me of an exotic New Years Eve in Times Square, and for a few hours strangers from all over danced, laughed, and sprayed each other with Silly String. It was fantastic.

This afternoon, Saturday, the festivities continue with the Flower Parade along the Promenade des Anglais. My friends and I have bought tickets for the stands in order to get a good view – there will be various flower parades throughout the next few weeks but I have heard that the first one is the best. Until then…

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Before I moved to Nice to study French and look for work, I had been warned by friends in nearby Provence that this was a city of little old ladies and small dogs and that I should always look down at the pavement while walking in order to avoid the ubiquitous “ca ca.” Apparently the locals easily distinguish the tourists from the true Niçois since the former look up while the latter look down.

Those little old ladies are usually widows. It’s not unusual to see their wrinkly but svelte bodies lying around the beaches below the Promenade des Anglais in groups of two or three. Some of the wealthy ones are said to be war widows who were given apartments after WWII to compensate for losing their husbands. I may be cynical, but I wonder if now, in old age, they’d be willing to exchange their well-appointed flats for their lost spouses.

I arrived in Nice just after the New Year. This wasn’t my first time in the city of widows, but I had only ever spent the odd weekend here. I chose the Cote d’Azur for the mild winter weather and Nice in particular for its language schools. As a bonus, I’ve arrived just in time to witness the Carnival, one of the most famous winter events in Europe. I’ll be writing about it on this space over the next two weeks.

It begins Friday evening, Feb. 13, but already there is a buzz in the air. Nice is one of the larger cities on the Cote d’Azur so there’s activity in the streets all year, but I’ve noticed the last few days that tourists were trickling in. I recognize them because they’re all looking up. And despite the cold weather, the widows have been out in force, bronzing themselves in preparation for the upcoming festivities.

The fabulous Promenade des Anglais – think the Champs Elysées of Paris, only along the sea – is never really empty unless it’s raining, but now it’s gotten increasingly busy. Bleachers have been in place for a few weeks already, and on Monday a massive TV screen was installed in historic Place Massena on which the various parades will be shown.

The Tourist Office was the first to decorate, putting a giant colorful lizard head up on the roof, and I’ve been told that there’s much more to come in the form of giant murals and other visual shows.

Nice’s Carnival, France’s largest, has been around for 125 years. Among the major events are the Flower Parades, which will take place the next two Saturdays and Wednesdays. Carnival runs for two weeks, with some sort of festivity every day. This year’s theme is “King of Masquerades” and will be staged in a parade with 20 monumental floats, accompanied by over 200 big ‘heads’ much like the above-mentioned lizard.

The school where I’m studying French is hosting a socca party at a local restaurant on Friday afternoon to commemorate the first day. Socca is a Nice specialty, a crepe made of chickpeas, delicious with a glass of rosé. Then at 9pm the King “arrives” and the festivities begin. I can’t wait. Stay tuned to this blog for more. The party’s just getting started!

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