What I remember of Nice ... the little art galleries, the flower market, the bench in the Jardin du Monastere above the city where I ate a pissaladière and sketched, drinking bottles of rosé in the dark on the beach and somehow finding the way back to our horrible little hostel more than a little tipsy ...
And me like a broken record saying, "I can see myself here. I can see myself here. I can see myself here."
Another place I've ambled and admired - turned by tragedy to a tableau of a different color.
"The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater."