Nice is nice

Well, twelve hours and 4,000 miles later, I am down on the Cote D'Azur. Pretty uneventful save for a near international riot at the Bureau Du Change (please pardon my spelling, my French is limited to phrases I picked up from the "Flight of the Conchords" song, "Foux de Fa Fa', which may explain why I only know where the library is and have consumed far too many baguettes).

Our flight path took us over Monaco and then down the coast to Nice Airport. The private jets were stacked 10 deep on the outer airfield. OMG, I think I saw Tom and Giselle stepping out of her Gulfstream! Or maybe it was the cleaning crew...we were pretty high up at that point.

As an aside, please let this post serve as some sort of proof that I am actually in France, because at no time did I ever need to clear customs or hand anyone my passport when I landed. Perhaps it's an EU thing, because I did check in with Swiss authorities when I transfrerred in Zurich. Aside, aside, leave yourself plenty of time in Zurich if you have a connection to make!

The airport in Nice is pretty laid back. That is until you need to exchange money. The American Express Change desk also provides foreign travellers the opportunity to recover all of the VAT (taxes) they paid for goods. I think it is some Euro conspiracy to make this process as long an painful as possible, so weary and time pressed travellers throw up their hands and leave the 17.5% tax behind. Well, they weren't prepared for the angriest Russian family I've ever seen (and I worked in retail!). A family from the UAE was recovering their taxes for what looked like an Imelda Marcos shopping spree. Fifty-two minutes after the gentleman stepped up to the desk, he was no closer to being cashed out than when he started. Multiple phone calls and visits from the manager later, Vlad et Fils accosted both the Arab family and the teller in a frothy exchange of scary pantomime and hysterical Franglish..."You! You!!! You finis! Make bye bye! (flapping arms like sweaty albatross). It was at that point that I learned from my fellow queue-mates that the Change window was closed and my hour and a half wait was for nothing. Oh well, off to find an ATM...

Euros in hand, finally, I made my way back to the information area. I thought I was in luck. There was a welcome desk for attendees of the Festival de Cannes. After a few questions posed to the two women on duty (who appeared to have been transported from some trade show booth), I learned that there are several ways to get to my hotel in Juan Les Pins and eventually Cannes. There are taxis, a train, and the bus. "You take bus. Is cheapest. I think that's best for you, No?" So much for borrowing the wife's sassy, expensive Tumi luggage. I'm still pegged for the bus.

So, after a pleasant bus ride to Antibes, here I sit in my hotel; a nice, old property located a couple of blocks from the strand and overlooking a palm lined park. An early evening stroll to the beach featured the last of the sun as it dipped behind the chateau lined hills leading to the Mediterranean. Lights popped up on several luxury yachts moored off shore, laughter and bits of conversation carrying in on the breeze. Restaraunts arranged tables on the beach, and couples both young and old took their time along the walkway. C'est la Vie...