A cultural experience starts with a local experience

'Allo mademoiselle.'

I was in humid, sunny Nice for one reason only.

'Un billet pour… um, the boat…to St Tropez? S’il vous plaît.'

St Tropez! the diamond of the French Riviera! where I’d drink champagne I couldn’t afford! lay beachside on my own striped cabana! soak in the Côte D’Azur sun! swim the backpacker’s grime from my skin!

'Ze boaht depahrts tomohrrow, tehn eh em sharpe.' Excellent. I zipped the ticket safe in my bag. Tomorrow!

I’d found a fifth floor walk up on AirBnb hosted by an older woman, Daniele, and her fluffy white Westie. Typically French, she fed me pastries, drank espresso all day and pegged her washing on a line strung from her balcony. 'I ev lost eh loht ov socks to ze ehpahtments behlow,' she laughed.

She gave me her local tips and I immersed myself to discover a true, authentic Nice. I sauntered, through marketplaces and corner stores with bright flowers floor to ceiling, small squares with elaborate fountains and fromageries I could smell from two cobblestone lanes away.

I took Daniele’s advice and walked into Vieux Ville one balmy night. I dodged camera happy tourists engrossed in menu choices and phrasebooks; accents filled the air. I found a cheap cafe, sat, sipped white wine and tore pieces of crusty baguette to devour creamy pâté and buttery escargot. Later, I wandered to a bar owned by Daniele's son, a thirty-something sommelier with a searing passion for all things French. He and his friends poured me wine as I watched them argue in rapid-fire. 'Noh, try zis cheez befohre zat one!' Of course I didn’t protest.

The bar closed and we stumbled down steep, creaking steps into a small, cool cellar. It smelled of dirt and stone. I cut wedges of sharp cheese from ageing rounds, pulled bottle after bottle of red from the cellar’s crumbly walls. Five others, just strangers before, laughed along as the tastes overwhelmed me and each mouthful, better than the last, gave gusto to my amateur French.

We drunkenly emerged from the cellar at 3am and walked past a sweet smelling boulangerie preparing for the day. In an instant I was handed paper bags of hot, fresh pain au chocolat, and I swear I tasted heaven.

Satisfied and in a blur, I staggered back to the apartment for the unsteady five floor trek to bed.

An 11am sun woke me.

I’d missed the boat.

I refused to wallow in my hangover. I dusted myself off and called my new friends. We went to a secret beach, swam, ate gelati, and drove to Monaco. The locals won again.