Côte d'Azur
The train from Paris to Nice is a journey through time, through landscapes that shift like the pages of a novel. It begins in the heart of the city—the gray rooftops of Paris giving way to golden fields, to rolling hills, to glimpses of distant rivers. And then, the world turns blue.
The Mediterranean appears, flickering in and out of sight, until finally, it stretches endlessly, glittering under the southern sun. Stepping off in Nice, the air changes. The scent of salt, the hum of a language spoken like a song, the feeling of arrival.
Nice is a city built to be adored. The pebbled beaches, where people sit from sunrise to sunset, the colour of the water shifting with the light, from deep sapphire to soft turquoise.
The Promenade des Anglais, where the sea breeze catches in your hair, where the world feels lighter, where the line between reality and a film scene blurs. To truly see Nice, one must wander—up to Castle Hill for the best panoramic view, through the Old Town where the scent of fresh socca drifts from tiny cafés, and to the hidden beaches beyond, where the Mediterranean laps against quiet shores.
But the Côte d’Azur is more than only Nice.
Menton—where lemon trees spill over garden walls, where the houses glow in pastel, where I found myself walking through a place I had only read about. I once saw its name in a book and traced my finger over the letters, mentally bookmarking it. And here it was, real, with its dazzling sun, its sleepy streets, its impossible beauty. The summer heat was relentless, but the ocean, the weightless embrace of its cool waves, made it all worth it.
The train wound along the coast, a ribbon threading through a story of wealth, history, and escape. Monaco, where opulence drips from every surface, where the yachts sit in the harbor like polished jewels, where the very air smells of possibility. We watched the boats and imagined sailing off and away, to nowhere in particular, just chasing the horizon. The cliffs above us, stacked with villas that seemed to defy gravity, the Italian Riviera just a stone’s throw away.
And then, Èze. If there was ever a place to stay forever, it would be here.
A medieval village carved into the cliffs, where time lingers, where the wind carries whispers from centuries past. I wandered its narrow paths, tracing stone walls with my fingertips, peeking through iron gates into courtyards overflowing with flowers. Up and down, the steps twisted like secrets, leading to new views, new stories, new dreams. At the edge of it all, where the cobblestone met the sky, I leaned over the railing and looked down—gardens terraced into the cliffs, pools shimmering like mirrors, the sea so far below it felt like looking into eternity.
In a small perfumerie tucked into the village, my mother and I chose scents to take with us, bottles filled with memory, with sun and salt and flowers. Mine—a blend of neroli, bergamot, and warm amber, like the golden glow of the Riviera itself. Just in case this was all a dream, we would have something to remember it by. Proof of a fairy tale.
And then, the journey back—the train winding down to the Riviera once more, the coastline slipping past like a farewell letter.
The Côte d’Azur is exactly as it is in the movies—romantic, intoxicating, unreal in the best way. But perhaps, in its light, in its sea, in its air heavy with history and promise—it is even more.
