Looking for Nice2We haven't even
gotten close to Nice, have we? I guess on a global scale, we have. But
in terms of France, Nice can be a lifetime away from the big city.
Un, deux, trois, quatorze - ça
sont les maths de Rock et Roll. In French, those would be the words of
Vertigo, U2s most recent top single as well as the opening words of
Bruce Springsteen's speech welcoming U2 into the Rock and Roll Hall of
Fame.
Uno. Dos. Tres. Catorce. The correct math for rock and roll.
1 2 3...14
Break the mold. Write what you feel, and pour out who you are,
without shame. That's the lesson I received, and that's the lesson I take
with me into the wards, and more importantly, into my everyday words.
Nice, man. Nice is nice.
My former wife and I took the RER from Paris down...I wept in our
seats. The attendant noted my concern, and my then wife, a fragile soul who
still has hope for life, I think, failed.
Despite the
failures, I was determined, as I have always been, to make the most of
present opportunities.
Nice was nice.
What I recall of Nice are the beaches, the seaside cliffs, the small
town atmosphere of a nestled, privileged small town like Laguna Beach or
3 ½
Beach south of Cape Town. Mais les Francais n'a rien de care for
what others do. That is to say that no matter how cool or rich you are,
the French provide an environment where they are always cooler than you.
What I mean is, you could be the single-most hottest entity on the
planet - Jesus or Mohammed reincarnate - but you can walk the streets of
the south of France, and you had better be able to pay your way with cash.
No matter where you are, that's where it's at. That's the French
mentality. I borrow from Fast Times at Ridgemont High, mais
ça ç'est
la perçepçion
de moi de les français.
I could be wrong.
Lord knows it has happened before.
I remember standing in the hotel lobby, and for the first time in my
life, being able to exercise my French to help some American
outsiders. I jumped in to translate for some Americans who had baggage
problems, and I surprised myself with my ability to communicate between
the twain, tourist and concierge. This was after a couple of years of
formal immersion-style French at the University
of California at Irvine.
I was taking second
year Spanish and second year French back to back, just before lunch, at
UC Irvine during a semester when I thought that 27 hours of
undergraduate credit was a good idea. That sum of hours was, in fact, ridiculous,
but I did learn some language that year. I got a little lost in French
when they got to the en, mais jusque ça,
j'ai eu la plupart pour fair bien avec la Français.
And I still have the baseline to get by, both in French and in
English.
But Nice, I tell you, can be very nice.
Nice is nestled in the steep hillsides of southern Mediterrainean
France. It is southeast of Cannes, with their film festivals and high
air traffic during early July. Pah! Nice remains quiet and old,
traditional, but with fine, white-cloth restaurants. Beaches are made of
stone rather than sand, but still have a high demand pour les touristes.
There is a fort on the south side, high up on the hill, with walking
paths and historical landmarks, and a spectacular view of the town
of Nice. And of the water that sustains us all.
Nice has walking
roads, not highways. Nice has airplanes in the distance, but not
overhead. Nice is a place where you can walk the gauntlet down the local tourist
trap, fountained and shop-marked like the face of bad acne, and one can
find someone who knows Laguna. These are kin cities, Laguna and Nice.
These are hillside settlements that have limited access from the masses.
These are on the water. These are sunny and watery and full of the hope
of a God. These are where people are nice, tous les temps, si on peux
parle un peux de Francais.
If I could stay, then the night would give you up.
Stay, then the day would keep its trust.
Stay, with the demons you drown...stay.
