Where is the time going? I feel as though it was only yesterday I was writing to you and telling you all about our amazing week in Krakow with Johanna. Now, we’re in the South of France and halfway through the first leg of our travels.
I am so overwhelmingly grateful to have the life I do now. Writing these weekly recaps gets me feeling all emotional and sentimental. Moments like these make me realise how lucky we truly are. Okay, enough of the soppy stuff; let’s get down to business and dive into our adventures over the last seven days.
The last seven days have taken us through the South of France from Nice to Marseille. We’ve visited the riches of Monaco, spent more time than I can count lying on the beach and explored the BEAUTIFUL Calanques du Marseille. We’ve eaten gelato, drunk our body weight in cocktails and (really) upped our picnic game recently. So, here’s a full recap of what we’ve been up to lately.
- Wednesday 21st June
- Thursday 22nd June
- Friday 23rd June
- Saturday 24th June
- Sunday 25th June
- Monday 26th June
- Tuesday 27th June
- See you this time next week!
Wednesday 21st June
You know that feeling you get when you’re past exhausted and just tired to your bones? No matter how much sleep you get, you can’t seem to shake it. Well, that was me this morning. We were both in desperate need of a rest, so we took a leaf out of my brother Josh’s book (seriously, he’s a sleeping champion) and slept through our alarms.
Instead of our day starting bright and early like the last few weeks, it began around lunchtime with a breakfast/lunch hybrid and a planning session. With half the day gone, we embarked on an evening trip to Monaco to see how the other half lives. Mathew is a big car and boat enthusiast, and as the race track is open to the public to walk on from 7:30 pm, the evening seemed like a safe bet for our visit.
Getting to Monaco was a breeze—just one train ride from the Nice central station to the centre of Monaco. And at only 4 euros each, we reckon Auckland Transport need to take notes.
Once we had arrived, we wandered down to the port to play an extravagant game of “What would we do if we had a free 10 million dollars”. Mathew’s decided he’d quite like an Audi RS6, and at $250,000 a pop, I had better start saving yesterday. Other ideas included:
- Buying a boat.
- Embarking on a year-long budget-free trip (the ultimate dream).
- Finding unique ways to surprise our parents with the news that they’re mortgage-free.
Ah, a girl can dream!
Our dreams of striking it rich (actually, I suppose it depends on what you determine ‘rich’ to be, but that’s a story for another day) came crashing down when we realised that in order to win the lottery, you have to buy a ticket. So, we embraced the frugal side of travel and unwrapped our picnic sandwiches, finding a seat by the port to watch the rich and famous feast on seafood, caviar, and champagne.
After dinner, we walked back into town to visit Monte Carlo Casino and do a spot of window shopping. At this point, it was 8 pm, and as some of the more pricy vehicles had come out to strut their stuff, Mathew was in his element. I’m not a big car enthusiast, but seeing him this happy was contagious. After the casino, we walked to the Fairmont Hairpin Curve. I’ve got to give it to the race drivers; I have absolutely no idea how they manoeuvre around those tight corners.
Lost in our own little world, we let time slip away and watched every sports car you could imagine zooming up and down the streets (although secretly, I don’t think half of them had anywhere important to be – they were just showing off).
Pooped and with our fill of fast cars well and truly satisfied, we walk back to the train station to return to Nice. As always, Mathew was in charge of directions, but he did a double take when he saw that the last train to Nice had left the station half an hour ago. Clearly, we haven’t done enough research on the French public transport system. You would think that in Monaco, renowned for its late nights, parties, and nightlife, the trains would run later than 9 pm. Guess not!
Oh well, not to worry. We’re in a new era of rolling with the punches, so we head out of the station and across the road to the bus stop. Alas, no busses either. That puts a spanner in the works. We weighed our options: a 4-hour walk, a 170 euro taxi, or waiting for 11:30 pm and seeing if there was one last bus for the evening. I opted for the walk home. I sure as hell wasn’t going to spend the equivalent of 48 ice creams on one car journey, but the thought of a half marathon at 11 pm made Mathew look like he wanted to crawl into a ball and die.
So, we decided to wait for the bus and drown our sorrows in ice cream – you know the drill by now! As the minutes ticked by, more people filled into the bus station and, like they say, safety in numbers; it was nice to know that we weren’t the only ones that didn’t do our public transport due diligence.
Everything you’ve heard about the camaraderie between Aussies and Kiwis overseas is true. In New Zealand, I’m not particularly phased by the Australian accent. But now, when we hear it, we’re like meerkats (or, you know, that Doug the Dog in the Pixar movie “UP” every time he spots a squirrel). We start chatting with an Australian couple whose names we didn’t catch, and they say that after travelling Europe for six weeks. They are dead pleased to finally have found a couple that don’t think Canberra is an extension of America. Truthfully, I’m just thankful to have found someone that can understand what we mean when we say something is “all good” and that if the bus doesn’t turn up, we can split a cab with them.
The clock strikes 11:30 pm, and more people enter the bus station. Now we have 70-odd people around us, all waiting for the bus to Nice. It was enough chaos to make Auckland Transport file a health and safety report. And then, as if I were in an exhaustion-induced dream, we saw the blazing yellow-white headlights of the 86 bus veering around the corner, making its way to our stop. The station erupted in a collective “Thank God!” and people began jostling each other to get to the curb and the front of the queue.
Security (yes, security – Monaco is mental)jumped off the bus as it pulled to a stop, attempting to manoeuvre the unruly crowd into an orderly line. There’s something wild about humans queuing for a bus. It’s as though all common sense and decency have gone right out the window. Men towering over six feet tall were pushing girls out of the way while the girls, on the other hand, were grabbing each other’s hair, desperately trying to get to the front. I felt like I was caught between a football match and a Harry Styles concert.
We managed to make it onto the bus, but our newfound Australian friends were nowhere to be seen. I caught a glimpse of them out of the corner of my eye, still standing at the bus stop beside themselves, once they realised the bus driver wouldn’t accept cards and they didn’t have any cash. Being the younger, more prepared brother and sister to the Australians, the Kiwis (us) stuck our heads out of the window and thrust a crisp 5 euros note into their hands. They hopped on, hailing us as their heroes, and I considered that my good deed for the day.
Finally, the bus pulled out of the station, and we were on our way home. Exhausted and eagerly anticipating our beds.
Thursday 22nd June
This diary entry starts exceptionally early. Not because we’ve set our alarms and are on our way out for the day, but because it’s 1 am and we’re still on the bus from Nice to Monaco.
It’s 1:30 in the morning by the time we arrive back in the Old Town and begin our 45-minute walk back to our apartment. Delirious and exhausted, we speed march down the streets of Nice but are both very happy. Not because we’re looking forward to our beds, but because each day we’ve been playing a game of “How many steps can we do today”, and this has to be the earliest we have ever clocked 10k. Lame, I know.
At 2:15 am, we march through the door and collapse into bed. Goodnight (or rather, good morning)!
This morning, I wake up to the sound of my alarm, realising it’s the latest possible time we can get up on our last full day in Nice – 10 am. After indulging in a lovely lie-in, it’s time for breakfast and coffee, followed by planning the events of our day (after such an eventful night).
We decided on a trip to the nearby village of Eze, a stunning medieval town adorned with picturesque views and cobblestone streets. Alas, we should have left much earlier in the morning because, by the time we arrive at the station at 12:30 pm to catch a ride into town, the bus driver is attempting to cram 60 odd people into the bus’ sardine style’.
I’m riding at the front, pressed against the windscreen, whilst Mathew is holding onto the ticket machine for support, hoping and praying to god that we don’t brake too hard and go flying through the windscreen. Despite the discomfort, I can’t complain; it’s the best view I’ve ever had on a bus!
We arrive in Eze unscathed and beeline for the centre of town. I’ve been here once before to visit Fragnord Perfumery (if you ever get a chance to visit, do!) but have never been to the town centre. If I thought I had seen cobblestone streets before, I was lying to myself. Eze is picture-perfect in every way and unlike anything I have ever set my eyes on. Iconic and talked up all over social media, yes, but certainly not overhyped. Even Mathews is enjoying himself!
After wandering around town and stopping for lunch, we decide to tackle the Nietzsche Path from the top of the village down to the coastline. Clearly, we’re both gluttons for punishment, as the walk involves scaling down rocks and cliff sides. But it’s undeniably beautiful, passing spectacular scenery and views of the Mediterranean – I’m just pleased we were going down, not up!
Boiling hot and ready for a shower, we end our day trip to Eze with a quick, air-conditioned train ride home to Nice and treat ourselves to a well-deserved nap.
That evening, we celebrate our last night in this part of the South of France with a beachside picnic, complete with baguettes, cheese, blueberries, ham, carrots, and a gorgeous sunset. It’s another one of those “yep, we’ve made the right decision” moments I mentioned last week.
If I were to tell fifteen-year-old Hannah that one day she’d be enjoying a picnic dinner on the beach in the South of France with her boyfriend and that it would be just one day in a year full of adventures, her head would probably explode. I often think what my younger self would think if she could see me now; happier than I’ve ever been, doing what I love and sharing a life with someone so bloody lovely. How lucky I am.
Friday 23rd June
Today we said goodbye to Nice. We’ve had such a lovely time here; Mathew enjoyed it WAY more than I thought he would, and it really reminded me how much I love being by the sea. I thought this portion of our trip would be one of the most expensive. The South of France and spending money usually go hand-in-hand, but we’ve found it reasonablyyy budget-friendly.
In true Whittaker fashion (if you know, you know), I’ve got us lost on the way to the airport. My over-enthusiasm for the next leg of our journey has taken us onto the wrong tram, and alas – whoops. Luckily I have navigation enthusiasm for a boyfriend, and Mathew clocks my mistake right before we go whizzing past the airport – thanks, love.
We check into our second to last, godforsaken, boiling hot (can you tell I hate them?) bus ride (seriously, abhorrent) and start our journey to Marseille. It’s just 3.5 hours and enough time to catch up on writing these diary entries (I’m a little behind!).
My hopes for Marseille are sky-high after five days in Nice. However, they come crashing down as we arrive at Saint-Charles station amid a rubbish collection strike. I don’t know how to convey to you how dreadful it looked. I’m not joking when I tell you I thought I had arrived during an apocalypse. Piles of rubbish covered the ground as far as the eye could see, and city commuters walked out of the train station wearing masks and T-shirts over their mouths and noses. It was reminiscent of a scene from the world-famous movie “World War Z” or the height of the COVID-19 pandemic.
Culture shock hits us hard after our idyllic holiday in Nice, and we trek across town to the house that will be our home for the next five days. The apartment is centrally located near the Old Port and in the heart of the city. But the real highlight (and what makes the scorching walk across town worthwhile) is that it has air conditioning—a godsend considering we’ve arrived during the hottest summer recorded in 100 years.
I haven’t felt out of my dept once in the last month. I’ve made a big effort to try my best and roll with the punches, even when things have gone wrong. But I’m feeling it now. All I want to do is take an ice-cold shower and crawl into bed, not needing to raise my head again until it’s time to move from Marseille to Portugal. But I promised to challenge myself and push myself out of my comfort zone. So we rise from the comfort of the bed and venture out in search of something familiar: a supermarket and our routinely average but comforting home-cooked dinner. Baby steps.
Tomorrow is a new day, and as I allow the blankets of our makeshift bed to envelop me, I promise myself that it will be a good one.
Saturday 24th June
With yesterday’s shock behind us, we wake up early this morning to find the sun streaming in through our windows, and a quick glance around the apartment tells us that we’ve got a beach umbrella. Score. That can only mean one thing – today’s a beach day.
After breakfast (porridge and banana for what seems like the 874th day in a row), we head out to Plages des Catalans. Catalans Beach looks like it’s out of a ‘Brits Abroad’ holiday catalogue and is packed to the brim with more people than I have ever seen in my life. To put it into perspective, it’s like if you tried to fit 400 odd people onto Little Waiake, a beach on the North Shore of Auckland.
But it’s great fun. Music is playing, and the sun is beating down on us. In the distance, I can see the sea twinkling, gently kissing the shore as swimmers dance in and out of the waves. I can hear the screeches of children as they get engulfed in waves and think to myself, “god, this is the life!
I’ve always been a big lover of the beach. Nothing makes me happier than lying in the sun and soaking up a week’s worth of Vitamin D in one afternoon. And while the beaches in France are quite different from the ones I’m used to in New Zealand, they do the trick.
We while away the day baking in the sun (talk about getting our tan on!!), and as each minute passes, I can feel the worries from yesterday leaving my body.
Once the clock strikes 3 pm and Mathew has salt and sand covering every square inch of his body, we head back home for a shower and to explore the Old Town. However, we soon realised it would be impossible to do anything at 4 pm. The tarmac and cobbled streets of Marseille have, just like us, spent the day absorbing the sun’s heat and radiated it as if it were the gateway to the fiery depths of the underworld. It feels a bit like waking up in your tent on a camping trip in the summer. For the first five seconds, you take in your surroundings and then have the battle of your life trying to extract yourself from your tangled sleeping bag and get a sweet gulp of fresh air. But here, there’s no fresh air, and walking in the heat feels like wading through a thick blanket.
Calling our exploration missions to a halt, we head inside Vanille Noire (indisputably the best ice cream joint in town) to cool down with another ‘knock your socks off’ hazelnut gelato (you know the drill by now). Yum! See you tomorrow.
Sunday 25th June
Clearly, we’re attempting to become professional beach hoppers by the end of our European Summer because another day lying in the sun is on the cards. This time, we’re off to Plage du Prado for what is supposed to be the highest-rated beach in Marseille.
With 8k reviews on Google, I’ve got my hopes high, and we set off on the bus with our bright orange umbrella, doing our reputation as tourists proud.
One of the things I’ve noticed (and have mentioned before) is that there aren’t many public toilets in Europe. In New Zealand (yawn, another comparison incoming), you can find a loo on the corner of almost every street. And even if you can’t, you can always pop into the nearest petrol station or cafe to use theirs. However, toilets are few and far between here, and even then, you usually have to pay for them. So, you can imagine my shock when we arrived at Prado Beach only to find FREE public toilets on offer. Never one to turn down a good deal, I eagerly enter and find a standard single-cubicle bathroom. However, my enthusiasm quickly turns to regret when I flush the toilet, and (I kid you not) the entire toilet lifts off the floor. Water starts pouring in from the other side of the room. In a bewildering wave of confusion, I’m frozen in place, unable to believe what’s happening. A second and then a third wave of (who knows what) water rush in, flooding the floor. By this point, my feet are sopping wet; I’m splashed up to my knees and unable to believe what happened. After frantically pushing the ‘open door’ button, I stumbled out of the loo, dazed and soaked, unable to speak and needing a sit-down. And you know what. Mathew goes, “Ah, you got caught by the toilet flushing, didn’t you” as if he knew that going to the bathroom in Europe is a full-body experience. It turns out the same thing happened to him in Lake Como, but he chose to keep his little mishap to himself. Thanks for the heads up, love.
Dazed and confused, we stumble to the beach. It’s artificial, and I feel a bit like I’ve gone to a slightly run-down resort town in Floria. But it’s peaceful and gets major points for having pebbles instead of sand.
After swimming for an ungodly amount of time, we head south down the coast to Ponte Rouge to catch the ferry. We bought public transport passes on our first day in Marseille. As the ferry usually costs 8 euro, we reckon a few rides will help us get our money’s worth! On the way, we stop past a Billabong store, and I can’t resist a look inside. I didn’t realise I was homesick until I stepped through the front doors, and the familiar smell of coconut surf wax and Australian clothing hit my senses. It was bloody nice to see something familiar.
The ferry makes a refreshing change to the boiling-hot bus rides we’ve been taking recently and does wonders for cooling us both down. We opt to sit outside (obviously) and ogle at the coastline as we race past, unable to believe that the water can be this blue.
By the time we arrive in Vieux Port, it’s 6 pm, so we make our way back home to cook up a storm in the kitchen, catch up on some work and fall into bed. See you tomorrow – the sun takes it out of ya!
Monday 26th June
Monday means only one thing when you’re on a never-ending summer holiday. Instead of waking up early for work, we’re waking up early for another day on the beach. Life’s treating us well.
We liked Plage des Catalans so much that we decided to return today and are pleasantly surprised that now, as most people have had to go back to the real world and off to work, the place is decidedly less busy than it was this weekend.
The beach is only a 25-minute walk from the house we’re staying in, and on the way, we walk past the port where boats dock as far as the eye can see. Tin boats, yachts. You name it; it’s here. Mathew fancies himself as a bit of a boat enthusiast, and each day we’ve walked past the port, we’ve played a game of “Which boat would you like to own”. We’ve settled on a 30-foot yacht, and although I began this game on Friday as a joke, I’m beginning to think a boat might be in our future. Maybe we’ll have to start buying those lottery tickets or sell a kidney.
The sun is impossibly hot today, even hotter than it was on Saturday, and we soon find that we’re living through the hottest day Marseille has ever recorded. 39 degrees is enough to give even the hardiest sun bums heat stroke. But our tans are coming along very nicely, and we’re in our element playing mermaids in the waves. What more could you want?
If you know Mathew, you know he likes a drink as much as the next person. He’s never heard of Dry July (only “Dry We Can’t Afford To Drink Much At The Moment”), and beer might just be his middle name; he’ll usually tuck into an ice-cold one with my Mum in the evenings when we’re at home. I don’t drink beer but am partial to a cocktail, so he’s decided to join me (not that it took much persuading) and change his poison to Mojitos.
Happy Hour is a big thing in Marseille, and cheap cocktails sound like a bit of us. So, after a boiling hot day, we stretch the backpacker’s budget and head to a local bar where, to our great surprise, they also serve free snacks. One round of mojitos down, the budget goes out of the window, and we order another each. Our table is right at the edge of their air-conditioned courtyard, perfect for indulging in our favourite activity: people-watching. We go to pay and are pleasantly surprised that 12 euros have fetched us four cocktails, two bowls of chips, salted peanuts and olives. Talk about value for money!
Tipsy from a mixture of alcohol and dehydration, we bid farewell to our new favourite bar in town and head home—night night.
Tuesday 27th June
I’m calling it now; this is by FAR my favourite day in France (and we still have four more days plus a visit to Paris!).
When I was planning our travels, I read a lot about the Calanques in Marseille. They’re challenging to get to without a car, but I’m determined and up for any challenge that involves a good viewpoint. So, we hopped on a train and then a bus at 7 am this morning and arrived in Cassis. Cassis is a little sleepy port-side town on the opposite side of the Calanques national park; idyllic and nothing short of a slice of heaven. Mark my words; I’ll come back here one day!
From Cassis, we marched to the park’s entrance as quickly as possible to begin the walk before the sun started blazing. We quickly realise we may be ill-prepared as we pass other hikers with poles, walking shoes and ropes. We, on the other hand, have nothing more than a bottle of water, packed lunch, togs and our sandals. At least we’re doing the Kiwi name proud.
We pass Port Miou on our hike, traversing slippery, jagged rocks and clambering around the sides of cliffs before reaching Port Pin.
The walk to Port Pin takes us much less time than anticipated, so we decide to trailblazer up the next hill to D’en Vau. Initially not on our radar due to the time and exertion it takes to get there, D’en Vau proves to be the most beautiful calanque in the park. I’ve seen lots of postcards with D’en Vau’s viewpoint on the front, but seeing it in real life was nothing short of mind-blowing. I’m having a lot of these pinch me moments later.
We decide not to walk down to the bay, owing to the 1-hour long rock scramble that comes with it, but instead, we decide to stop for a water break at the top of the viewpoint and take it all in. From the top of the cliff, we can see more coves and paddle boarders and kayakers floating in and out of D’en Vau Bay, looking like tiny characters in a Wes Anderson movie.
Views well and truly seen, we continue walking around the Calanques panoramic route for an hour before returning down the cliff to Port Pin for a well-deserved swim.
We unanimously agree that this is the clearest water we’ve ever seen. It’s undoubtedly the bluest water I’ve ever swam in. With the day’s step count achieved by noon, we’ve got nothing left on our agenda except to find a (somewhat) flat spot on the surrounding rocks to roll out our towel, dip in and out of the water and lay like lizards for a few hours.
Travel does funny things to you. At home, I consciously think about what I look like in public; I would much rather lay on the beach than even think about getting my hair wet and can’t STAND being grubby. But here, I’m jumping in and out of the water just as much as Mathew is. I’m sitting crossed-legged, eating my lunch, not at all worried about the way my stomach folds or whether other people can see the tiny hairs covering my legs. And as I write this, I’ve got a head full of hair still covered in salt water from the day before. I feel so much freer than I do at home. It’s almost as if I’ve got unconditional permission to exist in my body. However, it is, and however it comes, rather than willing it to be something it’s not (or will ever be).
After our swim, we begin our somewhat gruelling walk back up the many return hills to the bus station and catch a ride back to Marseille. Walking in the heat is one thing, but walking in the heat up what seems like a vertical incline is enough to send anyone over the edge. We’ve talked a lot recently about how much we’ve been walking on holiday here. It’s astronomical, and my gage for what feels like a long walk has changed.
After a 40-minute walk, we collapse onto our Marseille-bound chariot and head back. As I said, this was my favourite day in France, and I am so pleased we made an effort to head over to the Calanques. If you ever find yourself in the South of France, please please try and get yourself there. You’ll thank yourself – trust me ❤
See you this time next week!
And that brings to an end another week abroad. We’re nearing the end of the first leg of our European travels, and it’ll come as no surprise that I can’t believe how quickly time is going. June 2023 has been the best month of my life – a big call, I know!!!! We left France yesterday after riots broke out across the country, and I’m now writing this from Portugal. But more on that next week! See you then x
Notes to Home 