Adjusting to Life in Nice

Walls can be obstacles and they can be beautiful

While I don’t know for sure what any of you are thinking, I like to imagine that you follow my writing at least out of some curiosity of what it’s like to pull up stakes and move to another part of the world. I think it’s only natural to wonder what it would be like to begin again, or to embrace a new culture, and if you could do it yourselves. For some Americans these days, the idea of just getting out is very attractive. For most of you, however, I imagine you have no intention of going anywhere. You like the lives you’ve built. You have careers you love. You have families, children, or grandchildren and you aren’t going to miss out on being a part of their lives. So, reading about Chien-hui and I selling everything and moving across the globe offers an opportunity to live vicariously. Who can blame you and I am certainly happy to share our experiences.

For the readers that have followed since we left nine months ago, you know that this journey hasn’t always been the easiest, but it has simultaneously fulfilled my dream to experience a kind of life that most of us can only fantasize about. Here are some of the things that I am experiencing daily—the good and the bad.

I never know what day of the week it is. I don’t know the date, nor do I really have much sense of what time it is. If I didn’t have someone visiting that I needed to meet, a restaurant reservation, or a plane or train to catch, I wouldn’t have a clue. I used to hear about this phenomenon from the retired people I knew before I unplugged from my corporate existence, and I used to think that it sounded so silly, or impossible.

I don’t like that the French think that I am a tourist. I live here and I know how life works here, at least sort of. But then I look in the mirror and I see what they see. I am twice the size of anyone in France, I walk like an American, I dress like an American, and certainly, when I open my mouth and speak, they rightly just assume I am a visitor. Plus, I live in Nice, which this time of year is just stuffed to the lid with tourists, so their deduction is only logical. It probably doesn’t help that I still wear my UW hat around (Go DAWGS) to protect my hairless dome from the blazing sun.

The funny thing is that when it does come up and I do let on that I live in Nice, and I am not a tourist, there is a chain reaction of responses that is fairly consistent. First, surprise. I am asked to repeat myself, that I indeed do live in Nice, and I often have to give my neighborhood or street as proof. Second, happiness. They love that I actually live here. It confirms that they live somewhere desirable, which like anyone does, they often forget. Third, curiosity. Inevitably I am asked why I live here. I have come to understand that for many French people, the idea of living in the USA is a dream. They want the wide-open spaces, the money to be made, and the cars to be driven so many miles to national parks and big cities on cheap gas. They have seen so many American movies and the export of American culture has been wildly successful. So, for them, they want to know why I would willingly give that up. My answer is always about the love of French culture and people and the wine. Fourth, and this is the most French thing ever, correction. To their minds, if I live in Nice, then why am I speaking English? Never mind that I started our conversation in French and they answered me in English and they are asking me all of these questions in English. Perfect example: Yesterday I was buying some wine from a neighborhood wine shop (Surprise) and when the owner found out that I lived close by, we went through the above, and then he wanted my information for his computer. When I spelled my last name for him, he corrected my pronunciation of the individual letters and the pronunciation of my last name. He told me, “You live in Nice now, you need to pronounce the letters correctly.” Indeed.

When we moved to France, one of the biggest boxes to check was that we didn’t want a car anymore. Car culture was one of the things about America that I most disliked. Our entire societal structure is built around the car, and I don’t like that it dominates every aspect of our existence. I am not only talking about the outrageous personal cost for each of us—car payments, insurance, gas, tires, oil changes, repairs, etc. There is also the damage automobiles do to the environment, the shaping of our cities and towns around the car, the deaths from accidents and driving under the influence, and the precious time it takes drive some place, or waiting in line at Costco to fill up. What I especially despise is that cars separate us. Because we spend such large amounts of time in our giant lifted trucks with truck nuts or our Teslas with apologetic bumper stickers, we don’t walk and we don’t really know our communities. We don’t see each other’s faces as we pass each other in the street. We lose our sense of connectedness, of belonging to a community, to our shared experiences. We instead become competitive, ambitious, rude, and we tend to see others as the enemy.

Of course, they have cars here in France. Most cars are small, hybrid, or full electric, which I suppose is a little better. And we have bad drivers, too. The French are insane drivers, speeding everywhere on the highways and through the tiny medieval streets, thus reinforcing my point that driving brings out the worst in all of us no matter where we drive. But for us here in Nice, or in Paris, or any other major European city, the primary mode of transportation is our two legs. This means we see our neighbors, we know where the shops are and who is running them, and our sense of space, of belonging, and ownership of our community is heightened.

Ironically, it also means you need to walk everywhere. When I need food, things from the pharmacy (sunscreen!), meat, bread, or a new electric coffee grinder because the hipster hand-cranked one I bought and thought would somehow make better coffee turns out to be very hard on my elbow and shoulder. And guess what, the coffee tastes exactly the same.  That makes five stops on a long walk and a lot of things to carry home. It's the middle of June in Nice, not even July or August yet, and that walk is going to have me sweating and my jeans are going to be stuck to my thighs like wet canvas. I am also pulling my cart and carrying a couple of bags, and my feet will begin hurting soon enough.

Fresh produce still has to get home by foot

Côte d’Azur

The colors of Nice are the colors of the Mediterranean

These are the adjustments I am talking about that I still haven’t gotten used to. Every adjustment to life in Nice is a love-hate thing. Walking along the seafront Promenade in the early evenings after the heat starts to abate and the gentle Mediterranean Sea breezes begin to kick in is one of my favorite things about Nice. The blue of the sea which gives its name to the Côte d’Azur, is almost reason enough to live here. But weaving my way through the throngs of tourists, avoiding the bikes and scooters whizzing by, and trying to avoid the clouds of vape and cigarette smoke is an attack on my joy.

There are other dualities. For example, Nice is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. The architecture alone makes you feel like you are in a special place when you walk around. There is currently a period of architectural revival happening throughout the city that is admirable, and the current mayor deserves a lot of credit for ushering it in. She recognized that Nice would benefit from increased civic pride and increased tourism, and she has focused a lot of her energy and resources restoring the buildings, enlarging the parks, updating the museums, and cleaning up the city. The building facades of the various architectural period buildings—Beaux-Arts, Belle Epoque, Art Nouveau, and Art Deco—once restored, are breathtaking in detail and in their human scale, never rising higher than six stories so all of their incredible details are in full view. I will never tire of walking down the wide Boulevard Victor Hugo under the shade of the mature trees, admiring the stunning hotels and apartment buildings that line this street.

But this also means that there are ugly stacks of scaffolding in front of many of the buildings that still need work throughout Nice. The sounds of drilling, of hammering, of chunks of concrete hitting metal container bins just never stops. Just last week they erected scaffolding in front of the building just off my balcony behind our building (itself a recent restoration) and began jack hammering the entire concrete lot in front of it. Noise everywhere and inescapable.

Our street in Nice

There are a host of other small inconveniences that I am adjusting to as well. Deliveries are pain because there is no place for the vans to park on our small streets, so they just skip you sometimes or deliver your package to some other small business close by and send you a text message telling you to come retrieve it. Old French ladies sometimes don’t pick up after their dogs, so you better keep your eyes down when you’re walking, and God forbid you say anything to them and catch the wrath of a French woman. The French have no idea what a line is and bum rush the opening doors as people are trying to get off the tram. I think of the order of the Taiwanese people on their subways, and I have nothing but respect. Even at some restaurants or boulangeries when people are waiting for a table or to buy bread, you will see some very snobby looking people try to just sit down at an empty table without regard for those of us lined up or they will just go to the front of the line as if the rules of society don’t apply to them. When pulling into the terminal gate after landing on a flight, the French will stand up and rush from behind to block you in your row, even when you are in the seats in front of them. I could go on, but it feels petty to complain.

All of this is to say that I have wavered in the face of things I don’t like lately, and there are times when I am full of doubt and I have questioned our decision making. As someone who is chronically disposed to moving, having done so an embarrassing number of times in my life, my instinct is to run when I don’t like the things about where I live. It’s a part of my personality that I am not very proud of as I look back on my life. I should mention that Chien-hui doesn’t feel the same as I do about any of this (Well, she does hate when people on planes get up and block her in, and she’s not having it). She’s stoic, experienced, well adjusted, and has the steadiness of a captain in a raging storm. I admire her calm acceptance. So, I’m determined to stick it out here in Nice for the foreseeable future and I will make the necessary adjustments. It will either pan out, or it won’t, but I am committed to giving it the right amount of time to find out.

I do hope it’s somewhat satisfying to read that it’s not all croissants and chocolates for us here. I know none of you are wishing us ill, but it might be helpful to know that things are tough here, too. Maybe not as tough as it is in the US after watching the news from home lately, but everything in this life is a trade-off.

Meanwhile, what day is it again?