Cote d'Azur!! Yes, the French Riveria!
Ok and so the journey continued… I caught the train the next day to Nice, from where I would go the 5 miles or so to Villefranche where my language school, and my home for the next month is.
I know you’re all thinking, the French Riviera is synonymous with wealth, how can Ingrid go there? Yes, for decades the haunt of movie stars from around the globe, high flying playboys and the ‘beautiful’ people the Riviera seems almost out of reach of the average Australian (public servant and all!). However, it’s not so bad, since the 50s when Bridget Bardot made St. Tropez her home away from home, and started the influx of the Paris Hiltons of the world, she also started another trend. Exclusivity. Stars want to be where all the rest of the world isn’t and that suits me just fine.
The Riviera is littered with small towns a stones throw (or a stiff hike) away from each other. So as long as you’re not staying in the largest town, Nice, you’ll find no trouble getting anything you need, but on a budget you may have trouble getting that room with a view. That’s why I like Villefranche so much my hotel, the charming Hotel Patricia, had a view of all the Riviera has to offer, the yachts anchored in the aqua harbour, and rocky cliffs littered with pink, saffron and vermillion villas.
A 50 metre walk up the road from the hotel and you’re on the main road between Cannes, Nice and Monaco. For only 1.30 euros you can catch the bus between these destinations. The buses are clean, comfortable and filled with locals. Locals, as local as anyone is on the Riviera, ex-pat retirees, Parisians vacationing, Scandinavian families, and probably, Brad and Angelina’s nanny.
On the bus route you’re on a cliff top journey that promises to show you the best of the Riviera from Cannes, to the sparkling beaches of the Promenade des Anglais and Quai des Etats-Unis in Nice, past the ancient citadel in Villefranche, past the cosy hills of Beaulieu-sur-Mer another small town close to Villefranche.
Yes, it’s pretty idyllic and sorry for rubbing it in.
In Nice however you can see the other side of the Riviera culture, something I have noticed. There are approximately three types of shops in Nice:
1) Veterinarians
2) Podiatrists
3) Grocers
And let me tell you the latter is far more uncommon than the first two. So it is – women, preferably bleached blond divorcees with heavily laden gold fingers and big designer had bags, and naturally, some form of stiletto, walk along with their little dear, precious, pooches.
So their pooches, in such an unladylike way, have to do their business on footpath. Oh dear, says the woman… where is my gardener I will not pick up my pooches stenchy, manky, I’ve feed her too much chocolate and she is sick, poop… non, non, non, zoot alors, I will leave it on the footpath.
Part 2, along comes second unsuspecting victim, much in the same manner as the first, though perhaps with Manholo Blahniks instead of Jimmy Choos. Oh la la, she slips in the previous doggie’s doo, and lands squarely, on her own mal-nourished petrified pruned pooch. So she has as twisted ankle, pooch on her Capri pants and her poop little puppy suffers some more serious internal bleeding. And as the French would say ‘voila!’ Ladies and Gentlemen, so goes my theory of why there are a strikingly large number of veterinarians and podiatrists on the Riviera.
I know you’re all thinking, the French Riviera is synonymous with wealth, how can Ingrid go there? Yes, for decades the haunt of movie stars from around the globe, high flying playboys and the ‘beautiful’ people the Riviera seems almost out of reach of the average Australian (public servant and all!). However, it’s not so bad, since the 50s when Bridget Bardot made St. Tropez her home away from home, and started the influx of the Paris Hiltons of the world, she also started another trend. Exclusivity. Stars want to be where all the rest of the world isn’t and that suits me just fine.
The Riviera is littered with small towns a stones throw (or a stiff hike) away from each other. So as long as you’re not staying in the largest town, Nice, you’ll find no trouble getting anything you need, but on a budget you may have trouble getting that room with a view. That’s why I like Villefranche so much my hotel, the charming Hotel Patricia, had a view of all the Riviera has to offer, the yachts anchored in the aqua harbour, and rocky cliffs littered with pink, saffron and vermillion villas.
A 50 metre walk up the road from the hotel and you’re on the main road between Cannes, Nice and Monaco. For only 1.30 euros you can catch the bus between these destinations. The buses are clean, comfortable and filled with locals. Locals, as local as anyone is on the Riviera, ex-pat retirees, Parisians vacationing, Scandinavian families, and probably, Brad and Angelina’s nanny.
On the bus route you’re on a cliff top journey that promises to show you the best of the Riviera from Cannes, to the sparkling beaches of the Promenade des Anglais and Quai des Etats-Unis in Nice, past the ancient citadel in Villefranche, past the cosy hills of Beaulieu-sur-Mer another small town close to Villefranche.
Yes, it’s pretty idyllic and sorry for rubbing it in.
In Nice however you can see the other side of the Riviera culture, something I have noticed. There are approximately three types of shops in Nice:
1) Veterinarians
2) Podiatrists
3) Grocers
And let me tell you the latter is far more uncommon than the first two. So it is – women, preferably bleached blond divorcees with heavily laden gold fingers and big designer had bags, and naturally, some form of stiletto, walk along with their little dear, precious, pooches.
So their pooches, in such an unladylike way, have to do their business on footpath. Oh dear, says the woman… where is my gardener I will not pick up my pooches stenchy, manky, I’ve feed her too much chocolate and she is sick, poop… non, non, non, zoot alors, I will leave it on the footpath.
Part 2, along comes second unsuspecting victim, much in the same manner as the first, though perhaps with Manholo Blahniks instead of Jimmy Choos. Oh la la, she slips in the previous doggie’s doo, and lands squarely, on her own mal-nourished petrified pruned pooch. So she has as twisted ankle, pooch on her Capri pants and her poop little puppy suffers some more serious internal bleeding. And as the French would say ‘voila!’ Ladies and Gentlemen, so goes my theory of why there are a strikingly large number of veterinarians and podiatrists on the Riviera.
posted by Ingrid @ 11:15 AM
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