Phase 1.5
It began at dinner, where my classmate Simon was feeling ennui. Simon is a Brit and I’m sure pronounces his name exactly as you just read it - Si-mon - but we used the French pronunciation and called him See-mo - the name I will think of when I think of him. I asked him if he could do anything to cure this feeling, what would it be? To which he responded and for this I will always respect him, I want to go to Monte Carlo and lose all of my money on one hand of blackjack. As the world’s greatest enabler, I couldn’t let such a mission remain a wishful thought so I uttered the only possible response - Let‘s Go. We finished dinner and began the good-byes, final pictures, and remembrances that comprise one’s last evening with a group. I could tell that Seemo was going back and forth in his mind about the viability of such an excursion but eventually curiosity won out and he approached me and told me to be ready. It was really no big deal for me, I had just about packed and the only thing left to do was get a ride to Marseille the next morning to retrieve my car. (In the interest of full disclosure, as I write this, my mind is thinking both the words that I’m committing to this page and the French equivalent, which I’m sure are only partially correct, in pronunciation if not in structure.)
I went back to my room and finished throwing things into my bags, a process made easier by time being more important than good organization. I had hoped to escape into the night by telling only an organizer that I was leaving and leaving my good-byes for later emails but it was not to be. At least five other participants and one instructor waylaid us on the way to the car and I’m sure we were a hot topic at breakfast the next day. Who leaves at 10 PM and drives to Monaco? Well, Seemo and me for one; I hope that there are others.
Once again, I must describe my setting, as I probably will with each entry. It’s just too interesting not to. And that is the point of this blog, yes? I’m sitting in an outdoor cafe on the old port of St. Tropez. A busker just began playing guitar and singing at the cafe two doors down. He’s not bad in the singer songwriter way. For my guitar inclined friends, it looks like he’s strumming a Martin, so he must not do too badly. There are about eight boats that cost the GNP of a small country docked within sight. It’s colder than it should be for my optimistic skirt but just about right for my new sweater. The cafe has a modern motif, with the outdoor chairs facsimiles of the (Eames?) tulip chairs. It is Monday and there are many strolling around sporting more or fewer layers according to their optimism or temperament. There are enough school-aged children to make me think it is school vacation somewhere. I know it was last week in Provence, perhaps these families are squeezing in one extra day. The busker is now singing a song with a refrain that has St. Tropez in it, reinforcing my initial thought that he is kind of a French Jimmy Buffet.
Alors, back to adventures with Seemo. After a little fussing about finding the right road, we began our adventure, wending our way down French country roads through small Provencal towns to the A8. As Seemo had some experience getting to and from Nice he basically knew the way. Radiohead was playing through the trusty Sony speakers, whose alarming lack of bass becomes apparent in the car but it was wonderful nonetheless. We both knew all the songs anyway so even a suggestion of a song was enough to satisfy us. As is the case with all good road trips, Thom would utter the perfect line that captured the exact moment. It would be eerie if I’d not experienced it before, as it was, I took it as a blessing. It rained on and off, not enough to make it dangerous, only atmospheric.
Eventually, we ended up in Monte Carlo. It was about 1 AM but who cares, as the casinos are open all night. We didn’t know, in any way, where we were or where we were going but as we turned a corner, there was L’Hermitage in all its glory. What could one do but enter and inquire if they had rooms available for the night? We did and they did; we inquired about the casinos. They were all closed, the monsieur assured us, all was closed. I thought it odd but perhaps my understanding of the place was in error. No, it was the day of Prince Rainier’s funeral and all was closed in his honor. The mission was delayed but the spirit was quite enough to keep us happy. The hotel was wonderful, the service impeccable and there was even a thunderstorm to watch from the terraces overlooking the harbor and the start/finish line of the F1 race.
The next day, I spent the morning lazing about whilst Seemo tried to find a casino to complete his mission. It was not to be as they opened at 5 PM and I needed to be in Marseille by 4 to pick up my car. The next few hours were spent traveling the A8 to Marseille and back to Nice, dropping off one car and picking up another. It was uneventful but a shame as it would have been better to spend the time seeing something of the Cote d'Azur. We ended up in Nice at 7 and found went to the Negresco, a hotel with a much better reputation than it deserves. It was fun nonetheless as we enjoyed a grande repas and a stroll along the water.
The next day, we had breakfast in the truly garish cafe in the hotel. It attempted to decorate itself as a carousel, with pink , green, and white icing, the booths little carousel seats and horses circling the perimeter. Every now and then music would sound and the horses would prance up and down on their poles while the . It was nightmarish and I felt the only way to truly experience it was a la Hunter Thompson. Fear and loathing in Nice.
After, I took Seemo to the airport, a task usually performed with only thoughts of pending travel but made more difficult by the very broken suitcase. When Seemo arrived, the French police decided his bag was a bomb threat and cut it open with a knife. Of course, there was no bomb and apparently they claim they could not employ the zipper to open the bag as it most certainly would have set off the imagined bomb. This made checking in and out of hotels amusing with the suitcase jury rigged with a strap holding it together and belongings threatening to exit at any moment but presented real difficulties for boarding the plane. All turned out well, as the nice woman in the airport office wrapped the suitcase in approximately 27,000 straps and air itself could not escape. At this point, Seemo was on his way and I was left to retrieve my car from the car park and head to St. Tropez. Le commencement a phase deux.
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