The French Riviera is everything it's cracked up to be. Maybe the first place I've stopped where it hasn't been sufficient...being completely enamored with myself. At night, every night so far, I sit on the benches of the Angel's Promenade, develop methods by which to fool mind into believing the carrot dangling in front of my face is actually closer than the 20 odd days carved into its side.
Yesterday, I began running West along the Promenade towards Monaco, 25 winding kilos down the coastal road from Nice. And the road is jagged - branching out, folding in...spinning along the golden coastline. Beyond every bend lies a pearl of a small town. Harbors, boats, circular stairs leading to platforms made for diving into the Mediterranean...little ports spitting so much charm, they nearly circle back, seem vile...
Not really.
Halfway to Monaco, with exhausted eyes but a ready body, I circled around a lighthouse and headed back to Nice...saving one of the most absurd cities in the world for another day.
And turning back, happily doubling over everything I had already seen, I could envision myself buried in this corner of the world...living forever, baking bread in a nook of one of these perfect seaside towns...
If only my aspirations were docile and non-conquering...if only I knew how to fire a baguette.
