Bonsoir, Bonesaw, Nizza La Bella
”Everyman has two countries: his own and France.” – Thomas Jefferson
Bonsoir, Bonesaw, Nizza La Bella!
I step warily onto the rickety balcony pushing open the pastel Provencal shutters set myself Indian-style and grasp the curly end of the railing. I reflect upon the foreign scene below. From the terrace of my quaint hostel room at Residence Segurane, the July evening already rivals no other in memory. Dusk begins to descend over the sky and although it is considerably late (if I would bother noticing the tick of a clock) the balmy streets remain warm. My polyester curtains (that resemble the pattern of a 1980’s Easter dress) billow while twenty-two o’clock slinks in along with the Mediterranean breeze. The sun, on the other hand, seems childishly reluctant to tuck away its brilliance and enthusiasm and admit to its scheduled bedtime, much like the crowd that begins to gather on the terrace and spill out to the street below, ready to begin their adventure through Vieux Nice.
The afternoon’s last glows from the west cast an amber glow upon terracotta rooftops that extend for miles until dispersing into the Alps or spilling into the sea. Above the buildings, dotted amidst the undulating clay countryside, the tips of crisp, white sails herald “Le port de Lympia,” the port of Nice. The yachts with their helicopters float grandiosely, seeming remote and secluded from the vibrant, quotidian of the bourgeoisie-life about Rue Passeroni, our temporary home. Just beyond looms the six-story Hôtel Kyriad with its neon, flashing sign above a grinning student in American-attire, cargo shorts & white T. He turns the corner, careful to dodge the dog-poo pile lurking on the curb as he’s strolling back from the corner Tabac with two bottles of wine wrapped in a towel. A girl catches up beside him, her hair golden and skin bronze from spending an afternoon on the rocky shores. Her canary-yellow tank-top with two spherical watermarks over her chest clings in a shadow to the wet bikini beneath. She lugs an azure-green, beaded bag, poises a straw beach mat intertwined among the straps and a baguette under her arm.
A Monoprix shopping bag floats by on the salty breeze and seems to mock my American habits with its classic design and elegant, soulful French dance through the alleyway. A dog barks territorially at this wistful tango of plastic scraping the pavement. The mutt bounds back to his master beckoning him to attack the intruder, but the man continues cooking on his hotplate in his staked-out corner of Segurane. The familiar aroma of pork & beans wafts up and enters my nostrils. The resident clochard, oblivious to his sans-home predicament, hums a catchy, classic Jazz tune, lights up a cigarette, and greets passing students “bonsoir” while enjoying his bubbling feast. Students begin to congregate on the street, eager to embrace the night while the smiling outdoor resident and his four-legged companion entertain the crowd with a recorder flute and affably solicit a smoke from every passerby.
Even the bums are in heaven here.
A moped rushes through buzzing with bravado. A handsome young man in his riding helmet, khakis & a billowing white button-down, winks at us as he slows to scoop up his Mediterranean beauty, a mature woman who looked dazzling in her perfect tan, linen pants and bright turquoise tunic. She clings to her driver’s back whispering in his ear. A puff of exhaust kicks up as they head around the curve laughing. The students uncork their swinging wine bottles, break apart a baguette with cheese and begin their stroll down the cobblestone roads, disappearing through the haze of an exotic evening that has only just begun to take shape.
Nov 2008, reminiscing Summer 05.
