Nice is nice

We had difficulty at first in finding a hostel. Good old Chez Patrick’s was full to the brim so we had to walk down the road to what turned out to be a better hostel.

Nice was as or more expensive than Paris so we again relied on the friendly prices of Monoprix and a lot of baguettes to get by. We hiked around, exploring an old ruined fort above a cliff looking out to sea and sucked up some of the view before relaxing under a tree in a nearby park for a few hours.

Down by the coast there’s nothing but rock beaches and a million vendors selling overpriced junk, like hats and knock-off sunglasses. Our only adventure was a trip to the delicately titled Chez Wayne’s pub for a happy hour pint and the first half of the England vs Sweden football match. Expense and the sardine effect deterred us from remaining, so I again navigated our party to a bottle shop and we returned to the beach and killed a few hours talking about nothing.

While I was on the beach I found a rock. I liked this rock in particular and adopted it as a pet. I washed off the white, powdery crap that seemed to be on every rock in the region and carried him back to our hostel, where I planted him in the garden so that he could long be seen and remembered by other travellers as my favourite rock.