The streets are narrow. A flock of birds roam the sky in search for their daily bread. The weather is eighty-five degrees with few clouds covering the vivid blue hue of the open sky. The wind is subtle swaying plants in gentle harmony. Niçoise make their way through the labyrinth of cars parked on each side of the street. The markets fill and so do the bakeries. Local rotisseries swing their doors open releasing the smell of seasoned chicken. In the distance, a father is guiding his family down to the Plage des Galets. The children teeter behind, fighting with their brightly-colored floats bumping against the rails. The city is alive yet quiet.
The episodic vehicle pierces its tranquility. The homes are small but spacious, draped with orange brick tiles that hang off the side of each building. On the hill, an old british couple lounges around the Musée Renior palavering with other tourists. The husband is wearing a khaki-colored hat and a light-blue shorts. A vintage camera dangles around his neck. His wife matches the aesthetic with a pair of pearl earrings that accentuates her beauty. The museum is surrounded with a tapestry of flora that makes for the quintessential romantic haven in the South of France. Squatted at the trunk of a tree, an artist leans with a pencil and a large canvas capturing the city of Cagnes Sur-Mer. His brown shirt merges with the tree making him chameleon to the visitors strolling through the lavenders below.
At the beach, the father opens an umbrella. The children flood under, trying to escape the afternoon's sun. The mother is applying sunscreen while the little boy kicks off his shoes. The water crashes against the shoreline with perfect cadence creating froth with every round. The boy wiggles out of his mother's grasp prancing toward the water with stealth-like precision. Another father is playing catch with his son as the water washes over their feet. The weather is perfect, beachgoers staggered throughout. Some in the water, some sitting on the shore. All watching the occasional plane make its final approach at the Nice Côte d'Azur Airport. Hours pass like minutes. The kids are exhausted and so are the parents. It's time to go. The father carries one of the boys over his shoulder. The older brother trails along while the mother pushes the baby in the stroller.
Back at the museum, the couple meanders towards the exit. At the gate, a young man sits on the fence looking down at his phone. His white linen shirt cradles his sun glasses perched three buttons down. The sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The couple take their time descending the attenuated passage way from the museum into the city. With a quick, "Au revoir, bonne journée," the young man looks up and echoes the same. At the beach, the family waits for the sign to turn green and quickly scampers across the promenade heading back into the city.
The sun is now setting. A golden hue plasters the face of each building reviving the Mediterranean colors of the French Rivera. A mesmerizing blend of soft pinks, fiery oranges, and deep purples. The city is alive yet quiet. One by one, the cafés on the promenade fill with tourists and residents for their nightly dinner. Tomato burrata, grilled fish, and glass of château de crémat. Hours pass like minutes. The cafés empty. The streets vacant. The nightly shadows engulf the houses and everything feels mise en place on a summer's day in Nice.
Daviel