Fall is the time to fly south, when it’s cold and dark and rainy in the north, before the snow drapes the hills and mountains in white and the skiing starts. Last week we went down to the French Riviera for a few days, my old lady and I.
We explored the narrow streets and alleys of old Nice, had lunch with rose wine on Place Massena. We hiked around Cap Ferrat, and visited the old castle with the Picasso Museum in Antibes.
It’s pleasant to stay in southern France, and it’s always entertaining to watch the Frenchmen, when they’re riding scooters with designer suits and tie, and when they play boule in the parks, arguing intensively about who wins.
In the fall, when the days are warm and evenings are chill, the Frenchmen are never too warm and never really cold. They’re always something in between. When they’re half-cold, they carry a yellow or read wool sweater over the back, with arms tied loosely around the neck. When they’re three-quarters-cold, they hang a jacket over the shoulders, but without putting the arms in. That’s the way the French do it, no one but the French. To me it only looks awkward, and I have to smile every time I see it.
Then there is the food and the wine. In France you get the most hyped food, stuff that tastes like shit and costs a fortune, for instance frog legs and snails and duck liver. But there is delicious dishes too, like magret de canard (steak of duck), with orange gravy, or with honey and pepper gravy.
And I read some good books of course. This was my read:
The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Teriible story, great prose.
The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. Great story from Afghanistan.
