"What the hell was that?! I was just turning into the parking garage! Oh my god, I hit a man on a motor cycle!"
So here we were, in Nice France - jewel of the Riviera - to visit good friends and kick off '07. So we decided to end '06 by running down a Frenchman on a sport bike.
Ok, so not really intentionally, but it happened. We were in stop and go traffic along a main seaside strip in the heart of town. As our driving adventures have already been well chronicled on this site, you can imagine we were a bit on edge to start with. Knowing we were close to the hostel, we decided to go the "park-anywhere-we-can-and-walk" route. And so as we turned into a parking garage -- stop and go traffic, signal on, right hand lane, along side a chain link barrier and then a parked car -- there was just this awful sound of screeching and metal scraping on the ground.
Bonjour Christophe, welcome to Schwartz family history.
The story, the real story, is that he was illegally trying to pass us on the right hand side, didn't see the blinker and drove right into a turning car. This passing is not uncommon in Mediterranean Europe, at least the parts we saw on this trip. Aaron had been making cracks from day 1 about nailing someone on a moped, and now we had.
So with Christophe laid out on the ground, the hotel doorman and a couple of security guards came over to help out. He got his bike up and on the sidewalk and we pulled into a temporary parking spot. After being assured he was alright and inspecting our respective vehicles, we set about reporting the situation. (Interestingly, at no point did Christophe seem upset or to start yelling at us for hitting him. It was very unnatural, almost like he knew whose fault it really was).
Being Americans, our first instinct was to call the police, but were quickly told that's not how things are done in France. Naturally...
Jaren, bless her, did her best to communicate, and did well. However, they don't exactly teach you how to get into and out of a car accident in French class, and given the inevitable legal documents, we thought it best to get someone we knew would be able to help.
Olivier. Or in this case, SuperOlivier (like SuperGrover, but more French).
The whole reason we added Nice to the itinerary was because our good friends Olivier and Liesel would be visiting his family for the holidays. We quickly gave them a call and, despite some initial confusion, they made their way to us.
Meanwhile, back at ground zero, we were piecing together what happened with the doorman, Christophe and other observers.
"Constat. Constat"
"Jaren, what's a Constat?" we kept asking, but to no avail. Aaron, having taken traffic engineering classes (sounds gripping, really) was all about defending our case through pictures. For your consideration:
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After an hour or so, Olivier and Liesel show up, realizing that we were not stuck behind an accident, rather we were in one. And Olivier, being our superhero, fills us in on the constat -- its a triplicate carbon copy form all French drivers are to keep in their glovebox to report an accident via their insurance companies. We had a Swiss car, so we didn't have one. Neither did Christophe. Interestingly, neither did any of the dozen or so cars passing by. So Olivier took off to see if he had one, and Jaren was told that one of the local convenience stores may have one so she bolted too. More waiting (at this point, we were up to three hours).
It was at this point Liesel started getting Christophe's side of the story, which did not really seem to jive with reality.
"They turned from the left lane and hit me"
Um, excuse moi? If I turned from the left hand, you would have gone over the hood. If I turned from the left lane, the scratches would not have been behind the passenger side wheel well. And if I turned from the left lane, this would not be stop and go traffic, it would be total gridlock as we would have shut off both lanes of traffic. As we've seen thousands of cars go by in the last few hours, I am confident in saying that did not happen. Nonetheless, I thought it best to let the insurance companies fight it off as they've got corporate attorneys on large retainers who are much better at arguing in French than lil ol me.
Constat shows up, Olivier helps us fill out our side, and because everyone was civil, we even gave Christophe a ride home to his posh suburb on a hill. 4 hours, no fatalities, we were in pretty good shape.
Finally, after dealing with our drama, we went to dinner with the Diolosas at the restaurant where they had their first date - a quaint family run Vietnamese place where the owner remembers our friends well and seats us at a table of honor. (The owner also happened to look exactly like a Vietnamese version of one of the Schwartz kids uncles, but we wont say which one).
The food, of course, was tremendous. Meats braised to perfection on hot plates at the table, creamy sauces and soups, great lychee wine. Just tremendous, and an honor to be there.
After retiring to the hostel, engaging in a laughing fit while trying to not wake our two other weary bunkmates we turned in.The next day was all about sightseeing, with a whip through a centuries old market followed by a walk up a hill to take in the whole city.
Beautiful Nice, from the park on top of the hill.
And other views of Nice.
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And of course, a trip to the Cote d'Azure would not be complete unless you felt the sea. Here is Jennifer in the Mediterranean for the first time. Brrr. Isn't is cold?
Since we saw most of the lovely town of Nice, the Diolosa's suggested taking a little trip to the town of Eze. We piled into our cars and followed Oliver through the beautiful seascape of the Mediterranean. We slowly climbed our way up the rocks until we reached Eze.
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Truly breathtaking views from the top of the hill, colors and sights that can only be truly experienced with the naked eye. And after a quick pitstop, we were off to our next wonderful experience -- one truly off the tourist map -- a quick visit with Olivier's parents at their home in the country.
To give you, the reader, an idea about the surroundings, let me leave it at this -- you can look at the Mediterranean Sea, and with a 90 degree turn of the head, you can see the Alps. Not. Bad.
Their home itself was lovely, a classic Mediterranean villa whose beauty was only surpassed by the generosity of our hosts. Mr. and Mrs. Diolosa were some of the most open hearted people I've ever met, and having met them we can appreciate where Olivier gets his personality and charm. Heck, they even bought Coronas and made chicken wings because the Yanks were coming (to go along with other traditional local New Years delicacies such as caviar, pate, and salmon-topped crostini). Just a tremendous experience. And after an hour of visiting in Frenglish (the Diolosas spoke limited English, and Jennifer's French vocabulary is even smaller than her one word catalog of Italian), he headed back to wash up for the big night out...
For more pictures, click HERE
2 comments:
I'm glad the accident wasn't too serious! And by the way, that's how everyone on the Mediterranean drives. In any case, looks like you guys had an awesome time! As always, beautiful pictures!
Uncle Richard wants to know which "Schwartz Uncle" the Vietnamese restaurant owner resembled. Was the man short and bald with a goatee?
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