Natural Perspectives:

I’ve just returned from a week on the French Riviera, traveling with more than 20 other members of the Photographic Society of Orange County. Many of the club members are from Huntington Beach and Fountain Valley.

While I relaxed in Nice, France, poor Vic tended our hens and garden, and slaved away over a hot lectern, teaching his various college classes. I sent him a postcard.

The camera club’s past President Leroy Hannon organized the trip. Using the services of a travel agency in Paris, he managed to secure a week’s lodging in Nice plus airfare for the fabulous price of less than $1,500 per person. But the hotel that the travel agency selected had bad reviews posted on the Internet. Really bad reviews.

A number of us voiced concern about the quality of the lodgings, which Hannon relayed to the travel agency. The travel agent told the hotel management that if they didn’t improve, they were going to cancel their other tour groups that had been booked there. Oh, terrific. We were to be guinea pigs.

We arrived at the Comfort Hotel Azur Riviera on Sunday after an overnight flight on Swiss International Air Lines from Los Angeles International Airport through Zurich. The six-story hotel was old, rundown and right on a noisy street of a busy working-class neighborhood. The last person in our group hadn’t checked in yet when the complaints started pouring in from those who had already seen their rooms.

No soap. No shampoo. No shower curtains. No privacy drapes on the windows, only sheer curtains. Rooms that were supposed to have two separate beds for singles sharing a room had twin beds pushed together and made up with a king sheet. The elevator was so tiny that it could hold only one person with luggage. And on the list went.

I looked at the other club members in amazement as the complaints mounted. I felt like Dorothy after she had been swept away by a tornado from familiar territory into the land of Oz.

“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto,” I said.

Hannon was sick over the quality of the hotel. It was as bad as the reviews had indicated.

One of the ladies in the group was bitten by something, probably a spider, and had to go to the hospital.

The next day, all of our rooms reeked of bug spray. Charlie Brac of Huntington Beach said it was the worst place he had ever stayed.

I couldn’t make that claim. Vic takes me to all sorts of “interesting” places near good birding spots. I’ve stayed in seedy one- or no-star motels in Needles, Brawley and Baker that were comparable or worse. But none of them were as noisy as this hotel.

After the whine of motor scooters and the klaxon sirens died down around midnight each night, trucks came by to pick up bottles and cans for recycling. And I swear someone went by every night around 3 a.m., dropping two-by-fours onto the pavement.

On Monday, the elevator broke, trapping Hannon and George Hagen inside. They were rescued by someone with a crowbar.

But on Tuesday we got soap! Shampoo, too. By Wednesday, the staff had fixed the elevator. Most of us got towels, and almost everyone got their beds made up daily.

Despite the physical drawbacks of the hotel, the four young men staffing the front desk bent over backward to please us. Two of them helped me get my new iPod set up and connected to the Internet so I could communicate with Vic. Breakfast was excellent: fresh baguettes and croissants, boiled eggs, cheese, ham and fruit cocktail.

We decided that changing hotels would waste a day, and we were anxious to see the French Riviera.

As we walked around Cagnes-sur-Mer, Nice, Cannes, Monaco and Monte Carlo, I couldn’t help comparing the French lifestyle with ours here in the states. They drive much smaller cars, and many use motor scooters or motorcycles. They use buses, trains and trolleys and walk a lot.

Their relaxed café lifestyle was to be envied. Despite the rich food and prevalence of smoking, the French have a life expectancy that is three years longer than ours.

I was pleased to see green roofs (extensive plantings on flat roofs of buildings) and even green walls (greenery growing in spaces in stone walls). Narrow balconies were the only outdoor personal space most people had, and they filled them with vines, flowers and other plants.

In a city of sidewalks, pavement and multiple-story stucco buildings, such plantings were desperately needed. From the air, Nice looked green. But it was only because of the green roofs, walls and balconies.

We saw signs in the airport encouraging reduction of carbon dioxide emissions and discouraging use of bottled water. I was surprised that we were never offered free tap water in restaurants, just bottled water for sale. Wine was cheaper than water. So guess which one I ended up drinking!

My favorite part of the Riviera was the farmer’s market at Nice, which was open every day. The fresh, locally grown produce was arranged like works of art: deeply ridged heirloom tomatoes, bright bunches of French breakfast radishes and more varieties of olives than I knew existed.

My second favorite place was the medieval village at Cagnes-sur-Mer, with narrow streets and picturesque buildings that dated back many centuries.

In Cagnes-sur-Mer, the group enjoyed a delightful respite at an outdoor café before catching a bus to our next destination.

On the bus, a group of young men were listening to what I recognized as West Coast rap, one of our cultural exports to France.

My “home boys” at the Orange County Conservation Corps listen to it, and I have to confess that I’ve picked up a few dance steps from them.

I don’t know if it was because I was filled with joie de vivre, or whether it was the two glasses of wine I had at the cafe, but I began gesturing and moving my upper body like a rapper in time to the loud music.

The young men laughed and gestured back. One thing led to another, and soon I was Crip-walking and attempting the steps from Soldier Boy with them on the very crowded, standing-room-only bus. We had made a cultural connection, much to the delight of everyone on the bus.

The French Riviera was wonderful. From salad Niçoise through daube Provencal and on to crème brûlée, the food was delicious, and wine flowed more freely than water. The week sped by, and soon we were back on the plane, our camera cards filled with memories. Vic met me at the airport with a bouquet of roses. But Dorothy from “The Wizard of Oz” was right. There’s no place like home.

To see more photos and videos of our trip, visit my blog at greenlifeinsocal. wordpress.com.

Travelers

Photo club members from Huntington Beach or Fountain Valley on the trip included:

Charlie and Jean Brac

Carol Branham

Carole Cherchian

Gary and Pam Degarimore

Lane and Linda Koluvek

James and Annie Perenzan

Stefan Steinberg

Mike and Nancy Whitmore

Gordon Hastings owned a camera store in Fountain Valley for 12 years and currently lives with his wife, Vivian, in Anaheim.

VIC LEIPZIG and LOU MURRAY are Huntington Beach residents and environmentalists. They can be reached at [email protected].