Europe On A Solo Whim

When my first trip to Europe with the love of my life suddenly became, Europe on a Solo Whim, I quickly discovered my large wheelie suitcase, ideal for cross-continental campervan cruising, was wider than most backstreet footpaths of some European cities. In particular, this made it a challenge to dodge the random pooch poo in the streets of France.

Nice – pronounced Neece, the sexy beach city nuzzled by the lush, azure sparkle of Mer Mediterranean. There I was in a country that pride’s itself on the height of romance. Catapulted out of love and into the heart of summer in the south of France. Great. What to do? First: trade case for pack.

Parlez vous Francais? Pardon? Within three minutes of navigating the laneways from the central bus stop to my impulse destination, Nice Home Sweet Home Bed & Breakfast, a dashing young lad wants my handy. Yes. Handy. I later learn this is the European slang for mobile phone number, not to be mistaken for another form of intimate communication. I could think of worse places to get over love and get on with life.

My temporary boudoir was everything I had dreamt it should be. Located on Rue Rossini in the heart of the Musique Quater, amongst dusty patina apartment blocks. The city buildings are old but not just telling of history and character; they exude a style of grace, which is singularly European. Genuine French-doors swing open to frame street lamps dangling from compact buildings. I loved it. The (vacant and single) bed was crisp linen framed with wrought iron. The share-bathroom, centrally located, was clean and surprisingly huge. It’s always a bonus when accommodation turns out to be better than what you expected to pay for. This was certainly the case with Nice Home Sweet Home.

Within three hours of arrival, sans suitcase but with bikini and white cotton donned, I followed my nose to the nearest boulangerie. It is true; the French people may not smile at the first sounds of “bonjour” as it escapes the murmur of a dithering Australian tourist. Persevere with an effort to put high school French lessons into practice, or pull it from the guidebook, and another level of understanding will glaze over a Frenchies’ retina. If all else fails, just point at any gateau and let the divinity of French bakery intervention absolve your taste buds of tongue-crumpled attempts at their language. It’s worth it.

At first, the jet-lagged brain in a foreign country may connect any dots of familiarity upon sighting of the grand Promenade des Anglais. In my case, Bondi meets Surfers Paradise flashed on the recall buttons. But like the Nicois architecture, full of grace and grit, the locals abound with finesse and together matched with the landscape, transcend preconceived notions of beach cities back home. It was at once summer in June: hot, flesh, oil, spandex, canvas, glamour and romance. It was love at first sight. And this was just the beginning.