Very Nice
It is July thirteenth, twenty-twenty-two, and I have just spent the last three and a half weeks with two friends in Paris, France. After a short flight to the south, we made it to Nice. Our morning began well into the afternoon after we slept through our phone alarms that had long been silenced. Eventually, being greeted by the morning sun shining through our striped curtains, we said hello to the day. We hit the cobblestone streets of the aged city and found our way into Old Town. Exploring the wobbly streets and all its shops, buying ornate objects to remember our trip, including the silver quartz ring I still have three years later and a soap bar for my grandmother’s collection. We continued our exploration of Old Town, tracing our way between the fiery buildings, a main trait of Nice’s charm. The streets are lined with multi-colored umbrellas, providing shade for the crowds below. Stepping into a cathedral for a quick game of hide-and-seek from the sun. Walls lined with silver, a ceiling dripping with chandeliers, and stained glass at the back of the altar. The sun seemed to have found us as her light now poured through the colorful glass, illuminating its depiction of an unknown religious figure. Exiting between its arched ceiling and checkered floors, we returned to the crooked street. The summer ushered in bustling streets filled with vacationing families, locals dining and people-watching, and a group of friends who stopped to scarf down a couple of cake donuts outside a cafe before heading to the beach.
The weather in the south of France is giving this time of year, sitting on the beach as the sun shines down onto its patrons. Laying our towels across the rocky beach and rushing into the turquoise water. Floating in starfish position as my friends swim further out, I have to admit my lack of talent for the swimming arts. As I turned my view to the beach, Opera Plage, its rocky finish is lined with umbrellas as far as the eye can see - children running over the rocks with no hesitation, overtanned French men applying tanning oil, and a group of older women gossiping in the water. This truly is summer in the south of France.
In the distance, a blue sail catches Reagan’s eye. A parasail.
After much discussion, I caved to Reagan’s pleas and was strapped into a parasail. I did not realize the risk of the situation until I found myself being whisked off of the beach into the air. The thoughts of danger quickly subsided as I saw the views from above, an unrestricted view of Nice, France. I lay my head back and enjoy the breeze floating across my skin, having a sensation similar to what birds must experience—focusing back in on the coastline of Nice, filled with locals enjoying a mid-summer day. The sun beamed onto the city’s rooftops, illuminating its reddish-orange tiles. The ocean’s tide appears peaceful from above, but I fear the water approaching as the skipper slows the boat's speed. A chill set through my skin as my toes grazed the ocean’s edge, its cool facade perfectly balancing the heat of the summer’s day. The skipper took us up for one last view of the city until our flight abruptly ended. The skipper stopped the boat entirely, and we came crashing down into the shallows of the beach, knocking the wind out of us and leaving a bad taste in my mouth for parasailing… sand.
Allowing the sun to find me, I lay still on the rocky beach beside my companions. Swimsuits soaked with the salt water, thanking the sun as she dries us off for our walk home.
