For years, Nice had been a quiet wish. After countless business trips, I wanted to see it differently — not from hotel windows, but through the slow rhythm of days spent by the sea, with my family.

Arrival

The journey was long — a flight at 6 p.m., the shuffle of bags, and a tired child. But then, stepping out into the open air, everything softened. The light felt warmer here, gentler. The sea shone like metal and glass. Nice greeted us not with silence, but with movement — scooters, voices, waves, the smell of salt. We took the tram from the airport to the city center and walked straight to the sea. Runners along the promenade, locals of all ages wading into the water for their morning swim, tourists drifting — some waiting for an Airbnb check-in, others for their transfer home.

Seeing the sun climb above the indescribable blue of the sea was already everything I had come here for. I took a deep breath.

Life in the Old Town

Our flat was hidden in the heart of Vieux Nice — five floors up, behind worn shutters and narrow stairs. From the window, we watched the market stalls rise and fall each day. The streets below pulsed with life: the smell of oranges and cheese, the sound of guides explaining history in five languages, the rhythm of footsteps in the alleys.

We wandered without direction — through narrow alleys filled with bakeries, tiny restaurants, and gift shops. Past faded walls and baroque churches. Sometimes we’d stop for a coffee and pastries, sometimes just to stand and listen. Nice rewards anyone who allows the city to happen to them.

The Sea

Every day we ended up at the water. The beach stones were warm and smooth; the sea, endless shades of translucent blue fading gently into the horizon. We swam, even in October — the kind of swim that stays in your memory for the light, the sound of small wavelets splashing beside your ears, the infinite view. As you drift in that blue, you start to wonder whether anything else on this earth really matters. Then you realize — it doesn’t.

Drifting

We climbed to the castle hill. We wandered through the park. We lingered in museums and on benches. We grabbed snacks and bites wherever we went — world-class pastries and chocolate at LAC, insane French toast at the Vinyl Café, traditional Corsican bread at Murtavi, and of course socca from the busy corner stalls where locals queued. The level of food quality in France never stops impressing me. Even a random bakery at a shoddy train station in Grasse had pastries that would be a benchmark anywhere else in Europe.

I ran along the Promenade in the mornings, as the city began to wake. Commuters on bikes, countless runners — an impressive range of finisher shirts telling me the runners of Nice are either well-travelled or that I was part of a tribe of tourist-runners catching the morning breeze. Along the Promenade des Anglais to the airport or past the harbour and up the hills in the other direction — fit people everywhere, all moving with the light.

Beyond the City

On other days we took the train. The tracks follow the coastline, and from the window the world feels painted in motion: cliffs, palms, glittering bays. Watching the sea from the train window became a quiet ritual — a reminder of how close beauty sits to ordinary life here.

Monaco is not far, and worth a visit. You decide whether to blend in and pretend — or simply to watch. We settled on the latter. Even the train station is a marvel of engineering, deep inside the rock, split across several levels. The harbour, lined with impossible yachts, feels unreal. You wander through it all, amazed and slightly detached — wondering why such splendour can still feel so sterile.

Halfway to Monaco lies Villefranche-sur-Mer — the true opposite. An old fishing village nestled into the cliffs, with a small harbour, romantic alleys, and breathtaking views. Everything there feels timeless, softer, almost suspended between sea and sky.

To the west we visited Grasse, Europe’s perfume capital — another medieval town perched in the hills, filled with artisan perfumeries offering tours and workshops. The air itself seemed perfumed with rose and citrus.

Belonging

Nice had stayed with me since my first fly-in, fly-out meeting there nearly ten years ago. I knew then that the place would mean something to me — in its color, its warmth, its small chaos. It’s one of those cities that doesn’t ask you to do anything, only to be there. I felt a strange familiarity, a quiet pull, as if I could belong here. The desire to return began before we’d even left.