Last Day On The Riviera, Plus Photo Gallery
Last day. Sky purple blue black over the Mediterranean outside our sliding glass door. We should have left it open all night to breathe the fresh briney breezes, but we’d fallen asleep quickly after dinner at the Olio Grosso.
Now we have to pack and make the drive from Imperia to Nice’s airport, from Italy to France, using those strutted high speed highways above the mountain valleys, between their energetically constructed tunnels.
We noticed upon crossing into France that the tunnels were not as well maintained, that the walls were dirtier, that the lighting was dimmer, the lights yellow, not white.
And the amazement of the HEIGHT of the mountains is stunning coming up from the beaches of the Riviera, the land terraced by hill farmers, greenhouses like misted mirrors stuck into the walls of land. What is life like isolated up in these homes, these mountain days of labor?
Must be rather restrictive. Especially compared to the wild stylish freedom that goes on down below by the shores of Nice, Monaco, San Remo, Cannes, Diano Marino.
We were hungry, but with the drive taking just over an hour from Imperia to the airport, we thought we had to forego any last tasty alluring Italo-Franco mealage. But we were wrong.
An establishment (since 1899) “Paul” had a concession set in the departure area, and it was nothing like the chain food crap you’d get at an American airport. Croissants, unbelievable macaroons – – vanilla, a pistachio-flavored green one, a pink strawberry flavored variety – – were mind blowers, plus a rhubarb tartette and a “Normandie” tarte with pear and chocolate, mais oui, we’ll be eating these for days ahead. Not including a loaf of bread, and also some delicious airy “claudette” crisp-outsided, soft-airy-insided mouthful sized sugar coated (lightly) pastries.
There was an internet booth in a circle with ergonomic blue seats, having you sort of sit/stand, feet on the ground, but I couldn’t get it to work. However, it was not my French. When I asked a successful user, he showed me the plastic card you had to purchase in the close-by gift shop. It was too near to departure time to go through such a transaction, with boarding to occur in less than five minutes.
So without much more excitement it was up, up, and away to the ole Bush-beaten and tortured USA to undergo more moral, economic and political insults, while true believers continue approving whatever this moronic fool continues to do in crippling our great nation.
At least we missed several days of that Yankee doodling while we experienced the basic elements of the Riviera French-Italian culture. . . .