Nothing moves fast in France (except for my digestive system when it gets a whiff of warm baguettes and buttercream macarons from the boulangerie below my room) – and I like this. People stop in the street to have conversations without looking at their watches. In fact, I think watches here are just fashion accessories. Time is so unimportant; it’s trumped always by food, laughter, and real connections.

On the Promenade De Anglais (Walkway of the English), life is a lazy stroll. The air is crisp and salty, the Mediterranean is an ever-changing rainbow of blues, and with the breeze comes the itty bits of quiet conversations from people sitting on outward facing chairs, watching the waves lap and the time pass.

I sat beside a sweet older Frenchman – broad and thick, not unlike Gerard Depardieu but with a more proportionately-sized nose. The Mediterranean reflected in his eyes when he turned and said “Bonjour!”. I fumbled through my elementary school French to exchange names, tell him I love Nice, and that I was full from all the croissants. “Je suis plein” I said and rubbed my belly. His eyes lit up! Apparently, I told him I was pregnant. Which I kind of am – with a croissant baby.

We carried on in sweet silence, sipping our café au laits as night fell.

I’m becoming quite the coffee authority here. If you make it across the Atlantic, here’s what you need to know about ordering coffee en Français: ‘Order Coffee Like a Local in France’

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