Success Making the Move and Arriving at the Finish Line

Success!

The move to the new apartment in Paris took place on Wednesday. By noon, the moving men had everything packed and ready to go. They used a lifting platform that scooted up to the window at an amazing speed. They were incredibly efficient and I watched my apartment of 27 years empty to a shell of its former self within a couple of hours.

The emotional aspect of watching our personal belongings disappear into a truck is hard to define or describe. Any of you who are making the move to France and doing the same thing knows all about it. I had vague memories of our move out of our Los Angeles home to France, but that was 30 years ago. So “vague” is the correct description. That must have been even more emotionally wrenching, as we were headed to a new life without a clue what that would be like, and am sure I must have been very apprehensive.

When every single little thing was gone, except for the drapes and the light fixtures, it was a shock. Twenty-seven years of good times flashed before my eyes. Plus, when the outer layer was gone, we could see the remnants of age—marks on the walls where the art once hung, dust and dirt under the appliances, cracks that the furniture had hidden from view.

By late afternoon, all the boxes, bags and plants were loaded into the new apartment and what went to storage for the year was whisked away to a “garde meuble” (storage unit). We had taken the week before to prepare the apartment for the move in, so that the beds were already made and the bathrooms ready for showering. That was a godsend.

With the brilliant help of my assistant, Diane C., a die-hard who never once said she couldn’t do this or that, who never got panicked and kept me sane. And with the technical acumen of our IT guy, Sergei A., by Friday night we were entirely installed, ready to roll and living like normal human beings in the apartment. In addition, Our interior designer, Martine di Mattéo, sent over one of her contractors to make a few repairs in the apartment that we preferred to have done immediately rather than wait for the landlord to fix, even on my own dime. The only things left to do now are hang the art and finalize the transfer of the Internet/Phone/TV system to the new location.

In all honesty, it was exhausting, but amazing that we got so much done so quickly and efficiently. Which I owe mostly to Diane, the queen of organization who put up with my OCD tendencies (Obsessive-Compulsive-Disorder) and never flinched. I will be forever indebted.

The day before the move, a swarm of representatives of the building’s management, the structural architects and experts, including Martine to represent me, came for a big powwow to discuss the structural work that will take place as of September 2nd—replace the damaged wood beams in the ceiling with steel or iron. They explained that everything that touches the ceiling will get destroyed and every closet and cabinet, including the bookshelves, would not be salvageable. They could remove the doors, but couldn’t promise what would happen to the rest, meaning everything will have to be rebuilt from scratch. When we mediated for how much of this expense the Syndic/co-owners would pay for—we had an idea this might happen—there is no doubt that I’ll be footing most of the bill, even though I shouldn’t (!!), as by law they must replace it to its original condition…but I’d have to sue them to make that happen!

The bottom line is that it’s all going to cost a pretty penny, but I have no choice, and have to see it as a blessing to end up with a brand-new apartment when all is said and done, partly paid for by the other owners in the building…about a year from now!

With only three nights spent in the new apartment, I trained down to Nice on Saturday for the finale of the Tour de France leaving the new apartment behind.

Nice was nuts. The Tour de France had taken it over lock, stock and barrel. Barricades and bleachers along the major routes surrounding Place Masséna and the Promenade des Anglais where the race was to come in had closed off the city for cars and pedestrians rendering us going in circles to get anywhere. The Tram tracks curving through Place Masséna had been paved over to allow for the cyclists to get to the finish line. Tourists abounded wearing tee shirts promoting their favorite teams. Bikes were everywhere, it seemed.

The business on the Cours Saleya was dead—most of the stands were absent as were the shoppers. It wasn’t a problem to get a table at Le Safari (my favorite on the Cour Saleya)—in fact the air-conditioned interior normally packed with diners was completely empty. It was weird. They had come for the Tour de France but visiting Nice wasn’t part of the mission, I suppose.

While the riders were coming in one by one and the routes were lined with spectators, I headed down to the beach by taking the bike tunnel from rue du Congrès to the other side of the Promenade des Anglais. It was the only access point for a very long way. The weather was cloudy, and not hot, nor were there many other beach-goers for this time of year. That made it very pleasant indeed…being lazy on a beach is my Number 1 best pastime, by far surpassing watching the bikers ride in one by one over the course of many hours.

Watching the sport on TV after bathing and dressing from having been on the beach was actually the best view of all, especially of the beautiful scenery as they cycled from Monaco to Nice through the hill towns of La Turbie and Eze. Drone-produced videos of the coastline were stunningly beautiful—the kind of view you can’t see any other way. I wondered if the cyclists take the time to take in the views or just concentrate on winning the race.

By the time you read this, we will all know that 26 year-old Slovenian Tadej Pogačar (aka Pogi), who rides for UCI WorldTeam UAE Team Emirates, won the race as was predicted. His list of accolades as a cyclist is too long to list here. (See Wikipedia for more information)

I headed for dinner in the opposite direction of the festivities at Place Masséna, thinking I could watch them from my balcony when I got home! But, as it turns out, it all happened without me. Pogačar won the entire race, ceremonies took place at Place Masséna with Mayor of Nice Christian Estrosi presiding and jets flew overhead streaming France colors red, white and blue. I saw nothing from the lower level of the Hôtel Amour in its dining courtyard, which was calm, lovely and delicious…oh well. At least I can say I was here, even if not part of the celebration.

Credits: The photo of the jets flying over is a frame from a video taken by John Garland Jones from his loft apartment in Nice, steps from my own! (That made me very jealous indeed!) The photo of Tadej Pogacar on his bike on route was taken by Barb Westfield.

A la prochaine…