JFK - NCE
St. Paul de Vence
JFK - NCE. Drive along the coast to a certain beach club. Out comes Dorade caught at dawn rinsed in seawater and grilled with fennel sprigs in its flanks, the cinders roasting the skin as it’s constantly brushed with a bouquet of thyme and rosemary soaked in olive oil. Garlic, tomatoes, and more olive oil. It smells of the earth impregnated with the sun, no ostentation or pretension, fast and strong.
It is the only place I've ever been where, on a hot day, the aroma of herbs is visible, the vapor dancing in the air, distorting the view and intoxicating the soul. At night, the refreshing breeze is full of rosemary and basil, thyme, fennel, and lavender. Seasoning here is an art. People spill out onto the beach with wicker baskets and wine bottles and rough-crusted loaves and local preserves, all sur la plage.
Drive up into the perched villages above Nice, to La Colombe D'or in St. Paul de Vence. Swim in the pool, a Calder mobile provides the shade, and a Giacometti walking man asks what life is for? This. The world's greatest crudités with anchovy aioli. Kir Royale on the patio. Langoustine roasted with langoustine sauce. Monkfish with morilles and vin jeaune. Old pigeon. Kumquat. White asparagus ice cream. Wandering the dining room full of Picasso and Miro and Chagall. They would stay here and, unable to pay their bar tabs, put up art as collateral. Today, the hotel's collection rivals many museums.
Every morning in France, when I have a croissant with my coffee, I feel like I've discovered a gratitude journal. I go up the narrow spiraling steps to the church at the top of the town for gelato. Wedding bells are chiming, and the happy couple is posing for photos in the square. More Miro at the Maeght Foundation, which has the best views of the Côte D'Azur.
Float back down to the village feeling the dry yellow of hot afternoon, the villas baked in warm rust, all the colors of gentle corrosion, pale, raw, and deeply burnished. Hushed entrances into rooms that smell of old paper. The movement towards stillness is always the same here during the ripe drowsy hours of the Var. A tall Pastis and few leisurely games of boule.
NCE - JFK.