Rome & Monaco

May 13th – Port outside of Rome

A hideously rainy day. The very expensive tours were taking people armed with their umbrellas for a two hour ride to Rome to see the sites and to shop. We chose to stay on-board, having a manicure, doing loads of laundry or reading in the library. A dull down-day, but one which is needed when one is on the road for two months. Both of us are a little bored with the ship and ready to move on to more stimulating experiences.

Dinner tonight at a table for eight only emphasized this point. We had a brand new set of people with whom to become acquainted: two widowed friends from Arizona; two widowed friends from Edinburgh, Scotland who had known each other since the time that they were switchboard operators together (Ernestine where are you?); Richard, a fairly bombastic hog-the-conversation realtor from Portsmouth, New Hampshire and his very diminutive, quiet friend Rachel, a nurse from the south.

We had the usual tier-one conversations and the rest of the meal was dominated by what could be bought in what port; where one shopped when at home; how many brilliant grandchildren one had, etc. We excused ourselves after dessert, retired to the aft deck for a drink and then to bed.

May 14th – Monaco/Monte Carlo

We were rewarded with a blue sky warm day which lured us off the ship as soon as it had anchored off the port at noon. With Beatrice, rather than radar-nose leading the way, we found ourselves taking a more circuitous route to our destination - climbing our way to the top of the rock to see the old town, the aquarium and the palace of the Grimaldi family.

Monaco is a beautifully situated harbor where it is obvious that wealth has no limits. The ships which we could see in the harbor below, both yachts and sailing vessels were for the most part large and impressive. The town has changed significantly since Bob was here 40+ years ago, and even though we drove through here together less than 18 years ago, we felt as if we were visiting a new place. The old town which was once so prominent is almost lost amidst high rises, fancy hotels and an entire new city where business buildings and high rises dominate the skyline.

It would appear that it is only a few days before the Monte Carlo road race and the whole town has been rearranged for the event. Roads had detours or were cut off and being re-lined with markings for the racers; blue bleachers were being set up along the roadway for observers to see probably two minutes of the event as the drivers whipped by; trailers were being set up at various places to provide supplies; piles of tires were collected near the pit stop area; and every wall or bridge way had a prominent advertisement painted on for Bridgestone, Pirelli, ING and others. From the heights we could observe it all and we tried to lay out the route in our imaginations.

It seems we visit Monaco at about the same time because on our last visit similar rearrangements were underway and we actually drove part of what would be the race course on our way from Nice to Portofino. (We took lots of pictures to ask Dart Thalman about when we get home to Peacham. Last year his brother participated and Dart was his pit-assistant.)

We took the proverbial tourist pictures of ourselves outside the palace where we watched a very casual guard walking back and forth in front of the main entrance in a most sloppy parade march with his submachine gun held in position. Either the Grimaldis don’t care about formality, or he hadn’t yet learned the ropes. He was an embarrassment to all proud guards – be they Greek Evzones or American soldiers. {Bob suggested that he learned to march in the Navy…or the Coast Guard ;-) } But he did look lovely dressed in white, set against a blue sky and a pale palace. Only the seriously modern gun gave one pause.

Having completed our circuitous route we once more went down to the level of the harbor where we caught the #100 bus which, fora mere one Euro each, would carry us to Nice and lunch. The bus was crowded, so we were obliged to stand for most of the 13 kilometer ride, but who cared. The view outside the window was breathtaking as we drove the shoreline Cornich, passing the through towns of Eze, Villefranche, and Beaulieu looking down at an azure sea, sailboats, and elegant homes.

The conversation around us was French but with a distinctly southern accent and while we looked like Americans, we felt momentarily as if we were part of the local scene. Once in the old Port section of Nice, Radar-Nose took over and led us right back to our favorite Cours Saleya. In the early mornings this is a thriving fish, vegetable and flower market, with awnings down the middle of the road to protect from rain and sun, and water drainage ditches on both sides to wash down the smell of fish at the end of the sales day.

In the afternoon and evening it is transformed into a bustling, noisy restaurant ‘scene’ with nightclubs, disco, up-scale and simple fish restaurants, plus shops and stands appealing to locals and the tourists alike. It being 3:00 PM the conversion from fish market to restaurant row was almost complete and instead of fish stands, chairs and tables were put out under the awnings preparing for the evening activities. We sat at a lovely little restaurant where our parched and weary bodies sucked in ‘1664’ beer as if it were water while sitting on huge cushioned cast-iron chairs that looked like mini-thrones. Around us were the youth of Nice smoking like fiends, jabbering on cell phones, sunbathing and staring at the passersby. It always astounds me on a working afternoon to find so many people out and about, relaxing and enjoying life…where is the work ethic?…where is the time-focused need to quickly grab a meal and return to work? There’s something deliciously wrong with a culture that can luxuriate over a meal with friends without the guilt that pleasure should not be part of the workday experience. Or maybe they’re all students, or unemployed, or simply living off the wealth of their parents, with no need to work. We could observe this world for hours wondering what the story is behind each person sitting in a chair.

Having satisfied our hunger and thirst, we ambled across the city towards the railroad station, poking in windows on the main shopping drag – Gallerie Lafayette, H&M, all the main stores as well as the smaller boutiques are available. I limited myself to one Provencal tablecloth with poppies and lavender, my two favorite symbols of spring in Europe.

The streets were crowded with shoppers of all nationalities and we noted quite a few Muslims in their scarves and long gowns who are obviously part of the working world of Nice; there were a few too many beggars for my liking asking for alms, and I noticed that the new look of fashion seems to be just this side of sloppy. Where are those lovely French ladies with their sense of savoir-faire and nonchalant glamour? I miss that simple elegance where a silk scarf thrown dramatically around the shoulder, the well coifed hair and that hauteur which comes from knowing you look elegant makes the rest of us peons feel we haven’t a chance at graciousness.

I remember on my early trips to France when I’d shop like mad for scarves and try to look the part knowing that there was something just too American in my stance, my walk, my shoes, my attitude which would leave me revealed as an imposter. But what’s the fun, if you don’t try. This time I felt we were the better dressed but then, maybe we just don’t ‘get’ the new style.

Our train ride back was uneventful but our walk from the new Monaco train station to our ships’ tender was an odyssey. The train station is brand new,  has three levels, and lacks signage at the critical junctures where one needs to know exactly where to go. Once out of the station, we knew where the port was, but getting there wasn’t obvious. It didn’t help to have half the roads chained off for the race, so that only those who lived in the town could find their way without error. Even Radar-Nose had his doubts as we went up and over bridge ways laid out for the race, walked in the area reserved for the car pits, found ourselves at some fairly chaotic intersection where to try and cross would mean taking ones life in one’s hand. We doubled back, went places we knew we shouldn’t be, and eventually found our way to the tender and to the ship, where we had a beer at our favorite aft deck bar to celebrate our safe return.

Every bone in our body told us we’d walked entirely too many city streets, climbed too many stairs, up and down, and we were very glad to find our comfortable bed…all that was missing was the masseuse to rub us down and take the kinks out of our aching limbs. Eight miles in the countryside goes by fairly easily, city walking with the need to be constantly alert to lights, bustling people, pick pockets, beggars and people hawking their wares, curbs, cobbled streets etc. is a different kind of walking. I love it because my senses get stimulated from all the things to be observed, but I do get weary at the end of a day.

Tomorrow will be a quiet day on board in the harbor of Marseilles. It is a seriously industrial port, so we will relax on the ship, do our packing and have a lovely dinner with our friends from the day at Lake Bled.