Europe 2010, Part 2

On our first full day in Nice, David went for a long run at an ungodly hour, and I slept in. We then took a short walk. This is outside our hotel, walking to breakfast.

And here's our view while we enjoyed our pain au chocolat and coffee.

Our hotel is on the other side of that hill. We discussed visiting a museum -- there's a surprising number in Nice -- and decided to visit the museum of contemporary art over the Matisse or Chagall museums because (1) it was close, and (2) it was free. Art connoisseurs, that's what we are.

This was a sculpture outside the museum. It amused me.

The museum included rooftop exhibits, most of which included the gorgeous views.

I especially liked this mirrored piece where you see part of the city reflected.

We left the museum and wandered around, saw a pretty fountain.

And pretty houses.

Our house is almost that exact pink color. I always thought the builders were weird to paint our house pink. Who has a pink house? Apparently every other person in Nice. It is one of the most popular colors. Now I know I just need to get shutters and paint them green.

By then we had whiled away a few hours and started feeling like maybe we needed something more than a croissant and coffee. We considered this place --

-- but decided against it when we couldn't figure out what meal that might be. I know what brunch is (breakfast/lunch) and I know what linner is (lunch/dinner), but flunch left me confused.

We decided to pick a restaurant in the Cours Saleya, which is a street just behind the Promenade.

Our hotel is just out of sight on the far right.

In the morning this long street holds one of the biggest flower markets in southern France. Around noon, the flower merchants start clearing out, and the restaurants put out all their tables and chairs.

We picked a restaurant at random, mostly because they had one of the only free tables on the whole street. After we were seated, we perused the menu and ordered our meal. The two French men sitting next to us struck up what would be the first of many tableside conversations with strangers. They asked if we were British. I don't know what tipped them onto the fact that we were foreigners. Maybe it was because we had to point at the menu to help the waitress completely understand our selections. Or perhaps it was the fact that David would throw in an occasional Japanese word when finger pointing failed.

Very charming (although smoking incessantly), they gave us their unfinished bottle of wine insisting that they wouldn't finish it themselves, and it was a crime to let it go to waste. I probably didn't protest as much as I should have. Introductions ensued, and we learned that our dining companions were Ian and Fabio, although I was a mite suspicious of this since they had to look at each other and confirm that these were indeed their names.

They asked what our plans were over the next few days and encouraged us to visit Monaco. After we mentioned that Monaco was indeed on the agenda for the next day, they asked if we would like to go boating. Ian (or was it Fabio?) gave us his card (which had the name Nicholas on it, by the way) in case we decided we were in the market for purchasing or renting a boat. They departed soon afterwards, giving us a suggestion for lunch in Monaco and also insisting that if we happened to see them again during our visit we must sit down and have a drink with them.

Our bellies full with a delicious lunch and fabulous wine, we decided to climb the hill behind our hotel next. It's called Castle Hill, and has steps to take you to the top. How hard can it be, I thought? The answer -- pretty hard. I stopped to rest here on the pretext that I was admiring the amazing view.

The next time I stopped was about halfway up (the hill is higher than it looks, I swear). My excuse this time was that I wanted to listen to the accordion player that was on a viewing terrace. (Music to climb by.) As we neared the top of the hill, I started getting passed by elderly people, which was really embarrassing. We finally got to the top, and I leaned against the balustrade panting while David took lovely pictures.

We decided to go down the other side of the hill and walk back around through the city streets to our hotel. As we started down the backside of Castle Hill I saw the tourist train, filled with around 200 elderly people, starting to motor back down. That explained a lot and made me feel much better about my performance, although it was still admittedly on the pathetic side. (Note to self: don't eat a heavy lunch and drink a bottle of wine before hiking.)

Feeling mighty pleased with ourselves, we bought a bottle of wine, a baguette, and some snacks and headed back to our room to enjoy the beautiful sunset.

What Did You Say?

Unfortunately for my children, it looks like they have inherited the gene from my side of the family that makes it impossible to sit through a movie or TV show without talking incessantly. (I'm sure invitations to movies with friends are winging their way towards me even now!)

Ironically, the children talking nonstop irritates me to no end. This is because they don't seem to understand that I am the only one allowed to talk during shows. How dare they interrupt when I was about to do so! So I often absent myself to another room when the TV goes on.

Right now I'm sitting up here trying to work, and the volume of the TV is slowly getting louder and louder. I'm pretty sure it's not because we're getting close to an action scene, but because David is trying to ignore the fact that Sabrina won't shut up. Then the sound stops abruptly, and I hear this:

D: Are you going to be quiet anytime soon?

S: I only have one three-second thing to say.

D: But you've been talking nonstop for 10 minutes now!

S: That's because you won't listen!

D: We're watching a movie! (As if that explains anything to this gene-damaged kid.)

S: But it's only three seconds!

D: I don't want to hear it, though.

S: Argh!

D: I agree.

S: I'm serious!

D: So am I!

S: ARRGH!

D: Exactly.

Then the movie starts up again, and . . . yup, there she goes again.

Europe 2010, Part 1

"Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start . . . "

I thought it was appropriate to begin with lyrics from The Sound of Music since another song from that musical, Climb Every Mountain, spent an inordinate amount of time running through my head during this vacation. I now hate that song.

I was going to show pictures of me and David while waiting at SFO for our flight. We were still in good spirits, having not yet met the extremely small space we would be spending the next 12 hours of our lives. But those pictures were on my camera which I lost three days into our trip, continuing a long and illustrious Sedivy family tradition of either forgetting to bring a camera or forgetting to use one you've brought. I just put a new twist on this familial institution, that of using it, then losing it. Luckily, I had the backup of David and his camera (which he in his wisdom rarely let me touch). Otherwise you'd be getting stick figure drawings of my impressions of our trip.

Here's our plane. It continually astounds me that a behemoth like that can get off the ground.

I wasn't actually going to spend time talking about our flight over the pond. What is there to say really? Small space, bad food, long time in air. But the quality of entertainment provided by British Airways proved such that some things needed to be shared.

Act One involved three big, young British fellows traveling together, sitting in the seats behind us. I was afraid at first that I would spend the flight suffering from knee-itis. I was not thrilled at the prospect of having the person behind me constantly banging into my seat. I needn't have worried, however. Having my seat prodded and poked would have required these young gentlemen to actually stay in their seats. They opted instead to spend a good portion of the flight in the aisle, heartily availing themselves of the free drinks on international flights. Good-natured, but becoming increasingly louder as the flight went by, they were even able to penetrate the haze of my Dramamine-induced stupor.

Act Two consisted of the reading light above me switching on and off, on and off, on and off. Apparently, in the recent past some ergonomics genius at the airline decided that the best place to put all the buttons to control lights, volume, channel changer, etc., was on TOP of the arm rest. The gentleman seated next to me, not realizing his arm rest was not to be used for actually resting his arm, did exactly that. It took me a while, due to the aforementioned stupor, to realize that it was not gremlins tampering with my light, but an elbow.

Act Three was on our second flight from London to Nice. Three young ladies who looked like real-life Barbie dolls seated themselves in front of us. They asked very prettily if the flight attendant would take their picture and proceeded to chatter quite loudly about how tiresome it was for boys to expect them to answer every single post on their Facebook wall. They, too, imbibed quite freely. Then, one of them declared she "must have moisturizer right this second," and proceeded to hike her dress up all the way to "there" so she could slather on her lotion. Her thighs must have been especially dry as she gave them particular attention. I told David he could have had entirely different scenery had he not chosen the window seat.

We finally landed in Nice, and we figured out we could get most of the way to our hotel via bus, so I hesitantly purchased tickets in French. We found our hotel, and emboldened by my success in buying bus tickets in a language not my own, I launched into French at the hotel, too. Nous avons une reservation.

Whoops. This released a torrent of French that left me dumbfounded. I caught enough words to vaguely understand the receptionist was asking for our name, credit card, and passports. She then mentioned something about breakfast. I got that it started at 7 a.m. but not when it ended, or how much it cost. I heard the number 14, but didn't know what it referred to. Obviously not the time breakfast ended.

And it was at this point that what little French I knew deserted me completely. I couldn't even remember how to say, "I don't understand," or, "Please speak more slowly." No, I just stood there staring like an idiot. For all I know, there might have been drool on my face left over from what little sleep I did get on the plane. I stood there staring helplessly while David made helpful little comments like, "What was that? What's she saying? Why are you drooling?"

The receptionist took pity on me and asked, in very good English, "Did you understand?" Galvanized by hearing my own language, I rushed to my own defense and repeated what I did know. She then filled me in on what I had missed. Turns out 14 was our room number.

We went up to our room. It was utterly lovely with floor-to-ceiling windows, a charming balcony with seating for two and a view overlooking the famous Promenade des Anglais. I guess those hours I spent ruining my eyesight reading review after review on Trip Advisor weren't wasted after all. After that, I vaguely remember venturing out to find a small restaurant somewhere to eat dinner, and then falling into bed and sleeping for more hours at one stretch than I have in months.

Here are pictures of our hotel and the view from our balcony.

Europe 2010 Summary

Number of times my high school French was actually useful: 5
Number of French phrases David learned: 2 (Both involving beer)
Number of beers consumed by David: 38
Alps climbed: All of them, I swear (some more than once)
Miles hiked: 50
Falls with skinned knees: 1
Times we got lost: 2
Crying fits: 4
Sweat produced: Buckets
Pounds lost: 5
Number of goats in herd that tried to run us off the road: 50
Number of dogs shepherding the goats: 2
Number of people shepherding goats: 0
Number of people who thought we were British: 70
Number of actual British people we met: 4
Number of yachts offered up for sale to us: 1
Number of gigantor Twix found: 1 (seriously, this thing was HUGE)
Cameras lost: 1
Books read: 5
Wineries found: 0
Ecstatic husband: 1
Trip of a lifetime with my beloved: Priceless

Stickless No More

Someone took pity on my stick-less state and loaned me the use of their walking pole. Here I am practicing.

No posts over the next couple of weeks, but I promise to take good notes and update you when I get back.

À bientôt, mes amis!

Until the Fourth of Never

Sabrina wakes up in foul mood and proceeds to snap at everyone and everything, getting meaner by the second.

Me:  You need to go to your room and not come out until you can speak nicely to people.

S:   That'll be NEVER.

Door slams. And end scene.

These are my before and after pictures. Remember the one on the left?

As you can see, great progress has been made. We can actually see the floor, folks! I would like to think me posting a minor complaint for all the world to see is what shamed David into cleaning up this area, but I fear this is not the case. More likely it's the fact that he could no longer get to his desk to work. Whatever the reason, I'll take it.

Next up, our bedroom.

That box with the dirty bag in it? It's David's bike toolkit. That tent leaning against the wall. Also David's. He used both of them when he went on his Cycle Oregon trip LAST SEPTEMBER. For a while, everything from that trip was parked for a month in my living room until I started growing little bald spots on my head from ripping my hair out. Wanting to have at least one of us with a head of hair, David graciously picked up the items from the living room . . . and moved them to our bedroom where they have been residing ever since.

That brown grocery bag? Holds stuff David put together for a presentation on Japan at our kids' school LAST MAY. The pile of boxes? Stuff that's IMPORTANT, yet never looked at. (Look closely and you can see the dust.) The golf balls? That really mystifies me since we don't golf. The REI bag? A recent addition, but empty. Its contents are now spread across the floor as we prepare for our trip. Those paint supplies? Oh, wait, those are mine.

We are doomed, I tell you. Doomed.