As the train from Nice to Genova lulls me into a calm state, I look out at the water, and at the candypastel houses that pepper the hills leading to the waters. Nothing I have ever seen compares to this sight. I have, time and again, remembered the times spent in Nice with a nostalgia that I’m sure can’t possibly be as accurate as I remember. Surely, there is some flaw in my memory.
And yet, it is still perfect.
How can a landscape so sublime, so serene, act like it’s just another day here? Like there’s nothing out of the ordinary about that perfect meter of golden sunlight (no Instagram filter needed) that warms those ancient Mediterranean homes? How can it act like “oh, just a few perfect waves crashing against flawless rocks.” Why can’t it admit that it is heaven on earth?
I keep coming back to this. I will be here again. I must.