We had just a day or two left in Nice and we were happy to take my aunt’s suggestion to see the Ephrussi-Rothschild villa and gardens in Villefranche-Sûr-Mer. Hurrah, again, for a fully functioning public transportation system.

I would compare the ride, which was close to an hour, to the delightful bus ride we took through Kyoto our last day in town in 2024. So interesting, so lovely, the time flew by. The bus dropped us at the entrance to the villa grounds and we walked up the hill in the morning sun, bought our tickets and walked through the very early spring gardens…not a lot was blooming but the views, the great weather, and the ever changing garden designs were delightful. After an hour or so I was, of course, hungry and we walked through the villa itself to the restaurant. In a minute we were seated in the soaring, elegant room, only a few tables occupied. The host, a handsome young man, was from Portugal and we had an extended conversation when he asked where we were from, where we had traveled, and when we mentioned we loved Mexico he said he‘d been there because his dad married a woman from there and they now lived in Cancun. We turned to the menu and soon were drinking a half bottle of rose and devouring our customary French lunch. We’re getting used to this high class life.

The villa itself is rather small with human-sized rooms, though the art is a bit one-note. Nothing to knock our socks off but the film about the doyenne of the villa and grounds was pretty interesting (we’d have liked more details on her apparently strange marriage) and it’s always fun to watch old black and white films about rich and famous strangers.

We walked down to the bus stop and this time we knew how gorgeous the views were and could get a few photos. I post them for you to enjoy and daydream over.

Wrapping up our time in France

We didn’t feel we had fully enjoyed everything in Vielle Ville so determined to spend the morning there and the afternoon at the Archeological Museum next to the Matisee Museum. We really love Roman stuff.

The old city is just a few tram stops away from my aunt’s and thus we arrived fairly early in the morning. We hadn’t made it down to the actual seashore the other day. This time we got off at the Opera stop and walked directly there. Well, almost directly, because I had a mission to have a few specialties of Nice that somehow hadn’t yet touched my lips—socca, a chickpea savory pancake, and pan bagnat, basically a Niçoise salad in bread—a truly appealing sandwich, no? Within a few blocks we passed a boulangerie and I ducked in to see wonderful examples in round, thick buns. We figured we would see them again so walked on, but within a few blocks David indulged my sudden need to turn back and buy two. We continued to the “beach,” a rocky shore not at all crowded at the early hour and definitely off-season, and enjoyed the sound of the surf on the rocks and the few bikini’d women, a few dogs, a few families—a pleasant scene.

We had wanted to see a particular cathedral that we didn’t find our previous time in the old city. David, whose phone has the eSIM and hence manages a lot of out maps and lists (I can get on line when we are together and he opens his hot spot) checked his saved map and we left the beach to find the cathedral. As we walked along I spied an intriguing store and, calling out to David I would need a minute, went in without waiting for his acknowledgment. After a nice conversation with the woman and making a purchase I went back out…no David. I figured he had continued on to the cathedral so I opened my phone to looks at the saved map. Well, it had a picture of where the cathedral was, and lots of streets, but not a single street name. Unconcerned I kept walking. No cathedral, no David—but I did see Bistro Antoine where we had eaten a few days prior. I went in, found our waiter, and showed him my phone. Where was this cathedral, please?

Waiter: “Hmmm. A droit, en suite a droit…je pense…” (to the right, then right again, I think).

I follow his vague directions but see no cathedral and no spouse. But I brighten up when three gendarmes walk toward me.

Me: “Pardon, ou est ce cathedrale (I show the picture on my phone) parce que j’ai perdu mon marie!” (Pardon, where is this cathedral because I have lost my husband.)

Gendarme, looking at his colleagues: “Hmmm.”

He takes out his phone, punches away, looks vaguely around, points in a direction up the street, then “Voila!” The cathedral was a half block away. And there was David, too. We laughed, went into the cathedral, and while it was beautiful there were an unusually large number of gruesome paintings featuring martyred saints and the like. We spent five or ten minutes but left as I announced how hungry I was getting.

I had scored our pan bagnats but what about the socca? Happily on our way out of Vielle Ville we spied a counter which sold lots of Nice delicacies including socca. As the young woman packed my order “pour apporter” I noticed a big tray of petits farcis…little stuffed tomatoes, onions, and zucchini. I added them to our picnic.

My rudimentary French again came to our rescue when we couldn’t find the bus stop. Two cordial women in turn steered us right to the correct spot.

The park was perfect, pan bagnat and socca and petits farci were scrumptious, and we loved the small museum filled with Roman artifacts, complete with a meadow out back filled with Roman ruins.

By the time we got back to my aunt’s apartment we didn’t want to go anywhere or see anything. We rustled up a supper of scrambled eggs with our fellow houseguests, Ronnie and Arthene, and collapsed into bed.

i cannot end this last post from France without addressing the sad fracture in our relationship with the Europe that survived World War II largely due to our help. Many Americans died. Many more Europeans died, lost family, friends, communities, almost everything. They have not forgotten—no, they have not let themselves forget—what happened and what we did, what we lost, what we sacrificed.

You cannot go too far in many places in France without seeing a memorial or a simple plaque like this one. Here fell Jean Badino, a human being, on August 28, 1944, for the liberation of France. Do not forget him. Do not forget that a war was fought here, right here, for our country.