Oops… I went to Antibes

I watched the landscape slowly change from snowy city buildings to cliffs dotted with bushes and eventually to palm trees shielding the ocean. I sat for hours with big eyes and big headphones, tilted head resting on my palm, getting lost in the views. Last weekend I took off to Antibes, a small town in the South of France, for a little getaway weekend in the sun. 

Day one

My first full day was spent in the bliss of the landscape. Never having seen real mountains before, my eyes were glued to the view. I attempted to head out to the farmers market, only for pain to direct me immediately back. I waddled slowly with gritted teeth through the cobblestone streets of Antibes, feeling my new sneakers tug and rip my skin a bit more with every step. Finally, back in my room after a pained walk to a pharmacie, I assessed the damage. I sat, looking at wet, raw flesh. Shit. My big plan for the weekend, a four-hour hike along the coast, was looking less and less likely. 

I did my best to clean and dress the wounds. “Quoi? No, mademoiselle, creams for wounds don’t exist in France.” The conversation with the pharmacist echoed in my mind as I applied a spray to my open wounds, almost passing out from the pain in the process. I bandaged myself up and zipped up my booties, a double-edged solution. 

Let’s Try Again

Round II. With renewed vigor, I set off once again to the farmer’s market. French villagers bought, bantered, and bargained all around me. I strolled around and picked up a small loaf of bread and a couple of mandarins, envisioning a beach picnic. My new plan, rudely modified by my feet, was to walk along the coast and maybe do the very beginning of the hike. My boots, while very gentle on my heels and relatively comfortable to wear for a long time, were still indeed… boots.

I set off along the coast, stopping every couple of minutes in awe at a brand-new angle of the Alps and ocean. Lost in the view and my own thoughts, I walked along the coast for hours, stopping at each and every lookout, cove, and viewpoint to inhale the smell of the sea, a bit deeper each time. After a couple of hours (I have no idea how my feet made it that far), I found myself at a little beach where I set up my picnic. I did my best to burn the scene into my memory. The taste of the mandarins, the sound of the waves, the chill in the air… I wanted it all forever. 

After I Ubered back to the hostel and rested my feet for an hour or two, I headed off to the pier to catch the sun dipping behind the mountains, casting a pastel purple-pink light on everything around me… ethereal. Perfectly content after a day of sun and ocean breeze and happy in my own company, I propped up my exhausted feet at a cafe and read, glass in hand, as the streetlights awakened. 

Solo Travel

There’s a certain bravery that comes with solo travel. It’s not necessarily the bravery to do something alone, it’s the bravery to exist as yourself. No buffers, no helpers, no shields… just you. 

It’s not necessarily the bravery to do something alone, it’s the bravery to exist as yourself.

I trudged into the hostel that night, pizza in hand, prepared to have another quiet night. My plans were once again thrown out the window, this time by a series of questions. What’s your name? Do you want a slice? Would you like a drink? Where are you from? 

And of course, the always pivotal question… “Does anyone want to play cards?”. 

That night as I stared down my new nemesis in a final round of Slap Jack, a mischievous grin on my face, I was reminded of why I seek discomfort. Slowly the world of strangers turns into competitors, playful competitors turn into friends. 

The next day, I munched on breakfast over discussions with new friends before I said my goodbyes. I set off on my last adventures and found myself wandering in and out of museums, cliff-side churches, forts, and viewpoints. 

I ended my trip exactly as it began; head tilted onto my palm, big eyes fixed on the changing view whipping by on the train; but this time with the distant smell of the sea on me, and a smile on my face.

The end

If you’d like to get a glimpse into life in France, read the conversation between a pharmacist and me, translated from French.