A Home in Nice.

A story from 2016. Loosely based on travels in 2014.

It was the summer after high school and I had this latest obsession with looking at homes on Airbnb. I’d look at homes all over the world — cheap apartments, expensive mansions, boat houses, tree houses, Malibu condos — you name it. One random day I was browsing apartments in the south of France, when I hit upon a city called Nice. Sitting on the French Riviera, between St. Tropez and the kingdom of Monaco, Nice just sings elegance and beauty. The apartments in Nice were nothing spectacular, but that’s not what I was fascinated by. I was captured by the views from the apartments. Crooked streets, houses painted in pastel colours, old churches, and the light blue sea. My obsession grew to the point I went onto Google Earth and started roaming the streets of Nice. On a whim, I decided to check out flights flying from London. EasyJet was offering roundtrips for just £49. I could get a crummy apartment for approximately twenty bob a night, which wouldn’t be too bad. It was very doable. The thought itself oozed adrenaline. I looked down at my shoes for a few seconds, and then back at my computer. I pulled up the EasyJet website and bought a ticket. Gave myself four nights in Nice. I shacked myself up in a small room of an apartment these two French guys had. They seemed nice on Airbnb.

The talk with my parents went surprisingly well. Seeing as I’d already secured tickets and lodging arrangements, my parents had nothing left to do but wave me off. So that’s what they did. They brought down a small suitcase, helped me pack, and dropped me off at Gatwick Airport the next day. They planted a peck on my cheek and quickly drove off. I checked in and boarded my flight. EasyJet flights aren’t exactly the most comfortable. All they gave me was a tiny bottle of water and a napkin. I was cramped, squished between an awkward and bony Eastern European lady on my right, and an American lady on my left. She was traveling in a group with two other American couples. Her husband was working in Brussels and was going to catch up with them in St. Tropez. The flight was mercifully only two hours. I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of the journey, but I woke up just in time to watch the descent. The sky was cloudless, and the teal blue ocean sparkled in the sunlight. The plane arced down towards the city. The red terracotta rooftops of Nice baked in the midday sun. I knew I was in love.

We disembarked from the aircraft and boarded a bumpy bus to the airport terminal. “Bienvenue. Welcome to Nice!” resounded throughout the arrivals hall. I collected my bag and proceeded outside. I called up my hosts Damien and Nadjima. Nadjima picked up. She seemed super cheery over the phone, but the trouble was I could hardly understand half the things she said. Her English vocabulary consisted of French words contorted to sound like broken English syllables. Luckily, one of the Americans on my flight was fluent in French and she took over the phone call. I prompted her to ask my hosts for directions to the apartment. I had to board the number twenty-three bus towards Vallons des Fleures (Valley of the Flowers) and get off at Eglise Sainte-Jeanne d’Arc. From there it was a five-minute walk.

The bus was mildly air-conditioned. It followed the Promenade des Anglais right along the coast of the Mediterranean and up Avenue Saint-Lambert into the heart of the city. The people in the bus were an eclectic bunch. Locals jumped on and off the buses at their leisure. Everyone went about at their own pace. A lanky Frenchman with a slim mustache carried a sandy satchel strapped around his shoulders. In one hand he held a pack of Marlboro rolling tobacco. In the other he had a piece of rolling paper. He grabbed some tobacco, dumped it onto the paper, and evened it out. He packed it down, rolled it up, licked it and twisted off the end. He put the tobacco back in his satchel, stepped off the bus at the upcoming stop, lit his rolled cigarette and strolled away. So nonchalantly. Fashionably dressed women in Louboutin flats and Gucci sunglasses sat next to men sporting thick dreads and football jerseys. The silky bubble of French chatter drifted through the bus. Some people had their headphones in or were reading a French magazine. Some were doing both. Some bus stops were busy; others weren’t. A few people walked onto the bus with baguettes; others gripped cups of coffee. Indigenous coffee houses prevailed, fighting the Starbucks conquest.

The streets of Nice

I got off the bus at the church. The Mediterranean heat hit me, and perspiration trickled down my armpits. I already smelled liked a poor Riviera inhabitant. As I walked towards the apartment the streets got narrower and crummier. Lopsided apartment blocks grew haphazardly on top of each other; windows were scattered along the buildings, hardly arranged in an orderly fashion. Balconies stuck out at odd angles. The entrance to my apartment building opened up right next to a pub that only broadcasted the Tour de France. The guy who owned the pub was this round, pale French man with a friendly face. I walked up four storeys to the apartment and knocked on the door. No one came to open it, but I could hear music playing inside. I knocked again, a little harder this time. Hurried footsteps grew louder and the door opened, revealing a short looking woman with a warm smile and, peculiarly, very Hispanic features.

“Bonjour! Vous êtes Anand? Ça va?” I could barely hear her over the music. It sounded like there were at least ten people crammed into the tiny apartment.

“Bonjour! Oui, je suis Anand. How are you?”

“Very good. Bienvenue! Come, please!” With that she shuffled me off to my small room. I dropped my bags off, sprayed some deodorant on and came out to the living room. “Tout le monde! C’est Anand!” An explosion of greetings welcomed me. I scratched my nose at the smell of cheap wine and cigarettes. A bearded man dressed in all black except for a pair of shimmering white sneakers approached me, drink in hand.

“Hello Anand. I’m Damien.” He held out a small hand for me to shake. He poured me a glass of wine and handed me a cigarette, expecting me to accept. “Bienvenue! The flight — it was good?”

“Oui! It was good. I’m excited to be here.”

“Tell me, Anand — you like Nice?”

“Nice est très belle. I love it.” His face lit up as he heard my choppy French.

“You will like! We go out tonight, oui?” More people came over to join in our conversation. No one was older than perhaps twenty-four. They were all eager to inspect this new specimen that had entered their kickback. They were pleasantly intrigued by me. It seemed as though my mannerisms were oddly similar to theirs. They liked the way I smoked my cigarette. They liked the way I dressed. They liked the colour of my skin and the accent of my voice. And they each hobbled in close to give me the once-over. It seemed that these young French adults approved of me. I was just like them, a student trying to find his way in the world, letting experiences cultivate personality. They too sculpted themselves in their own way. Independently. And there they were, gathered together as friends, in a city that wasn’t originally theirs. But Nice had molded them into who they were; it had carved memories and formed character. And I had entered into a world that was now their own, a world that had shaped them, a city that would shape me. And I was immediately allowed to be a part of their entourage.

Damien’s English was probably the most eloquent in the apartment. The others, limited by language, would merely gesture over to me and smile that warm, yellow-toothed, cigarette-in-mouth smile. I would smile back, not knowing what to say, hoping that my contorted facial expressions would suffice. I stepped out onto the tiny balcony and looked out over Nice. The balcony overlooked a shabbily furnished outdoor-restaurant. Rows and rows of asymmetric buildings sprung up from the streets. The sun was slowly setting on my right. I sat down on the rickety steel chair and put my legs up on the balcony railing.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I jolted awake. I must’ve dozed off. Elise stood there, her long brown hair flowing past her soft, beautiful face. “We go out. You come?” Her slender arm reached out to nudge me again. I looked around, pulled myself together and got up from the chair. “Avez-vous une cigarette?” I searched my pockets, found my box of American Spirits and handed her one. “This different cigarette?”

“Yes, it’s American Spirits,” I explained, gesturing to the label on the box. She lit it with her lighter, ever so elegantly, and took a savouring drag.

“Très bien! It’s good!” I smiled. We shuffled back into the house. Everyone was looking for their phones, picking up their wallets. “Viens! We go out!” We followed the rest of the entourage out the house, down the narrow stairwell and out into the warm night. I walked alongside Elise and her cigarette. She seemed to glide down the sidewalk, her long legs moving ever so gently across the cobblestones. I stopped short, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Elise was waiting for me to catch up. “Ça va?” she asked.

Our little posse sprawled across the narrow streets of Nice. We’d taken a couple turns through narrow passageways that had led to vast, beautifully gardened courtyards with a ridiculous number of exits, and I’d already completely lost my sense of direction. Damien pulled back to walk next to me. “You like beer?”

“Sure. Who doesn’t?”

“Très bien,” he chuckled softly. We turned a corner and were on a beautiful promenade, blocked off from all traffic. On our right was a mouth-watering chocolate shop. I hungrily peered through the locked doors at the carefully sculpted chocolate figurines on display on top of beautifully carved golden tables. Elise grabbed my arm and said, “These are délicieux, non?” She dragged me away from the shop and we walked to a little pub a few blocks down. Outside the pub, a big banner read “Sky Sports. Live football. €4 Guinness. Entrer!” I walked inside and stepped into an uncomfortably familiar atmosphere. A crimson tide had washed over the pub. British expats wearing red hats and Arsenal jerseys had taken over. Cockney and northeast London accents floated through the air. The walls of the pub were decorated with posters of the Beatles and the Stones. A huge ‘Abbey Road’ street sign took over the centre of the main wall. Guinness advertisements and Glenfiddich bottles were proudly put on display. Elise, Damien and I walked over to the bar, ordered three beers and sat down at a table in the midst of the Gunners fans.

Elise sipped on her beer, hardly speaking. She was staring at the football match on one of the big HD screens. For some reason I couldn’t get myself to watch the game. It seemed to take place in a world far away, in a culture that didn’t seem to blend with my surroundings. Instead its gloomy, drunk presence seemed grossly imposed upon this Mediterranean riviera. Damien looked like he was in his element, captivated by the obscenity of the Arsenal fans. As they drummed on the tables and belched out chants, a smile curled around Damien’s lips.

“You English are funny people,” Damien proclaimed, turning a bemused eye toward me. I looked at him and laughed, and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. Elise laughed too, throwing her head back, and gave my hand a warm squeeze. I glanced over at her. She seemed so at ease, so exquisitely composed. Her face glowed with the warmth in her heart, and her hand felt snug on mine. God she was beautiful.

We got up for another round and went over to the rest of our group. I stood in silence while the rest of them chattered away in rapid French. Elise and Nadjima would occasionally glance over at me and smile reassuringly. As soon as I’d finished my beer, Damien patted me on the back and said something in French to the group. They all seemed to agree, and Damien led me to back to bar. We paid for our drinks and left the Arsenal fans bludgeoning the tables with their fists. We walked along the riviera. I had no idea what time it was, but I guessed it was a little past midnight. The Mediterranean Sea was absolutely still. Not a ripple broke the surface. We walked down to the only sandy beach in Nice. I took off my espadrilles and allowed the warm sand to massage my feet. I sat down, staring at the pensive water. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it up.

I saw Elise walking towards me. I just watched her walk, barefoot along the sand. Her floral dress danced in the breeze. She sat down next to me. “I like this cigarette,” she said, as I offered her one. She took my lighter from my hand, sliding her fingers along mine. A shiver ran down my spine. She handed me the lighter and looked out over the sea. “Magnifique!” she whispered. I nodded. She linked her arm through mine, and rested her head on my shoulder. We sat there for a while. I’m not sure how long. My eyes started to droop. I leant back and stretched out on the sand. Elise lay down and snuggled in closer, her head on my chest, my arm around her shoulders. I held her close and let my eyelids shut out the world.

I woke up to a bleary-eyed Damien shaking my limp body, rattling my bones. Startled, I looked to my left; Elise was gone. So was everyone else.

“Everybody’s gone home. Allons!” He’d fallen asleep too. I looked at my phone. It was half past two in the morning. He held out a hand and helped me up. We walked up the beach, slowly, our bodies still asleep. Arms around each others’ shoulders we made the long, two-mile walk to the little, cramped apartment on Rue Michelet. It was an apartment that had seen so much. It had witnessed students grow to become their own. It had witnessed friendships forge. Damien and the posse were a tight-knit group of people, working through their lives, battling through each moment together. And for that night I was one of them. The apartment had observed my arrival, and had taken me in. It had given me a room to sleep, and a home to grow. Grow with newfound friends.

Damien and I walked in sync. I couldn’t think of not knowing this person I’d just met. I couldn’t think of him not being there to support me as I walked, to guide me back through the winding streets of Nice as we walked back to his home, to our home. And as we walked, I thought of the night, the night that had flourished unexpectedly, that had struck straight into my character and had forced me to grow. It had forced me out of my comfort and had me bond with people I hadn’t met, people I couldn’t understand, people who couldn’t understand me. But they had understood me, out of the power of their hearts and the warmth of their friendship. And I thought of them. I hardly knew them, that night. But I yearned to know more, to understand their lives, how they came to be here, how they came to like me. And as we trudged back, I thought of Elise.

I never did see her again. Not the next day, nor the day after. She was gone, gone from my life, lost to my world. Yet the memory of her would always be there, entwined with my love for Nice.