It’s been a tough couple years for Franco-American
relations. Between French opposition to the invasion of
Iraq and the desecration of their own national Tour there
were plenty of reasons for a cool reception when I stepped
off the plane in the French Riviera for the 23rd and final
edition of the Isostar Nice Triathlon this September.
I’m pleased to say my reception in France
was incredibly warm and hospitable. The luxuriant French
breeze on the Cote d’ Azur and the delightful sunshine
warm the skin, but it is the splendor of the French character
that warms the soul.
For the French the sport of triathlon is a
celebration of exuberance and vitality. It is also a celebration
of the aesthetic of the athlete, of toned bodies and bronzed
skin. There is no shortage of beauty during the week of
the Nice Triathlon, and it is not limited to the landscape.
A placid stroll along the enchanting Promenade Des Anglais
in front of the pink pastel parapets of the famous Negresco
Hotel yields a brand of people watching unmatched anywhere
in my travels on seven continents. The finest athletes from
France, Italy and all over the world walk under the sheer
white draperies of the sun canopies erected along the beach.
These splendid specimens recline on comfortable benches,
on exclusive rock beaches served by tuxedoed waiters and
in sidewalk cafes. Ironman Hawaii may have “Dig Me
Beach”, but it is a sorry comparison to the Promenade
des Anglais.
I do not speak French. At one time my French
was passable having been immersed in a French household
for two months. That was the best language instruction I
ever experienced, but it was 14 years ago. I can read it
given enough time, I can understand it if something is repeated
to me enough, but I can’t utter much more than a half
dozen phrases.
French Triathlon Federation officials were
entirely accommodating of my typically American lack of
language skills. When I asked a question in the registration
tent about number placement I was assigned no less than
five personal interpreters. Standing in the middle of this
quintet they delivered a complete version of the pre race
briefing in English and in an odd pantomime. Probably in
case I was deaf in addition to being illiterate. The officials
demonstrated everything from how to place numbers on my
helmet to the unusual timing chip, which was one third the
size of chips used in the U.S.
France is a country of diverse features, from
historical to cultural and artistic to natural. But few
places in the world or even within France match the integration
of natural and man-made beauty as the French Riviera. Standing
on the Promenade des Anglais, literally- the “Walk
of the Angels”, I took in the nightly performance
that is the sunset over the Maritime Alps. What I didn’t
anticipate was the equally dramatic encore in the form of
the moonrise over the castle peninsula at the opposite side
of the same beach. Moonlight cast bright glare along the
Mediterranean as soon as the sun surrendered. Following
the neon, and then pastel hues of a brilliant sunset over
the architecture of old Nice the stark solitude of the moonrise
was a dramatic contrast. This entire natural spectacle unfolded
in under 15 minutes. Taken by itself this natural light
show was a sensation. But here on the Riviera set against
the centuries old stage of French architecture and acted
out by a cast of the finest triathletes from around the
world it was a performance unlikely to be repeated anywhere
on the planet.
Good food and good friendship are easy to
come by along this treasure of coastline. It seems that
no nationality is immune to the warmth of the climate or
of the companionship. Friends and acquaintances are easily
made strolling along the inner walks of Nice between picturesque
hotel balconies and the very cafes that inspired Monet.
Of all the wealth conspicuously displayed throughout the
Riviera time is the currency most flagrantly squandered.
Two hours in a café over strong coffee, wine and
tea is nothing in Nice. It flies by in an instant, and it
seems like no effort is adequate to truly capture its ephemeral
splendor and delightful company.
For people like you and I who make a regular living, this
region is a rare glimpse into the lives of the hyper-wealthy.
I made the ride from Nice to Monaco one afternoon riding
shoulder to shoulder in narrow streets with enormous Mercedes
sedans, Rolls Royces, Ferraris and Lamborghinis. At the
foot of the descent into Monaco the famous Formula 1 circuit
is laid out before you, exactly as you see it on television.
I’ve watched this race on TV since I was a kid, and
to be here, on those streets preparing for my own race of
a different sort only a few miles up the coast was cause
for adrenaline bumps on my arms. Senna, Lauda, Prost, Montoya,
Frentzen and Schumacher: Those are the names I know from
these streets. You look for the remnants of their rubber
in the corners. Of all the places in the world where man
races anything- this is the most famous, the most celebrated,
the most opulent.
The marina is filled with boats like I have
only seen in the movies, because most of those movies were
made here. Boats with other boats on them. Boats with cars
on them. Boats with helicopters and cars and boats on them.
Boats that are such big boats they have long since become
ships. Once the scope of the opulence begins to sink in
the one question you may keep asking yourself is, “How
does a person make this much money?” In Monaco, a
million dollars is barely a servant’s pension. I’ve
never seen as many Gulfstreams parked in one place as at
the Nice airport. Even the Gulfstream is economy class to
the new hottest ride in this neighborhood, the Bombardier
Global Express- a business jet with near supersonic speed,
transpacific range and a price tag higher than most Boeing
747s. I counted five of the $40 million plus jet hot rods,
all new, on the tarmac in Nice. You see the flight, maintenance
and security crews scurrying around the rows of gleaming,
spotless private jets. They wait for a page from an owner
who demands her or his privacy and the need to wing off
to Jakarta, Dubai, Paris, Kuala Lumpur, Hong Kong or New
York at a moments notice in pursuit of commerce, diplomacy
or simply entertainment.
Why is France so strikingly different than
the U.S.? I thought about that a lot while in Nice and tried
to collect the reasons on every walk I made from my hotel
to the Promenade des Anglais. Walking through delightful
markets stocked with fresh fruit and glossy, glazed baked
goods I tried to nail down one thing to attribute this magic
too.
Certainly, there are many reasons. I think
the most prominent to me is a sense of reverence for beauty
and leisure. Quality of life is the predominant measure
of wealth along this coast, and it is had in volumes by
billionaires and waiters to billionaires alike. Yes, it
is true, everyone in Nice is wealthy- whether they have
money or not.
In observing Nice and its charm I made these
observations. These are only symptoms of what makes this
place wonderful, I can’t name the exact causes: For
a protected bay with several miles of beautiful beach and
road access there are few small boats and no jet skis. These
seaside annoyances are refreshingly absent, making open
water swim practice safe and pleasant. While the attitude
about bathing attire is absolutely relaxed on the rock beaches
the dress code along the Promenade just above the beach
seems decidedly more refined than any coastal area I’ve
seen. There is the occasional garish display of fashion
nonsense, but for every one of those there are ten people
turned out like a magazine cover. This is not to suggest
snobbery, it is just a different fashion sense that adds
to the overall landscape. Municipal planners in Nice get
huge marks for pedestrian seating. The benches are white,
spotlessly clean and comfortable enough to sit on long past
sunset. There don’t seem to be any bad restaurants
here. Wait staff is excellent and a small tip goes a long
way. For a couple extra euros I had a waiter completely
explain the schedule for the helicopter from Nice to Monaco,
how to get a seat and where the helipad in Monaco was relative
to the rest of the town’s many attractions. The jet
powered helicopter shuttles passengers from the airport
to a helipad in Monaco for less than $100. This is a priceless
day trip and one of few experiences us normal folk have
to take a helicopter for a shopping trip.
And then there are the people. Any suggestion
of rumored stereotypical French rudeness is immediately
put to rest in Nice. Spectators all along the course, even
in the remote reaches of the bike course and on mountain
tops, are enthusiastic, helpful and polite. Fans that appeared
to be in their 60’s and 70’s hiked to the top
of the climbs to offer a dignified “Bravo!”
as triathletes crested the summit of the Col de Vance. Along
the Promenade des Anglais the reception was decidedly more
festive, but no less dignified.
The list goes on and on. At night in my little
hotel room, complete with wide French doors and a limestone
railed balcony overlooking the cathedral next door, I made
note after note about what makes this city such a delight.
But there is no one thing. It is an enchanting and seductive
conglomerate of things from simple and basic to luxurious
and indulgent- all melded together along this short coastline
that give meaning to the well earned cliché, “Viva
le France!"
