Between Monaco to Geneva I found myself in Nice where the determination was made that Nice is nice… despite the fact that communication was an insurmountable challenge. Having left behind my French native, Miami transplants the communication proved quite humbling for this “3x pages added to the passport” globetrotter… Where is Rosetta Stone when you need her?
Particularly in France, where the language is revered like a Matisse painting. How could I even attempt to butcher such a delicacy? In Thailand, Cuba, or little Havana, Miami any feeble attempt to communicate in a native tongue is supported and encouraged like a two year old’s first crayola art. this makes the daunting task a bit more fun… kind of like learning to snowboard. you fall flat on your ass… you look like an ass… a feel like an ass… but, you keep at it anticipating that you will sail down the mountain eventually. Problem is… if you are a skier like myself… then you may be asking yourself… “why am i enduring this pain in the ass… where are my skis?”
It was a bit like this in Nice… but, maybe the French are misunderstood… perhaps they do not despise Americans as we are told… rather, we are both approaching the same point with the same timid apprehension and simply prefer the comfort of our skis?
So, I sat back, shut up, and observed in serene silence… enjoying in slow motion the loveliness of watching the French world go by… people… people going places… birds flying high…