Villefranche-sur-Mer: Ghost Town by the Sea

A short bus ride east of Nice sits the sleepy, picturesque Villefranche-sur-Mer. I imagine the resort town is bustling during the hot Mediterranean summer but in December, when many businesses are closed until spring, it's hard to imagine crowds filling the boardwalk and alleyways. 

The old Citadel serves serves as another reminder of southern France's rich history (which, incidentally, is over three times as long as the United States' lifetime as a nation). From the outside it looks like a fortress from an Alexandre Dumas' novel; from inside the outer walls it more resembles a Napa Valley vineyard. We didn't go into the museum part, but took in views of the harbor and peninsula as well as got a closer look at the pack of middle-aged tandem bicycle riders that had passed us by earlier. 

We had lunch at a restaurant in the historic center near the water, but pickings were slim due to aforementioned seasonal closures. As a non-boating specialist I would say there isn't much to do in town apart from basking in the sun (which is surprisingly strong even in winter; I was sweating in my cashmere sweater), but that is the point of a resort, is it not? To forget about the urban problems of everyday life and enjoy the beauty of the present.

Notes on Nice

Before we arrived on Friday morning, the most I had seen of Nice was from the air when I flew into the airport to attend the Cannes Film Festival this past May. My host then whisked me off by car, but I've been dreaming of those cliffs studded with colorful houses ever since.

Now that I've explored the city more, it turns out it's oddly reminiscent of Italy - particularly Naples. That shouldn't be so much of a surprise, I guess, given the two nations' proximity to one another. What I love about both are the red tiled roofs and pastel-hued buildings in faded orange and coral that just scream summer; it's such a nice change from the austere, whitewashed look of Paris. 

Like in Naples, Old Town makes you feel like a mouse caught in a maze from the way the crowded stalls whose awnings affixed to tall buildings on either side make you crane your neck to see their tops. Many cater to simple tourist tastes, offering postcards, keychains, and the like, but I also spotted the odd spice shop, apothecary, and even a butcher whose front display featured whole hog's heads (fur, face, and all).

Castle Hill is particularly memorable, if not for its namesake (all that's left are ruins) than for its incredible panoramic views of the region.

What else is there to like about Nice? The food. The abundance of fruits de mer plus the cultural influence of nearby Italy and Spain makes local cuisine a lot more exciting than standard French fare. I loved the paella we had for dinner on our first night, and can't wait to try bouillabaisse, another traditional dish. 

And, because it's holiday season, a Christmas market and ice skating rink have taken over Place Massena. The entire city center lights up at night, which makes the sun setting so early seem a less serious offense.

Night Riding

Thursday night, merely twelve hours after my father and brother landed at CDG airport (mom arrived the day before), we boarded a train headed towards the middle of nowhere, France. Arriving at Culmont-Chalindrey station shortly before midnight, we sleepily crossed the platform for the next part of our journey, an Intercités de Nuit train to Nice. Whereas a normal direct train to Nice takes about five hours, the night train takes a leisurely route that stops at the major cities and towns from Provence to the Côte d'Azur, reaching its final destination around 9:30am.

The four of us crammed into a sleeping car, which thankfully had just enough couchettes; the space was so small it would have been awkward to share with a stranger.

I had reservations about how comfortable the ride would be, but I slept surprisingly well. The makeshift beds were padded enough, and the quasi-sleeping bags (or bed condoms, as a friend called them, since they prevent you from ever having contact with the mattress) that adorned them were quite warm. The movement of the train took some getting used to, especially when it took turns and bumps that momentarily sent the blood rushing to my head.

Unfortunately there aren't any shower facilities on-board (the trains are actually pretty old school; see: powdered soap in the bathroom), but it's a more efficient way to travel than flying or taking a direct train. The result? Full days of sightseeing before and after the journey.

Leavesden Studios: A Muggle's Paradise

I find it difficult to express how much Harry Potter means to me; in fact I'm fairly certain I tried to do so in a college application essay back in the day. From midnight book release parties and movie screenings to book club meetings and subscribing to Mugglecast, Harry Potter pretty much was my childhood. Other books came and went but JK Rowling's series was the only one that remained a constant, something that I would easily go back and read to this day; sort of like the literary equivalent to the 2009 album Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, there's just a timeless quality to it that I never tire of.

Since I had already been to London once prior to this weekend, and had thus covered all the main attractions, the recent opening of Warner Brothers' studios to the public was the primary reason I was willing to go again despite a depressingly low exchange rate.

It goes without saying that the books are better than the films, but as a fan who grew up half-wishing (or maybe more than half?) she would someday receive a letter by owl telling her she was not just an ordinary girl, the films - and their preserved sets - are the closest one can get to what is, unfortunately, just a fantasy. 

I had already seen many of the costumes and props from the films at the traveling exhibit when it came to my hometown a few years ago (humblebrag: the Sorting Hat put me in Gryffindor), but walking through the Great Hall and Dumbledore's office was really something else. The studio tour also provides behind-the-scenes looks at the various departments that contributed to the making of the films, including hair, makeup, digital effects, and set design, making you appreciate the sheer magnitude of the task of adapting the book series. 

But just think, in another ten years they'll probably re-make all of them.

See the rest of the photos on Flickr.

Camden Market

Located in the northern neighborhood Camden Town, the market is a sprawling, labyrinthine pickpocket's shopper's paradise. It's overwhelming at first, due to the high volume of visitors that funnel through the claustrophobic passageways at an alarmingly slow rate. I was, too, as I perused the stalls, fearing that if I blinked I would miss out on some rare/exotic/one-of-a-kind object. But after a while I realized that many of the shops sell nearly identical inventories.

My eye kept getting caught by printed dresses - specifically a cap-sleeved A-line design with birds on it - but after seeing the exact same one hanging from the racks in multiple stalls I came to the conclusion that everyone buys wholesale from the same place. One could argue that the foodscape is similar, in that it predominantly consists of cheap fast-food iterations of ethnic cuisine.

But not everything is quite so ubiquitous; just as there are independent food vendors like the vegan burger shop were I bought lunch, there are plenty of vintage/antique dealers with deals and steals waiting to be found. 

Unfortunately as I have little space in my current living situation for a taxidermied deer trophy, I mostly just window-shopped. But next time I don't intend to leave empty-handed.

Scenes From London

Last weekend was a whirlwind trip through London. We arrived early Saturday evening and headed straight to a friend's Christmas party; spent Sunday getting lost in Camden Market and then traversed the City, South Bank and Covent Garden only to find that the restaurant we had chosen for dinner wasn't actually open; fulfilled childhood dreams by taking the Harry Potter studio tour; caught the West End production of Singin' in the Rain (my all-time favorite film); had a hasty lunch this morning at a gastropub with my uncle before catching the Eurostar back to Paris. Whew. Thank God it only rained once.

By the time we returned to our Airbnb-rented apartment in Camberwell each night I had little energy to write. (And even though I brought my laptop with me I forgot my camera's USB cord so I couldn't upload any photos. Fail).

I am currently in the midst of preparations for the imminent arrival of my family, so for now here is a photoset, or teaser, if you will.

Lost in Translation

When I moved to Paris in late June with just a single academic year of beginning French under my belt people assured me that, "Oh, you'll pick it right up when you get there!" But nearly six months later, my language skills have all but stagnated.

At school the students, who are all international, either speak English or their native languages to each other. And the food truck, which is predominantly staffed by expats, isn't much better. I never wanted to be one of those people that moves to a new place and makes little to no effort to imbibe the local culture but, oops, I guess I kind of am. It's not that I don't try at all, but rather that in a foreign setting language acts as a security blanket. (Also I've found in many cases that when I speak French to native speakers they respond to me in English, as if to say, "Nice try, buddy, but your accent sucks! Now let me show you up with my English.")

I really admire my friend who, after moving here from Australia knowing virtually no French, took our six-week break from school to enroll in an intensive language course. Last night she invited me over for an informal dinner with a couple of her classmates; the caveat being that on avait besoin de parler français.

It was strange at first, because Steph and I are so used to speaking English to each other. Suddenly it was difficult to make jokes and use sarcasm, and stories that would have taken all of ten seconds to recount became arduous and slow-developing as we struggled to find the right vocabulary. But over time we developed a rhythm. When Ina, a German, wasn't sure of a word she would ask Sabrina, a Swiss girl in a more advanced class, in Deutsch; when I didn't know a word I would look it up on my phone. Sometimes no one knew what the other was trying to say, which inevitably devolved into wild gesticulation and laughter.

"Tant pis," we said, French for, "Oh well." 

I enjoyed it, though, because since we were all beginners it was a rare moment when I didn't feel self-conscious speaking a language I barely know. During the summer when I had a French roommate, I often struggled to keep up with her and her friends in conversations. By the time I understood what was being said and had thought of something to add, the topic had already changed.

But with the four of us there that night it was, as paradoxical as it sounds, a comfortable level of awkward; each pause bringing us together as much as the words that followed because we all knew what it was like to feel able to communicate at only half-capacity. Some things are just universal.