Nice is Nice

Paris Charles de Gaulle, Rome Leonardo da Vinci and New York JFK are examples of airports which, having adopted the names of national heroes may, wittingly or otherwise, bask in their eponymous reputations and benefit from whatever power those names have to evoke admiration, awe or curiosity.  Naming an airport presents a powerful marketing opportunity - one which London Heathrow has missed out on but which Liverpool John Lennon (above us only sky...) has not. When we flew from there last week I could not help but hum a few of the old tunes (though not without some sympathy for Sir Paul, who must have felt a little put out at being passed over).

The airport we were bound for, Nice Côte d' Azur, would have been hard pressed to choose just one name from a long list of well-known local heroes and has sensibly associated itself more generally with the glamour of its locale, Belle Epoque playground of Europe's aristocracy, latter- day retreat for celebrities, nouveaux riches and tax-dodgers and, more recently, accessible holiday resort for those of modest means. You don't need to be rich to marvel at the splendour of the grand hotels, appreciate the pretty coastline or crane your neck for a glimpse of an exotic villa tucked into a hillside: the local buses and trains provide some of the best views.

For me, a stay in a foreign city is inevitably an opportunity to make comparisons, favourable or otherwise, with my own and it's not long before I'm drawn to the windows of the estate agents. After first impressions comes the question - what's it like to live in this place? The centre of Nice is magnificent: the buildings are handsome, the streets are clean and there is generally a prosperous feel. As in so many European cities, there is a long-established resident population living in apartment blocks, not just in the suburbs but in the centre, and it is served by numerous boulangeries, patisseries, grocery shops and regular street-markets. Living, as I do, in the centre of Manchester I am bound to be envious. Our apartment blocks are newcomers, replacing what used to be commercial and industrial buildings. They are generally not suitable for family accommodation and there is no heritage of local bakers, butchers or grocers. The gastronomic needs of our recently established population are served by Sainsbury's Local, Little Waitrose and Tesco Express supermarkets all offering the same range of convenience foods - and a great many pizza-delivery services.

But a few days in a city is not long enough for me to make up my mind whether I would like to live there. It could be that, despite the availability of so much excellent food and wine in Nice, I might miss the daily struggle to find palatable provisions in Manchester (probably not); or I might become irritated by the hot, sunny weather (probably so); or I might just not fit in. Certainly the African immigrants sleeping rough around the central railway station were finding it difficult. Discreet observation of the locals and their habits gave me a few clues as to what it might be like, although my study was far from scientific. I did like the way that men (and they were mostly men) sat outside the cafes and drank coffee in the mornings with no apparent urgency to get off to work. I tried it myself, ordering coffee just as they did and adopting a dégagé pose, although I realised I would never make the top grade unless I took up smoking. And that was before I noticed that the hard-core were drinking red wine chasers. And then I came across a Carrefour Express down one of the side streets. Well, there goes the neighbourhood, I thought.

Glamorous bus stop on the Côte d' Azur.