September 2003 -- The picture

We often hear that a picture is worth a thousand words. If so, then a handful of photos could tell this story. But there are things not captured in photos that we treasure nonetheless. At the time of this trip, we did not write up the experiences. There were photos, but, over time, many of the memories are beginning to fade.

We wrote about the Cote d’Azur in 1999, but that was a sequel. We discovered our love for this region nearly twenty years earlier and reconfirmed it in June of 1998. As we look back at the photos and mementoes, the memories return, the place names and events coalesce, the images are vivid, we recall the feeling of the sea air and summer heat around us again as if it is happening all over again in the present …

June 1998 - In search of Boulouris

The Mediterranean sun bathes us in its warmth as we walk outside the Nice airport terminal and head off to the car rental agency. We had requested a mid-size Renault Mégane, but the agent apologizes that there are none available and provides us with the full-size Safrane instead. This is, indeed, longer and wider than the Honda Accord we are used to driving at home, and will soon prove to give an exciting ride as we turn on to the Autoroute towards the condominium apartment we have rented in Boulouris, a small suburb of St- Raphaël. Around the industrial outskirts of Antibes and Cannes trucks dominate much of the roadway and it takes a bit of getting used to driving in the narrow, crowded lanes, especially after a trans-Atlantic flight. Forty minutes later, we arrive at the San-Raphaël exit and leave the Autoroute. It had been several years since we had been in France, but it does not take very long to remember that giratoires (traffic circles) are widely used to regulate traffic movement instead of lights. As no two roads are laid out in a rectangular fashion in these old cities, the challenge becomes to make quick decisions at intersections and giratoires without taking too many wrong turns. We do not err too often, really, except, finding ourselves in the crowded, narrow streets of downtown St- Raphaël, the first sign pointing to Boulouris is welcome.

The road to Boulouris takes us along the crest of the mountains behind the coast. We did not expect that; our map shows Boulouris as a small coastal settlement at the east end of St- Raphaël. At one point we are driving through a sparsely populated industrial area and we question whether we have taken a wrong turn. However, before too long, a sign points to Boulouris Centre, and, a few giratoires later through a modern residential area and down the hill, we find ourselves alongside the Mediterranean. Figuring that we are totally lost, we turn westward, back towards St- Raphaël, with the intention of re-orienting ourselves. About a half kilometer down the road we pull off the road in order to check out the map. Denise looks at the building on our right, and discovers that this is, indeed, the apartment complex where we will be living. Barry hopes he will not have to retrace the route to get there. We find the apartment and lay down on the futons to take the edge off the jet lag.

Home away from home

An hour later, we awaken and examine our surroundings. The apartment is a small studio with kitchenette. Barry presses a switch which causes the electrically-controlled blind that darkens the room to slowly rise, revealing patio doors leading to a sizeable sun-drenched outdoor terrace hedged with rosemary bushes along one side and orange-berried shrubs along the other. A garden dining table and chairs are sheltered under an upstairs balcony. We linger on the terrace, under the cloudless blue sky. About forty feet from the patio, at the end of the terrace, steps lead to a tree-lined path. Beyond the trees and across the road is a small beach.

Inside, two futons double as sofas and beds; they are surprisingly comfortable, (we still think so even after two weeks of sleeping on them). A small table and chairs provide dining accommodation inside in case of bad weather. A poster advertisement for Pastis and a curious painting of a boat (the owner’s oeuvre) decorate the walls. The kitchen is very compact, and has bottles and jars of olive oil, condiments, and other foodstuffs from the many tenants who have spent a week or two at a time. Our landlord is a bachelor, Denise remarks, looking at stale packages of food and the coffee grinds littered around the shelves. We take an hour and scrub the corner down. After all, this is going to be our home for two weeks.

The walking tour

The coast along the Côte d’Azur is known as the Esterel. This refers to the mountains that drop rapidly from the Alps into the Mediterranean, with red, craggy outcroppings, sheltering coves and beaches that line the coast from the Italian border along the Côte d’Azur. There are footpaths along the waterside for most of the length of the Esterel, so it is possible to take long walks from town to town, to stop at beaches, and generally amuse oneself along the coast. The Esterel is most beautiful late in the afternoon and when the sea is calm, where the path curves along the rocks around the small coves and the azure water reflects the rocks in a myriad of colours while the lengthening shadows stretch out on its mirror-like surface.

A fifteen minute walk from the apartment, and towards St-Raphaël, is the port community of Santa Lucia. This is a popular destination for pleasure boaters. Santa Lucia has many restaurants serving simple French fare, and one of these quickly becomes a favorite.

Going the other direction, we reach the center of Boulouris in about ten minutes on foot. Once a village on its own, and a bedroom community of St-Raphaël, Boulouris has a bakery, a butcher, a pharmacy, a small general store, and a few food shops, one of which sells us ice creams and sorbets. We see a little soccer player doll in the window of one shop and want to buy it for our son-in-law, who is a soccer fan. Soccer is all the rage now in France, as the World Cup is being played here. The lady explains that the soccer player figure is not up to quality so she will not sell it; instead, she gives it to us.

An afternoon stroll to Boulouris usually ends with an ice cream, and we are back home in a few minutes, ready for a snooze, a swim, lingering on the beach, or a short drive into the Côte de Provence wine region.

St-Raphaël

St-Raphaël is a handsome seaside resort town, with hotels and modern apartment buildings lining the road across from the beach, which curves around to form a natural harbour for pleasure boats and fishermen. In the middle of the curve, where the tree-lined streets meet in a vee, there is a wide choice of restaurants featuring a variety of fare from the sea in typical prix-fixe menus. Many of these restaurants have raw bars, where one can dine on a variety of oysters and other shellfish served on large tiered platters that take up most of the table. A bottle of dry French white, some bread and aioli, and we have a satisfying feast. This is where we first taste the Clair de Marennes oysters, gleaned off the Atlantic coast near Bordeaux. Rich, meaty, redolent of the sea, they quickly become a favourite treat.

In the tangle of streets behind the seafront, St- Raphaël bustles. We visit the many specialty food shops and the Monoprix – the miniature hypermarché (grocery and department store combined). (The larger suburban and town hypermarchés, with names such as Casino, Géant, and Intermarché, will become landmarks for us across the French countryside for groceries as well as for their clean, accessible restroom facilities.) Late in the afternoon, when it is time to leave their St- Raphaël offices, we see many people on their way home, carrying fresh baguettes under their arm, each wrapped in a small piece of waxed paper, the ends of the bread missing, presumably having disappeared as a quick after-work snack.

At the west end of St- Raphaël, the name changes and we are in Fréjus, actually Fréjus-Port, the seaside portion of an ancient Roman city. The beach has fine, clean sand, and across the street, stretching for perhaps 10 blocks, is a row of low-rise, stucco-covered hotels with restaurants, snack bars, and souvenir shops lining the sidewalk from one end to the other. At the end of the beach strip is another small harbour and a series of canals, with very modern condominium apartment buildings serving the pleasure boaters. We have not yet seen modern architecture of this sort at the coast – massive cement statues, sleek modern renditions of Egyptian and Greek gods holding up the upper floors of cement and glass on their heads. Across a grassy plain, we see a cluster of stone buildings and red tiled roofs. This is the ancient center of Fréjus, a few kilometers away.

Old Fréjus dates from Roman times, when it was on the land route to Gaul. There are remnants of a Roman theater, which we visit, wandering through the stumps of the entrance colonnade and into the stands, or what is left of them. A few blocks away is an old stone bull-ring. There are bull-fights advertised for the summer, but as it is mid-June, they have not started yet. We wander into a cemetery, and are struck by the riot of colours facing us. The French mark their graves by anything from simple slabs on the ground to highly-decorated granite or marble mausoleums. Ceramic flowers of every colour are arranged liberally on all of the graves, often with framed photos of the departed, giving the otherwise somber setting a breath of eternal life.

Day tripping

We have ventured further afield, too, but we did not record these adventures at the time. Lunch in Carcès – steak-frites on stone terrace dating back many hundreds of years. Lavender-filled fields surrounding the medieval abbey of Le Thoronet. Hill towns with names forgotten and streets so narrow that the mirrors of our Safrane scraped against the buildings on both sides. Wineries at every turn, with their salles de dégustation. St-Tropez, with its yachts and sidewalk artists, narrow streets, elaborately carved doorways. Cannes revisited, its restaurants and boutiques more exorbitant than ever. The city of Nice and the nearby medieval antiquity of St-Paul-de-Vence, bursting to the seams with tourists.

We will never forget to keep records again.

The cup and other fare

It is the time of the 1998 World Cup. It is being played in France this year, and the nearest venue is Montpellier, which is a few hour’s drive from here, yet all the locals and many tourists are very interested in the games.

There is a small television in the apartment. It receives four stations. One evening, we settle in for a quiet evening at home and discover that three stations are covering the soccer and the fourth is showing porn. We are content to play cards.

Evenings that we dine out in St-Raphaël, we stroll the waterside after dinner. Craftsmen and vendors of all sorts of souvenirs and accessories are set up from the beach to the beginning of Fréjus. We do not buy anything from them, but we enjoy the relaxation of the setting.

We would like to spend a few days in Italy, Florence to be specific, so we engage a travel agent in St-Raphaël to book a room on our last few days in Europe and prepare for a little side trip.

The voyage - setting out

As a young architectural student in the 60s, Barry dreamt of being able someday to visit Florence, the jewel of Renaissance artistry and creativity, and especially the famed dome that he had admired in pictures. Now, it is within reach. We had filled our tank at the local self-service gas station the evening before, our first fill-up since arriving in France (this Safrane has a pretty large tank), so that nothing would delay our trip, which we estimated at 5-6 hours on the expressways.

We leave the apartment early, and the cool, humid morning air makes the car spurt and jerk as we make our way to the Autoroute. Once on the road, everything goes smoothly, at least for a very brief moment. We realize that the ride in our Safrane is not really getting any smoother. We sputter along and at one point, realizing that the car’s performance has really deteriorated, we pull over on the left shoulder on the Autoroute median strip, several kilometers before Nice airport. It is a good thing we are off the road, too, because the car stalls and refuses to start again. We are not happy.

Several Europcar (our car rental company) vans pass. We attempt to get the attention of one of their drivers, but to no avail -- not one stops for us. Barry opts for plan B, standing at the roadside and making hand signals in an attempt to flag down any car that had a cellular telephone. This is more successful – someone stops and offers Barry the use of a cell phone. He calls Europcar, who say they will dispatch a service vehicle. Shortly afterward, we are visited by a police officer who insists we are not permitted to park in the median. However, the tow truck arrives shortly, so this is no longer an issue. Barry explains the situation to the Europcar service man. He asks what kind of fuel we had used to fill the car. “Gasoline”, Barry replies. Well, it turns out we had been driving a diesel car! No stickers (actually a tiny hidden one), a user manual for a gasoline-powered vehicle, peppy behaviour, what were we to think?

We are towed to Europcar’s Nice Airport office and are fortunate to obtain a replacement car right away, a Fiat station wagon, with a big fluorescent sticker indicating diesel fuel required. But not before paying about $200 in charges. (Subsequent attempts to reclaim these costs from Europcar are futile.) Before long, we are on the road again, climbing high above Monaco, descending towards Menton, and then up again heading full-tilt to the Italian border.

Talking machines and three-course lunches

Crossing the border into Italy is a non-event. In fact, we are several kilometers into Italy before seeing a sign for Ventimiglia and we realize we that have entered Italy. We do notice the road is different, though. While the French Autoroute hugs the contours of the rugged mountain terrain, finding the path of least resistance, the Italian Autostrade is an engineering marvel of bridges and tunnels that traces a straight path from the French border along the Liguria Riviera, whose mountains drop precipitously down towards the Mediterranean the same way they do on the French side. This is a toll road, and we arrive at the first toll booth. Fortunately, as in France, they accept our Visa card at the booth. A voice addresses us in Italian but we do not understand; it is only at the third toll booth that Barry realizes he is being told which button to press to get a receipt.

We see signs indicating Genoa, and decide it might be the time and place to stop for lunch. We leave the Autostrade and make our way into the city center, but Genoa is a big city and the roads confusing, so we retrace our steps and head back to the highway, looking for a smaller place to stop.

We choose Celle Ligure, a small coastal town with beaches, shops and restaurants. We park in the center and find a little restaurant where there is a vacant terrace table. In true Italian style the menu lists soups, salads, primi piatti (first courses) and secundi piatti (second courses), desserts. Familiar with Italian cuisine, we have few questions, except how can one eat that much food at lunch? Everyone around us is eating full-course meals. A salad and pasta are sufficient for us. The waiter gives us a questioning look – is that all you are going to eat? -- but does not push the issue further. We wander a few streets of Celle Ligure, and notice that the architecture is different (Renaissance-style detail articulated across the three stories of the houses, alternating rows of local coloured marble in the facades) and the beach fronts are different (neat rows of umbrellas, cabanas, and fences in place of free access and free-for-all). But we still have many kilometers to travel, so we head back to the highway and continue towards Florence.

Into the Duomo

The road to Florence is straight and smooth. We pass hills reflecting white Carrera marble in the early summer sunshine, and wonder no more why Italian immigrants in Canada often work in masonry. Soon we pass Florence airport, and find the streets narrowing as they converge to the center of the city. At some point, it seems that there are more motor scooters than automobiles, and soon, no vehicles at all. We are on the Piazza del Duomo, our car aimed directly at Florence’s Santa Maria del Fiore Cathedral, the birthplace of the Renaissance, with Brunelleschi’s famed dome soaring over dozen storeys towards the sky, and the church’s green and white striped marble facade glistening in the sun. But this is a pedestrian zone and we shouldn’t be there in an automobile! Retracing our movements a bit, we negotiate a lot of tourists on foot and few one-way streets until we find Via Proconsolo, and our hotel, the Grand Cavour. Fortunately, they have valet parking and the car is no longer a concern.

Our room is comfortable and modern, with television (Franny the Nanny, grating in English, seems astonishingly normal dubbed in Italian) and mini-bar, and a fine Italian marble and white enamel bathroom. From the bathroom, the window opens up on a spectacular view of the Duomo (Santa Maria). A dream is fulfilled.

Outside, as we explore around our hotel, the Duomo appears at every vista, at the end of every block and alleyway, its massive marble facades and tiled dome towering above everything around it.

Frutti di mare

Florence is a bustling modern city, but, in July, it is also bursting to the seams with tourists, mostly American. At the slightest hesitation upon entering a restaurant, we are handed an English menu. All merchants and service personnel seem to speak English. Barry tries the Italian menus when possible, but tries too hard and stumbles on frutti di mare (sea fruits – c’mon – fruits de mer). We meet a Canadian in a restaurant, a contrast to the overwhelming presence of American tourists in the city.

We stroll up and down the streets, soaking in the Renaissance beauty. The consistency of the style and the good state of preservation of the city turns Florence into a massive architectural gallery. Wherever you are in central Florence, you are surrounded by icons of the Italian Renaissance. This was the rebirth of humanism in architecture. Buildings were built to be admired and to be experienced at a human scale -- the Italians resurrected the ancient Greek technique of entasis, the distortion of parts of the building’s columns to give the impression of straightness to a pedestrian viewer’s eye. The Renaissance architects also learned how to span huge distances in stone, hence, the massive Santa Maria del Fiore, its dome larger than any in Roman antiquity. Sculptures abound at every turn of the street or piazza. There are at least 6 Davids (Michelangelo), the real one being in the Museo dell’Accademia. An early Renaissance market building is reminiscent of a Chirico painting. We do not go into the Uffizi Gallery; there is about a three hour wait. In Florence, one walks into just about any church and savors masterpieces of art for free, and without waiting.

We pass the open market, set up all around the Church of San Lorenzo. Stalls stretch for blocks in all directions, selling fruits and vegetables, hard goods, and so on. Denise buys some tapestries and fringe. We pause for reflection and quiet in San Lorenzo’s cloister, designed by Michelangelo. Unfortunately, the famous adjacent Laurentian (Lorenzo’s) Library is closed today.

There is much bustle outside. Many stalls have television sets flickering in the weak shade of the canvas stall roofs. The Italians are playing the quarter-final of the World Cup today. The merchants seem to be less interested in selling than in the game. All of a sudden, there is an uproar, and it seems that even the stones of Florence have lifted off of their foundations. The Italians have won the quarter-final!

We cross the Arno River via the Ponte Vecchio. Along both sides of the bridge, jewelers have set up shop, offering an abundance of Italian gold and semi-precious stones. We pass a street of 12^th century houses and arrive at the Pitti Palace. We do not enter the Pitti Palace, but do visit the Boboli Gardens behind. The gardens, a combination of formal landscaping and wild areas, rise up to the top of the hill behind the palace. We climb the cement paths, passing reflecting pools and benches to the top, where we have a vista of a rural area outside of the city. There is a valley with several hills rising behind. The hills are dotted with red tile-roofed cement houses, each with its little patches of grape vines and silvery-green olive trees and pointy cypress trees, reaching upward to add further dimension to the rolling landscape. The shimmering effect of the different greens and the pastels of the houses is dream-like. Barry says it is the most beautiful spot he has ever been at, and compares it to looking at a fine watercolour painting, its transparent layers of colours and washes combining and contrasting in playful counterpoint, creating an impression of rigid forms dappled by sunlight. He attempts to capture the moment in a photograph, knowing that it will be extremely difficult to recreate the panorama and the colors as we are feeling them that moment. Unfortunately, it turns out that he is right.

San Giovanni

It is June 24, known to us as St-Jean-Baptiste day. This is the same San Giovanni Battista, the patron saint of Tuscany. People fill the streets as a colourful parade wends its way from the town hall to some destination unknown to us. We watch for a while, but must begin our return to France.

Stopping briefly on our way out, we climb to the Piazzetta Michelangelo, where yet another David presides, his muscular naked pose keeping watch over the Florentine rooftops. We enjoy one last vista of the ancient city before heading to Pisa, a few kilometers away and on our way home. The mid-day heat is oppressive and the car’s air conditioning gives welcome relief.

After driving through a sizable and non-descript city, we arrive at the famed tower, cathedral, and baptistery. Under the glistening summer sun and still mid-day air, the white marble buildings are unbearably hot. We must admire the leaning tower from a distance; it is fenced off because of repairs to the foundation, trying to correct some of the tilt, which has been getting more precarious over time. We buy the requisite leaning tower fridge magnet and stop for a cool lunch before heading out on the local road. Pizza again. It is good.

The trip north and east takes much longer than we anticipate. The road winds up and down and around every little coastal outcropping and through the little towns where San Giovanni celebrations are underway. We come to a full stop for 30 minutes outside one town gridlocked by the parade. We decide to head out to the Autostrade if we are to return at a reasonable time. We make it to San Remo, a pretty coastal city near the French border, in time for a delightful al fresco supper by the harbour, and then home to Boulouris, about an hour away.

Going home

It is time to go home. As we switch down the electric blind and then turn off the electricity in preparation for leaving, we feel we are leaving a comfortable little nest and wish we could stretch our time there. There are so many places nearby that we would have liked to have seen. We know we will be back.

At Nice Airport, we see the Danish Soccer team, tall, blond, and fit. They have been eliminated from the World Cup competition and are preparing to return home, too. Denise muses playfully that she should take one or two “babes” home for her employees, or, perhaps, at least have her picture taken with them. Barry offers to be the photographer, but Denise decides against it. Barry never figures out why. He is sure they would oblige.

La Coupe Mondiale ’98 – Epilogue

Back in Montreal, we go to Jean-Talon Market on Saturday to replenish our fruits and vegetables and Italian specialties -- the market is in the middle of Montreal’s “Little Italy”. There is an Italian festival going on this week, culminating today with a concert event in the park tonight. The spirits are high. As we pass the Italian shops, we see why -- televisions are set up outside and groups of young Italians are excitedly watching the semi-final game of the World Cup.

As we stroll among the farmers’ stalls, we hear the sounds of cheering once again, as we had in Florence. Italy has won and will play the final in the World Cup! We have finished our marketing and join in the celebration. A parade of cars fills St-Laurent Boulevard, red, white and green flags draped everywhere. The streets around the market are grid-locked with the celebrants and their noise fills the air. We buy a small Italian flag to stick on our car. The feeling is jubilant. The trip isn’t quite over yet.