NICE, FRANCE

  I drove to Nice via a winding mountain one-lane highway through the Alps from a town in Italy named Cuneo. The drive was both exhilarating and completely horrifying. It must have had something to do with an Italian at the wheel and resigning my fate to his lack of caution. We drove through Monaco, but I blinked and missed it.

  Nice is Southern France at its finest, albeit with more tourists than one would like. It has been a French city for quite some time, but it still holds its Italian roots firmly in hand. I had a crazy bout of diarrhea here (a true code-red), but that’s another story altogether.

  I’ve always heard that the beaches in Nice are unparalleled, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. For one, sandy beaches are a figment of a drug-fuelled imagination. Nice beaches are made up of little stones (and sometimes big ones). Lounging on the little bastards is a true art. Some advice given to me by my travel mate Fulvio went something like this; “The way Italians relax in Nice is to just lie down. If there’s a stone poking in your back, remove it. Simple.” Duh … fucking Italians and their wisdom.

  Get past the rocks and you can truly enjoy the sights. Beautiful bikini clad, topless women and hairy, Speedo-wearing European men. I didn’t know what I wanted to do more — masturbate or puke?

  Nice is, though, quite a beautiful sight. It’s slinking streets and narrow staircases are a true art form and make walking the city effortless. Although it isn’t a large city, it’s easy to get lost (which I managed to do a few times). It took quite a while to finally find a restaurant worth eating at. Though it wasn’t because there was a lack of good restaurants. It mostly had to do with the wait staff I’d encountered until that point as being complete assholes.

  They do exist; rude French waiters! I thought they were mythical creatures in ancient lore passed down from generation to generation. I was truly convinced they were like the Golem or fairies or nymphs — that is until I saw one for myself. If I’d been more on the ball I would have tried to snap a photo of him, you know, for National Geographic or something. Unfortunately, I was too busy imagining my fist repeatedly bouncing off his stupid French forehead.

  As far as sightseeing goes, just walk around. It’s all one can really do and, like always, the best way to see any city. I would suggest going to the eastern part of the main beach and climbing atop the hill. It’s a really wonderful way to see all the way down the coast and get a complete overview of Nice.