Let me start with a warning: If you’re planning to visit Nice, bring sunglasses. Not the cheap kind you grab at the gas station—actual, high-quality UV protection. Because the Bay of Angels (Baie des Anges) isn’t just blue. It’s the kind of blue that hits you like a slap in the face the second you step off the train, the kind of blue that makes you stop mid-step, drop your backpack, and go “holy s**t, is that real?” I’ve lived here for 12 years, and I still do a double-take every time I round the corner onto the Promenade des Anglais. It’s absurd, honestly. The water shimmers like someone dumped a truckload of crushed sapphires into the Mediterranean, and on sunny days (which is 300+ days a year, by the way), it’s so bright you’ll squint until your eyes water.

Now, let’s talk about the Promenade des Anglais—the star of Nice’s waterfront, and a total misnomer if you think about it. First off, it’s not even that “English” anymore. These days, you’ll hear more Italian, Spanish, and Mandarin than British accents, and the only Brits you’ll spot are either sipping tea at a café or jogging like they’re training for a marathon. But back in the 1830s, this stretch of coast was just a dusty path along the sea. Then a group of wealthy British expats showed up, got bored of sitting around their villas, and decided to build a proper walkway—you know, for strolling, gossiping, and showing off their fancy hats. They raised money, hired workers, and turned that dirt path into the 5-kilometer promenade we know today, lined with palm trees, flower beds, and those iconic blue-and-white striped beach chairs that cost way too much to sit in (seriously, €15 for an hour? Robbery, but we all pay it anyway).

Here’s a fun little fact I drop on my tours: Back in the 19th century, walking for fun wasn’t a thing in most places. People walked because they had to— to get to work, to fetch water, to escape trouble. But the British? They turned it into a hobby. A fancy hobby, mind you. They’d dress up in their finest suits and dresses, stroll the promenade at a snail’s pace, and judge everyone else’s outfits. It’s like the original Instagram, but without phones—just a bunch of rich people showing off how much free time they had. And now, 200 years later, we’re all doing the same thing: taking selfies with the sea in the background, pretending we’re as elegant as those 19th-century Brits, even if we’re wearing flip-flops and a stained t-shirt.

If you’re here early in the morning, you’ll see the real Nice: locals jogging with their dogs, old men playing pétanque on the grass, street vendors setting up their stalls selling fresh orange juice and croissants. Stick around until afternoon, and it’s a zoo—tourists from all over the world, kids chasing seagulls, couples making out on the benches. And if you’re brave enough (or stupid enough) to go in the water? Be prepared for a shock. The Mediterranean is cold. Like, “jump in and scream like a little kid” cold. But it’s worth it—swimming in that crystal-clear water, looking back at the promenade and the pastel-colored buildings clinging to the hills, you’ll get why people have been flocking here for centuries.

Nice Old Town: Get Lost, Eat Socca, and Learn Why It Almost Belonged to Italy

Forget Google Maps. When you’re in Nice’s Old Town (Vieille Ville), the best thing to do is get lost. Seriously. Wander the narrow, winding streets, where the buildings are painted in soft pinks, yellows, and blues, and laundry hangs from the balconies like colorful flags. The streets are so tight in some places, you can reach out and touch both walls at the same time. And every corner smells like something amazing—freshly baked bread, garlic, herbs, and the smoky, savory scent of Socca, the holy grail of Nice street food.

Let’s talk about Socca, because if you leave Nice without eating it, you’ve wasted your trip. It’s a thin, crispy flatbread made from chickpea flour, olive oil, salt, and water—simple, but life-changing. They cook it in giant, wood-fired ovens, and when it’s fresh out, it’s golden brown on the edges, soft in the middle, and so flavorful you’ll want to eat the whole thing in one bite. The best spot to get it is Chez Pipo, a tiny little stall in the heart of the Old Town that’s been around since 1931. The owner, an old guy named Jean, yells at you if you take too long to order, but his Socca is worth the attitude. Pro tip: Eat it hot, right there on the street, and don’t worry about getting crumbs on your shirt. No one cares here—Nice is all about being casual and unpretentious (well, most of the time).

Now, let’s get into the drama: Nice almost wasn’t French. Yeah, you read that right. For most of its history, Nice was part of the Italian region of Piedmont-Sardinia. The people spoke Italian, ate Italian food, and identified as Italian. It wasn’t until 1860 that Nice was ceded to France, as part of a deal between Napoleon III and the King of Sardinia. The locals weren’t happy about it—there were protests, riots, even people who refused to speak French for decades. You can still see the Italian influence today, especially in the Old Town. The architecture looks like it’s straight out of Tuscany, the pastries (like cannoli and sfogliatella) are Italian, and half the signs are in both French and Italian. Even the Socca, which is often called “the poor man’s pizza,” has Italian roots.

Wander around long enough, and you’ll stumble upon Place Rossetti, the main square of the Old Town. It’s surrounded by colorful buildings, outdoor cafés, and a beautiful baroque church with a pink dome. On weekends, there’s a market here, where vendors sell fresh fruit, flowers, handmade jewelry, and knockoff designer bags (don’t buy them—they’re terrible quality, and you’ll get fined if you get caught). Sit at a café, order a glass of rosé (the local wine—light, fruity, perfect for warm afternoons), and watch the world go by. You’ll see couples holding hands, kids chasing each other, old men playing cards, and tourists taking a million photos. It’s chaotic, it’s loud, it’s messy—and it’s the best part of Nice.

Eze: A Tiny Village on a Cliff, Where Nietzsche Found Inspiration (and Maybe a Good View)

The Cactus Garden: Hike Until You’re Sore, Then Get Blown Away by the View

Eze is a pain in the ass to get to. Let’s be real. It’s a 30-minute bus ride from Nice, and the bus is always crowded, with tourists cramming in with their backpacks and suitcases. Then, once you get there, you have to hike up a steep hill to get to the village. I’m talking “legs burning, lungs screaming” steep. I’ve had clients quit halfway, sitting on the side of the road, complaining that I “tricked them” into a workout. But trust me—once you reach the top, you’ll forget all about the hike.

Eze is a medieval village perched on a cliff, 427 meters above the Mediterranean. It’s like something out of a fairy tale—narrow stone streets, ancient stone houses with terracotta roofs, and views that will make you gasp. The star attraction here is the Jardin Exotique (Exotic Garden), a collection of over 1,000 species of cacti and succulents from all over the world. It’s weird, it’s wonderful, and it’s totally out of place in the south of France. But that’s what makes it so cool. Imagine walking through a garden filled with giant cacti, some as tall as trees, while looking out over the blue sea and the coastline stretching for miles. It’s surreal.

Here’s the history part: Eze was built by the Romans, and for centuries, it was a strategic stronghold. Its location on a cliff made it perfect for defending against pirates and invaders. Back in the day, the villagers would keep watch from the top of the hill, and if they saw pirates approaching, they’d ring a bell and everyone would hide in the village’s underground tunnels. Those tunnels are still there, by the way—you can walk through them if you’re not claustrophobic. It’s creepy, but cool, to think about how the villagers lived back then—always on edge, always ready to fight.

The cactus garden was built in the 1930s by a wealthy Frenchman named André Gianton. He was obsessed with cacti, and he spent years collecting them from all over the world, bringing them to Eze and planting them on the cliffside. Today, it’s one of the most popular attractions on the French Riviera, and for good reason. The garden is small, but it’s packed with personality, and the views from the top are unbeatable. Pro tip: Go early in the morning, before the crowds show up. You’ll have the garden to yourself, and the light is perfect for photos. And wear comfortable shoes—those stone paths are slippery, especially when it’s wet.

Nietzsche’s Path: Walk Like a Philosopher, Think About Dinner

If you’re feeling fancy (or just want to pretend you’re a deep, intellectual person), take a walk along Chemin de Nietzsche (Nietzsche’s Path), a narrow trail that winds down the cliff from Eze to the sea. Legend has it that the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche walked this path every day during his time in Eze, and it was here that he found the inspiration to write his famous book, Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

Let me be real: I’ve walked this path dozens of times, and I’ve never had a deep philosophical epiphany. I’ve thought about what to have for dinner, I’ve complained about how steep the trail is, I’ve taken photos of the sea, but I’ve never “found myself” or anything like that. But hey, maybe I’m just not deep enough. Nietzsche was a pretty intense guy—he talked about “the will to power” and “supermen,” so maybe he was able to look past the sweat and the sore legs and see something deeper in the view.

The trail is about 2 kilometers long, and it’s steep in parts, but it’s worth it. The path is lined with pine trees, and every now and then, you’ll get a glimpse of the sea through the trees. It’s quiet, peaceful, and a world away from the crowds in Nice and Eze Village. If you’re lucky, you’ll spot a lizard or two scurrying across the path, or a bird of prey circling overhead. And when you reach the bottom, you’ll end up at a small beach, where you can dip your feet in the water and cool off after the hike.

Here’s a fun little tidbit about Nietzsche in Eze: He didn’t actually live in the village. He stayed in a small hotel at the foot of the cliff, and he walked up to Eze every day to get his coffee and write. The hotel is still there, by the way—it’s called Hôtel Napoleon, and it’s a cute little place with a terrace that overlooks the sea. I’ve stayed there once, and the rooms are tiny, but the view is worth it. And if you ask the staff, they’ll tell you stories about Nietzsche—how he’d sit on the terrace for hours, scribbling in his notebook, and how he’d get annoyed when tourists interrupted him. Relatable, honestly.

Monaco: Rich People, Casinos, and F1—Where Money Talks (and Everyone Listens)

Accidentally Crossing the Border: How to Go From France to a Billionaire’s Playground in 10 Minutes

Monaco is weird. It’s a tiny country—only 1.95 square kilometers, which is smaller than Central Park in New York City. You can walk from one end to the other in 30 minutes. But it’s also one of the richest countries in the world, with more billionaires per capita than anywhere else. And the best part? It’s only a 20-minute train ride from Nice. I’ve had clients fall asleep on the train, wake up, and go “wait, are we still in France?” Nope—you’re in Monaco, where the cars are fancier, the buildings are shinier, and everyone looks like they just stepped out of a magazine.

Crossing the border is weirdly easy. There’s no passport check, no customs—nothing. You just get off the train, walk out of the station, and suddenly you’re in a different country. The first thing you’ll notice is the cars: Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Bentleys, Rolls-Royces—they’re everywhere. I once saw a guy driving a Bugatti Veyron, with a dog sitting in the passenger seat, wearing a diamond collar. It’s absurd, but that’s Monaco. Money is everywhere, and they’re not afraid to show it.

Another thing you’ll notice: There are no homeless people. There are no beggars. There are no run-down buildings. Monaco is spotless—every street is clean, every building is well-maintained, and even the trash cans look expensive. That’s because Monaco has no income tax, so all the rich people move there to avoid paying taxes. And in exchange, they spend their money in Monaco, keeping the country looking perfect. It’s a win-win for everyone—except the people who can’t afford to live there. The average apartment in Monaco costs over €10,000 per square meter. Yeah, you read that right. €10,000. For one square meter. That’s more than most people make in a month.

If you’re on a budget (like most of us), don’t worry—you can still enjoy Monaco without spending a fortune. Just wander around, look at the fancy cars, take photos of the palace, and people-watch. The Prince’s Palace is a must-see—it’s a beautiful 13th-century palace perched on a cliff, with stunning views of the sea. Every day at 11:55 a.m., the changing of the guard happens, and it’s a fun little show. The guards wear colorful uniforms, with plumed hats, and they march in perfect formation. It’s cheesy, but it’s worth watching.

Monte Carlo Casino & F1 Track: Where Dreams Are Made (and Broken)

No trip to Monaco is complete without a visit to the Monte Carlo Casino—the most famous casino in the world, and the inspiration for James Bond’s Casino Royale. Let me tell you, this place is fancy. Like, “wear a suit or get turned away” fancy. I once tried to get in wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and the doorman looked at me like I was crazy. So dress up—even if it’s just a nice shirt and pants. It’s worth it to see the inside.

The casino was built in 1863, after Prince Charles III of Monaco decided to open a casino to save the country from bankruptcy. Back then, Monaco was poor, and the prince thought a casino would bring in tourists and money. He was right. The casino became a huge success, and it’s still the main source of income for Monaco today. Inside, it’s like a palace—chandeliers, marble floors, gold trim, and tables where people bet thousands of euros on a single hand of blackjack or roulette.

I’ve seen it all here: rich guys dropping €50,000 in an hour, laughing like it’s nothing; old ladies playing slot machines, hoping to win enough to pay their bills; tourists taking photos of the tables, even though photography is forbidden. And then there are the people who lose everything—guys who come in with a suitcase full of cash, thinking they’ll get rich quick, and leave with nothing but a empty wallet and a broken heart. I once saw a guy sitting outside the casino, crying, because he’d lost his entire life savings. It’s sad, but it’s the reality of casinos—for every winner, there are a hundred losers.

Right outside the casino is the Monte Carlo F1 track—the most famous race track in the world. Unlike other F1 tracks, this one is just the city streets of Monte Carlo. Every May, the streets are closed off, barriers are put up, and the world’s best drivers race through the narrow streets at speeds of over 200 km/h. It’s insane—they’re driving between buildings, around tight corners, inches away from the walls. The track hasn’t changed much since 1950, which makes it even more challenging. Drivers say it’s the most difficult track in F1, because one small mistake can mean a crash.

If you’re in Monaco during F1 weekend, count yourself lucky—but be prepared for crowds. The entire city is packed with fans, and hotels cost a fortune (I’ve seen rooms go for over €1,000 a night). But even if you’re not there for the race, you can still walk the track. Just follow the signs, and you’ll see the famous hairpin turn, the tunnel, and the straightaway along the sea. It’s cool to stand on the same streets where Lewis Hamilton and Max Verstappen have raced. And if you’re lucky, you might even see a race car practicing—there’s nothing like the sound of a Formula 1 engine roaring through the streets.

Cannes: Red Carpets, Fake Celebrities, and Pebble Beaches That Hurt Your Feet

Palais des Festivals: Hunting for Celebrity Handprints (And Realizing You Don’t Know Anyone)

Cannes is weirdly different from Nice. Nice is casual, laid-back, unpretentious. Cannes is… not. Cannes is all about glitz and glamour, red carpets and celebrities, expensive hotels and even more expensive restaurants. It’s like the Hollywood of the south of France. But here’s the thing: Most of the time, there are no celebrities. The Cannes Film Festival only happens once a year (in May), and the rest of the time, it’s just a regular (but fancy) beach town.

The main attraction in Cannes is the Palais des Festivals et des Congrès (Palace of Festivals and Congresses), where the film festival is held every year. The building itself is pretty ugly, if I’m being honest—it’s a big, concrete block with a giant red carpet out front. But the real magic is on the ground, right in front of the palace: the handprints. Hundreds of celebrities have pressed their handprints into the concrete here—Marilyn Monroe, Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Leonardo DiCaprio, you name it.

Here’s the fun part: Most people can’t name half the celebrities whose handprints are there. I’ve seen tourists squatting on the ground, squinting at the names, going “who the hell is that?” It’s hilarious. I once had a client who spent 20 minutes looking for Ryan Gosling’s handprint, only to realize he’d never been to the Cannes Film Festival. Oops. But that’s part of the fun—hunting for handprints, pretending you’re a movie star, taking photos of your hand next to a celebrity’s.

If you’re there during the film festival, it’s a zoo. The red carpet is rolled out, the paparazzi are everywhere, and celebrities are walking around in fancy dresses and tuxedos. But here’s a little secret: Most of the people on the red carpet aren’t even celebrities. They’re “influencers,” or people who paid thousands of euros for an invitation, or people who snuck in. I’ve seen people wearing cheap knockoff dresses, pretending to be famous, and the paparazzi are happy to take their photo—because they get paid per photo, regardless of who the person is. It’s all fake, but it’s entertaining.

And if you ever get the chance to walk the red carpet? Do it. Even if you’re wearing jeans and a t-shirt (though they might kick you out). The red carpet is longer than it looks—about 200 meters—and walking down it, even with no one watching, makes you feel like a celebrity. I’ve done it a few times, and I still get a little rush every time.

La Croisette: Luxury Stores, Private Islands, and Pretending You’re in a Movie

La Croisette is Cannes’ main street, and it’s where all the rich people hang out. It runs along the beach, and on one side, you have luxury stores—Chanel, Dior, Louis Vuitton, Gucci—and on the other side, you have the beach and the sea. It’s like a playground for billionaires. I’ve seen people walking around with shopping bags full of designer clothes, drinking champagne at outdoor cafés, and getting into yachts parked right off the shore.

One of the coolest things about La Croisette is the view of Île Sainte-Marguerite, a small island just off the coast. This island is famous for being the prison of the Man in the Iron Mask, a mysterious prisoner who was held there in the 17th century. No one knows who he was—some say he was a prince, some say he was a spy, some say he was the twin brother of King Louis XIV. The mystery has fascinated people for centuries, and you can visit the prison cell where he was held. It’s small, dark, and creepy, but it’s worth a visit if you’re into history.

If you’re on a budget, don’t worry—you don’t have to buy anything from the luxury stores. Just window-shop, people-watch, and pretend you’re in a movie. La Croisette is the perfect place to do that—every corner looks like a movie set. The palm trees, the blue sea, the fancy hotels, the people in expensive clothes—it’s like you’re walking through a scene from a romantic comedy or a spy movie. I’ve had clients take photos here, pretending they’re James Bond or a Hollywood star, and it’s always fun.

Pro tip: Stop at one of the outdoor cafés on La Croisette, order a glass of rosé, and watch the world go by. It’s expensive (a glass of rosé can cost €15), but it’s worth it. You’ll see people from all over the world, fancy cars driving by, and yachts sailing in the bay. It’s the perfect way to experience the glamour of Cannes without breaking the bank.

The Beach: Why Cannes’ “Sand” Is Actually a Torture Device

Let’s get to the most important thing about Cannes’ beaches: They’re not sand. They’re pebbles. Big, hard, sharp pebbles that hurt your feet like hell. I cannot stress this enough—wear flip-flops or water shoes when you go to the beach. Otherwise, you’ll be hopping around like a fool, screaming in pain, and wondering why anyone would choose this over a sandy beach.

I’ve made this mistake before. My first time in Cannes, I went to the beach without shoes, and I lasted 2 minutes before I had to run back to my hotel, my feet covered in cuts and bruises. Never again. The pebbles are smooth, but they’re hard, and walking on them barefoot is like walking on a bed of nails. And don’t even think about lying down on them—you’ll feel every pebble digging into your back. It’s miserable.

But here’s the thing: The beaches are still beautiful. The water is just as blue as Nice’s, and the view of La Croisette and the hills is stunning. So even though the pebbles suck, it’s worth it to sit on a beach chair (which costs €20 an hour, by the way) and soak up the sun. Just make sure you bring shoes. And maybe a towel to sit on—even the beach chairs have pebbles under them.

Another thing about Cannes’ beaches: They’re private. Most of the beaches are owned by hotels, and you have to pay to get in. The only public beach is Plage de la Croisette, but it’s small and crowded. If you want a quieter beach, you’ll have to pay to get into one of the private ones. It’s annoying, but that’s Cannes—everything costs money.

I once spent a day at a private beach in Cannes, and it was amazing. The beach chairs were comfortable, there was a waiter who brought me drinks, and the water was crystal clear. But it cost me €50 for the day, which is more than I usually spend on food in a day. But sometimes, you have to splurge. And honestly, sitting there, drinking a cocktail, looking out at the sea, I forgot all about the pebbles.

About the Author

CultureCurator

Editor

From the science of the Northern Lights to the culture of saunas, I specialize in demystifying Scandinavia. Let me help you plTan a Nordic adventure that’s as deep as it is extraordinary.

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