At some point around the turn of the 20th century, the Côte d'Azur in France was drained of its marshlands, and people flocked there from all over the world, to spend the winter in a nice climate. Russians, English people, American people, you name it. Some of them are still there, and they even have their dedicated radio, which in between two pop songs plays ads in English for Porsches and investment cabinets and more necessary items for the insanely rich. Expats can have it nice sometimes, it seems.
Yesterday, as I headed to a work meeting in Nice, already somewhat tired from the long car ride and the walk beforehand, I bought a slice of onion pizza in a bakery, and then walke up the hill to the meeting, regretting already that I hadn't thought of buying some fruit to clean the oil an anchovy taste from my tongue. The gardens on the sides of the road were fenced, and dotted with yellow and oranges, the just-ripe citrus fruit people love to plant in their gardens on that part of the coast. Most of the trees carry bitter oranges, however, so I didn't pay close attention until I saw that the fruit on one were much smaller than the rest.
It was a tangerine tree–perfectly ripe, tasty, juicy tangerines, and one had fallen to the ground just in reach. It tasted heady and tart, like those old varieties you don't find on the marketplace anymore because they don't taste sweet enough for the more timid buyers/ It was perfectly ripe and full of seeds, just enough to make one pause to spit and savour the remaining taste. It was, in short, exactly what I would have asked for if that was the kind of day when you expect to have any luck with anything.
So that's why people love Nice so much. Just another dull working day with a stupidly long ride there and back–and it tosses tangerines to you to sweeten your mind.