Corresponding to what I like to do first when exploring a new location, Carol and I boarded the Ligne 1 tram just down from our hotel, and rode it to its terminus in each direction. The idea is to find something of interest along the way, and then ride back there to explore it in greater detail. This investigation usually falls to Carol’s expertise, as I’m generally only on the lookout for a sweet sidewalk café with wicker chairs and a cheerful wine list.

   There was a fresh fish and vegetable market at one of the tram stops, and we returned there to enjoy a breakfast of crepes, and then to wonder at some of the strange looking vegetables that Europeans eat, and all the sea creatures whose lives abruptly ended only the day before – hopefully.

   Next stop was to the Nice Ville train station for a day trip to Monaco and Monte Carlo. We still had to resolve this Eurail stipulation that our seat reservations for all our planned trips had to be printed. There was much back and forth (related to wifi access) with a kindly tourism representative who refused to give up on printing our reservations until she succeeded. That took the better part of an hour to complete, and we were off to Monaco (where the rail agent there assured us our mobile confirmations were sufficient, and we did not need paper reservations.)

“Get this: the Monte Carlo casino charges 17 euros just to get into a place that has both its hands in your pockets the moment you show them your paid ticket. Among the Bentleys, Ferraris, Lamborghinis and Rolls-Royces parked outside, it occurred to me that being rich and stupid isn’t a very high bar of achievement.”

   Get this: the Monte Carlo casino charges 17 euros just to get into a place that has both its hands in your pockets the moment you show them your paid ticket. Among the Bentleys, Ferraris, Lamborghinis and Rolls-Royces parked outside, it occurred to me that being rich and stupid isn’t a very high bar of achievement. But, the train back to Nice put a double exclamation point on the disappointment of the visit.

   The crowd packed on the platform suggested a tight squeeze for the 30-minute ride back to Nice (and the first wine of the day, mind you). But the platform crowd merely mirrored the already jammed cars that rolled into the station. Ten minutes into the trip, we were a South American soccer riot waiting to happen. Squeezed tight against the sides of the car, at least there was no chance of falling down from the sudden jolts of the train stopping and starting. The one enjoyment came from a toddler who chose me to practice her repertoire of monkey shines, which included pulled lips, wagging tongue and a self-satisfied giggle after each performance. We followed the parents out, because they had a stroller to pave a path through the humanity. Safely off the train, I watched with bemused interest the Nice crowd pushing their way onto a still jammed train. It was the Paris train station in Casablanca, without the rain or the curiously unwet trench coat.

   This was the same train, incidentally, that would begin our journey to Milan on Monday. The rest of the weekend I was left pondering what the situation could be with a couple of suitcases added to the mix, but no two-year-old to provide the entertainment.