Our first series of accidental tourist events nearly a decade ago included the train station in Nice, but we came through that one, eventually, caught our train as planned and we truly thought we had Nice licked.
Apparently not.
We’d never spent any real time in Nice in previous trips, but spent a lovely day (albeit a wet one) in Nice earlier during our time in Provence, and had been quite taken by the city. So we were looking forward to our two nights there on our way to Paris. In fact we had originally intended to stay only one night, but after our lovely day, increased that stay to two.
We got away from our house in Ponte agli Stolli right on time. Our landlord’s “Mum” came to see us off and collect keys and we were gone after the air cheek kisses. We had been misdirected by Our Lady of the Dash in Genova on our way to Tuscany so were vigilant as we approached that city, but all went well. We didn’t even have any problems on the toll roads.
Our adventures began once we got to Nice. We were departing Nice by train so had chosen our hotel because of its location, just a few steps from the train station. Our Lady of the Dash, usually reliable, seemed to be ignoring one way streets, and expecting us to make turns into streets we weren’t allowed to enter from where we were. Then instructing us to “if possible, make a u-turn”.
So we drove around and around in ever decreasing concentric circles trying to get to our hotel. Frustratingly, we could see the checkered flag on the GPS map throughout our circling, but no matter how large we enlarged the map, the hotel was always just out of reach. . . tantalizing. . . frustrating
Finally we managed to get to the street it was on facing the right direction only to find there wasn’t a place to park. Hotel instructions had been explicit. Hotel parking was in the train station lot. Stop at the hotel first to get a parking pass. Then park.
Well try and park in Nice. Impossible.
Well, impossible for those not brave enough to park like a European (i.e. abandon the car wherever you feel like, lock it and walk away). So we had to drive around the block (not easily done in downtown Nice). After previous experiences where Ken and I have gone separate ways to achieve a given goal, we were reluctant to do that here, as we have long since figured out that even with GPS, driving in some parts of Europe takes a two person team: driver and navigator.
Anyway, third time around, we spotted a minuscule side street which Ken went down, found parking at the end and we abandoned our car there. A short walk to the hotel with our suitcases, check in, get the parking pass and we’re off to park the car.
When we got back to the car, Ken walked the 10 or 15 steps to the end of the street to see how to exit. Turns out the street just stops. No exit. Only solution: back out. So we get into the car, and just as Ken gets into reverse, another car careens into the street and stops behind us. We had pulled forward to get a straight run at backing up, so we were forward of our parking spot and we couldn’t pull into to let the interloper past. And he didn’t pull in to let us past, he just stopped. And stayed stopped.
Don’t know where he was headed. Ken and he had a multilingual conversation filled with gesticulations where Ken explained our situation and our need to back out and it seemed that all was well. So Ken got back in the car and waited. And we waited . . . and we waited.
Meanwhile another man came out of one of the houses, had a huge audio visual (i.e. voice and gestures) negotiation with the man in the car behind us, then went back into his house, the man got back into his car, fussed and fretted for a while, finally putting on his seat belt and backing up.
Ken, in a stroke of masterful driving backed up the full length of the street, and it’s another one of these very narrow streets, with cars parked along one side, then had to back onto a busy one-way street with pedestrians, hornets and other vehicles.
I am not quite sure how he managed, but he did. I used the word “masterful” knowingly.
Then we had to get to the train station parking. Found it just fine, as we had driven by it several times while looking for our hotel. Pull in, flash our parking pass over the machine’s card reader. Card invalid. Try again. Card invalid.
Definition of insanity: Doing the same thing the same way over and over and expecting different results. Ultimately we look at the card and the instructions and the ticket machine. And in huge six point type on the back, discover we are in the wrong parkade.
Again with the backing out, find the right parkade, park, and walk the rest of our stuff back to the hotel, just steps away. By the way, it is the same parkade central to our first accidental tourist story I referred to a decade ago.
Our leased car was due back at 10:00 the next morning, so we had the rest of the day to walk through Nice. If you think for one moment we were moving that car again, well, imagine the conversation.
Next morning dawns lovely and clear, we leave the hotel in good time, allowing 45 minutes for the 15 minute drive. Two sets of instructions in hand: one to get out of the parkade, one to get into the airport parkade.
First problem:
Finding the pedestrian entrance to the parkade. We couldn’t. We thought about walking up the ramp, but it was life-threatening. So we walked the street up and down. Find an entrance. No way to open the door. Find a sign on the wall that sends us 100 metres down the sidewalk. Pace it out, nothing there. Walk back, read the sign again to re-translate. Nope, that was right. Try again. So we walked and decided to go to the corner. There on the corner almost twice as far down the street as indicated is an escalator, so we take it to the top, and what do you know it is the entrance to our parkade. We have to walk along roof tops for nearly a block to get to our car’s temporary home.
Second problem: the way is blocked by a locked door, another one that doesn’t open from the side of it we happen to be on. Fortunately for us, a nice young woman is there having a smoke break, and she tries waving our card in all directions, but to no avail, finally pushing the button to be used as a last resort, calling a real live person to come to our aid. Instead a buzzer sounds, the door opens, and through we go on our way to our car.
Third problem: getting out of the parkade. We are finally on our way. Or so we think. We get up to the gate and swipe our card. Card invalid. try again. Card invalid. Cars pile up behind us. Card invalid. Car pulls up beside us, to a second departure gate, swipe the same card we had. Card invalid.
The cars behind us clear the way so we can back up. Ken abandons me and the car and goes to find someone to help. Fortunately for us the parkade is staffed by real people, and a nice man comes, and with a condescending smile, takes the card from Ken and swipes it. Card invalid. Swipes it again. Card invalid. Smarmy smile slides off his face, as he tries a fails a third time.
Calls to someone still in the office who runs out to him. They unlock the kiosk and i learned an international, nay a universal truth. When all else fails, turn it off and turn it on again. Who knew that what worked in my home office, in my former office, and in offices around the world, would work in a parkade in Nice.
We sat and watched the machinery reboot, and finally, should we risk it all again. We did, and the barricade lifted and we were off.
