Antibes, France

“In France, cooking is a serious art form and a national sport.”

-Julia Child

Crossing the border from Italy to France, it’s hard to see any difference between the two countries, since their natural and man-made beauty rival each other. It’s what the people do within that beauty that distinguishes them: the French seem to spend more effort maintaining things like buildings (fewer crumbles, less cracked paint) and public areas (cleaner streets, nicer public gardens). French culture is refined and tight. France feels a little more attractive and romantic, but in a distant way, like a lover who won’t commit.
Italy’s culture, on the other hand, feels looser, more Bohemian, more approachable. Italy lets things go. The phrase “Dolce fare niente” (the sweetness of doing nothing) says a lot about Italy.
Antibes, France, is a vibrant, attractive town, located on a peninsula between Nice and Cannes on the French Riviera. We spent 3 days visiting museums, eating crepes and good French bread, drinking Provencal rose and taking in all that refined French culture.
Our hotel, on a corner of the main piazza, was tiny and loud. The World Cup soccer matches had just started, and the townfolk were exuberant. Dozens of restaurants carted out big screen TVs into the street, for all to watch. Soccer is a BIG DEAL around here.
The meandering alleyways of Antibes are chocked full of stylish retail shops, over-priced beach paraphernalia, Provencal linens and specialty food items like gourmet olive oil and herb-roasted chicken. A huge covered space that spans several blocks is home to a twice-weekly open market that sells luscious fruits, bright fresh vegetables, rich creamy cheeses, hand made salamis, and fresh-caught fish. It made me ache for my own kitchen.
We visited the Matisse museum in nearby Nice (where Jenna was excited to recognize the famous blue “cutouts”), as well as the Picasso museum in Antibes, where Pablo actually lived and worked for a time (obviously before it became a museum). Picasso even painted one enormous and colorful piece directly onto a wall. Unfamiliar with famous works of original art, Jenna kept saying, “You mean this is the FIRST one?”
Jenna took to France like a duck to water. She learned the French words for gelato, fruit juice and thank you. And she even got a chic new haircut from a very French hair stylist.
One day, she and Jeff discovered, hidden down a tiny staircase, an underground “Absinthe bar” where a live jazz duo was playing. Absinthe, I’ve come to find out, is a distilled, highly alcoholic beverage whose medicinal use dates back to ancient Egypt. It’s an anise-flavored spirit derived from herbs, including the flowers and leaves of the herb Artemisia absinthium, commonly referred to as “grande wormwood”. It apparently has a reputation for being a mysterious, dangerous, mind-altering drink. The chemical “thujone”, present in small quantities, was singled out and blamed for its alleged harmful effects, so as a result, Absinthe was prohibited in the United States and most European countries around 1912. The prohibition of absinthe in France led to increased popularity of pastis--however pastis, though anise-flavored, does not contain wormwood. Also, a “faux” absinthe liquor, called Absente, made with southern wormwood (Artimesia abrotanum) instead of grande wormwood was sold legally in the U.S., but it wasn’t until 2007 (!) that the U.S. relaxed its absinthe ban and has now approved over 50 brands, although it is strictly regulated with regard to its chemical “thujone” content.
Since Jenna was anxious to hear live music and we were intrigued to try Absinthe, we walked in.
The bar is in a tiny dark stone cave with a vaulted arched ceiling. The atmosphere feels slightly clandestine (or maybe that was just me). On each of the 6 or so tiny tables is an Absinthe “vessel”: like a huge heavy wine glass, whose glass “bowl” sits atop a thick stem base. The bowl is filled with ice water, and around the outside of the bowl are 4 tiny brass spigots to siphon off the water. Also on the table is a small bowl of sugar cubes. Since we don’t know the difference between “white” or “green” absinthe, the server brings us one of each.. It arrives in heavy glass goblets, with only a few tablespoons of the precious liquid in each glass. The server places a slotted spoon beside each goblet. We understand that we are to put a sugar cube on the slotted spoon, hook the spoon onto the goblet, place the goblet under the brass spigot, and open the spigot just slightly to let the water drip ever so slowly onto the sugar cube until the sugar dissolves into the Absinthe. That’s when it’s ready to drink. We take tiny sips of the STRONG Absinthe that smells and tastes like a combination of licorice, fennel and fire. We listen to the musicians perform songs from Astrud Gilberto and the Beatles. We model different fancy hats which are strewn about for all to wear. Jenna basks in the music, the vibe, the love of her parents and the attention of the staff. We stroll back late to the hotel, over cobbled stone streets, under ornate French streetlights, and sleep very, very well.
The next day we drove along the French Riviera, passing one charming chateau after another. We’d been in the car for hours, hungry and hot, so we stopped in a small seaside town called Theoule (rhymes with fuel) for a swim. The sea in this secluded little cove was deep blue and calm and, surprisingly, the beach was nearly deserted. We set up chairs and umbrella and stripped down to our suits. A small floating dock about 30 meters out was whispering “swim to me, swim to me”, so I dove into the cool clear water and began to swim. About halfway, I felt a prickly pinch on my arm and instinctively yanked it out of the water, but I couldn’t see anything so I kept on swimming. That pinch got pricklier and pricklier with each stroke, and that’s when I knew: jellyfish sting. It’s like a brush with nettles, hot, stingy, sensitive. I quickly turned around and swam back to the beach to stop Jenna from wading in. That’s when we discovered all the tell-tale dead purple jellyfish on the beach. No wonder this beach was empty! Welts were forming on my arm in an interesting pattern, like a comb, with one red straight line and several red “fingers” extending out . I scurried to the pharmacy and, since I didn’t know the French word for “jellyfish”, I just held up my arm. The pharmacist gave me a knowing look and a quick nod, “Ah…oui, oui…jellyfish” (note here that “oui” is pronounced “way” and “jellyfish” is pronounced “jellyfish”). I bought the mysterious tube she placed on the counter, slathered it on and viola! (that’s French for “presto”) it worked like a miracle, taking away the sting and calming down the welts. Since that pretty much ended the swimming, we packed up and ate a delicious lunch at a beachfront restaurant called Marco Polo.

NEXT UP: Heading south, in search of the Perfect Town