A renovation architect once explained to me that the heavy aching in your legs when traipsing through a museum is a real physical ailment known as “museum fatigue.” “It’s a physical reaction to not knowing where the end of the museum is.”  I have a particularly acute case in that my legs will grow heavy and cramp up at just the thought of a museum visit in the plans for the day.

“The combination of going to a museum, and then being totally disappointed in its contents called for a drastic pivot toward comfort food, which we were able to obtain in abundance at the Nice Hard Rock Cafe.’

   But no such plans were in the schedule, and we began the day with a brisk walk along Nice’s strand, and my legs never felt stronger and springier. Walking the length of the most commercial portion of the beach, I was beginning to look for a cheerful, bewickered Cafe, when Carol spotted a poster of a special “Carnival in Rio” exhibit at Nice’s Massena Museum, which just happened to have insinuated itself among many cafés that had seemed at that moment to be calling to me from along the beach.

   “It’s right across the street from where we are!” She noted with delight. Immediately my legs experienced a heaviness and achiness they had not exhibited themselves all morning. Interestingly, (in a most ironic way) the exhibit offered very little in the way of Rio’s carnival, and quite a lot in the way of the aristocrat who originally owned the villa and the showy indulgence of his inherited wealth. Even Carol had had enough before I’d even managed to locate a museum bench to wait out the ordeal.

   The combination of going to a museum, and then being totally disappointed in its contents called for a drastic pivot toward comfort food, which we were able to obtain in abundance at the Nice Hard Rock Cafe. A fried chicken sandwich with a mountain of fries, washed down with a tall Heineken was a perfect balance to Carol’s chicken Caesar salad and Aperitivo. A well-earned nap further balanced the uneven day so far.

   The evening kicked off with a glass in the square fronting the Palais Justice, where a street fair featuring collectibles and old books was wrapping up. A bindery tradesman gave a live demonstration of his craft, and that was enough to perk my own interest. We enjoyed a half-bottle of rosé at another café, then explored more of Nice’s old city, where we were surprised to see queues of mostly young people waiting entry into Nice’s nightlife. Neither Carol nor I had seen anything like this. Yes, in front of nightclubs. But restaurants, which are either sold out for the evening or cafés, which if one is full, another will have tables? If any event, these “places to be” were places to be avoided for us.

   We found a quieter café, where Carol found a delightful Eggs Benedict, while I managed to guess wrong and wound up with what amounted to a ham macaroni and cheese, instead of the Coquilles St. Jacque I had, for unknown reasons I suppose, been expecting. We polished off a bottle of rosé to close out the evening before home and bed.

   And we got the museum obligation out of the way as a bonus!