You recall I smugly suggested that after my disastrous marathon performance, Online Trainer would not be rushing to enter a race with me again.
The train from Avignon to Nice is obviously of more vintage ilk because it takes almost 3 hours to go not terribly far. The high speed train from Paris to Avignon took around 4 hours to cover a significantly further distance. Why the south of France gets stuck with the slower trains, I'll never know. I busy myself writing postcards to my mother, watching the scenery whiz by, and having a little nap.
When I wake I am mortified to see it is raining as the train chugs past St-Raphael. Here I am, heading to the Cote d'Azur and potentially I cannot lie in the sunshine. I swear grumpily, cross my fingers and pray to the Gods of Sunshine.
The praying (or perhaps the swearing) works. When I finally arrive at my hotel, the clouds have disappeared and the sun has created a magical orange glow across the sea (not ocean).
Hotel Suisse is my new home for the weekend and I could not have asked for a more spectacular introduction to glamorous Nice. Perched on a point at the end of the Promenade des Anglais, it boasts magnificent views of the sparkling Mediterranean Sea. I lucked into a beautiful (albeit typically tiny) room with a gorgeous little balconette commanding breathtaking views of the Cote d'Azur; the entire promenade spread before me with all the life and bustle of a chic French coastal town happening below. It is quite simply divine. The staff are helpful and speak good English, the Wi-Fi is free (even if you do have to stay on the ground floor to use it), the rooms and bathrooms are modern, and the breakfast is quite good value.
The location though is it's real calling card. I could throw a stone from my balconette to the Old Town where a myriad of bars and restaurants can be found, and the Port is a quick walk past the point and around the corner. Above me, high on a cliff top is the most impressive vantage point in all of Nice. It's a beautiful little place - a true winner, and if you can manage to nab a larger room, then you've hit gold.
To test the weary limbs, I head out for a little Friday afternoon trot. It is the first time I've attempted to run since marathon day and the muscles and joints protest enormously. Ignoring the creakiness, I scamper along the promenade in the late afternoon sunshine feeling for all the world like a tiny bit of a legend just because of my location. Well really, who wouldn't? Mediterranean Sea to my left, expensive hotel after expensive hotel to my right, evenly spaced palm trees alongside me and pricey, sleek convertibles which only seem to come in black, red or yellow, their V-12 engines gurgling as they slowly make their way along the Quai des Etats-Unis*.
You might ridicule my Friday afternoon trot but let me introduce you to my French rolls. So named are those little rolls of holiday flab that begin to flop over the top of your shorts once you have settled into your holiday routine. Falling foul of exercise habits is easy. But when you know you will yet again be dining out in a few hours, something must be done. I've set an outstanding pace of consuming croissants, wine, full-fat cheese, buttery sauces over rich, succulent food and - there's no getting around it - creme brulee from here to Africa. If I don't stop now, or at least start to run again, I'll be three times the size by the time I return home. Unfortunately my French rolls won't disappear of their own accord.
So run, Forrest, run.
Well, I stand corrected. He did. While I took off for Avignon in the south for a spot of country wine, song and cheese cheese cheese (for the love of God, someone stop me eating cheese), and Apple & Fatigado departed for Beaune wine region to enjoy expensive 63-Euro-a-bottle wine, Online Trainer apparently spent his spare time searching for other races throughout France because suddenly details of a race in Nice on the Cote d'Azur filtered through. The man has thicker skin than a Rhino's rump. You'd think he'd have learnt his lesson the first time around. You'd think I would have. But no. Suddenly here I was, heading to Nice to register for another race with Online Trainer. And only one week to the day later.
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| Afternoon sun pours into my room at the Hotel Suisse, Nice |
The praying (or perhaps the swearing) works. When I finally arrive at my hotel, the clouds have disappeared and the sun has created a magical orange glow across the sea (not ocean).
 |
| Friday post-afternoon run: soaking up the afternoon rays on my balcony. Hotel Suisse, Nice. |
Hotel Suisse is my new home for the weekend and I could not have asked for a more spectacular introduction to glamorous Nice. Perched on a point at the end of the Promenade des Anglais, it boasts magnificent views of the sparkling Mediterranean Sea. I lucked into a beautiful (albeit typically tiny) room with a gorgeous little balconette commanding breathtaking views of the Cote d'Azur; the entire promenade spread before me with all the life and bustle of a chic French coastal town happening below. It is quite simply divine. The staff are helpful and speak good English, the Wi-Fi is free (even if you do have to stay on the ground floor to use it), the rooms and bathrooms are modern, and the breakfast is quite good value.
The location though is it's real calling card. I could throw a stone from my balconette to the Old Town where a myriad of bars and restaurants can be found, and the Port is a quick walk past the point and around the corner. Above me, high on a cliff top is the most impressive vantage point in all of Nice. It's a beautiful little place - a true winner, and if you can manage to nab a larger room, then you've hit gold.
 |
| Feeling sore. First trot post-Marathon 15.04.2011 |
You might ridicule my Friday afternoon trot but let me introduce you to my French rolls. So named are those little rolls of holiday flab that begin to flop over the top of your shorts once you have settled into your holiday routine. Falling foul of exercise habits is easy. But when you know you will yet again be dining out in a few hours, something must be done. I've set an outstanding pace of consuming croissants, wine, full-fat cheese, buttery sauces over rich, succulent food and - there's no getting around it - creme brulee from here to Africa. If I don't stop now, or at least start to run again, I'll be three times the size by the time I return home. Unfortunately my French rolls won't disappear of their own accord.
So run, Forrest, run.
* The road (or boulevarde or avenue or street) which runs alongside the length of the promenade.
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