I’m sure you can’t guess how we began our day! That was a joke—I’m sure you can. Alarms, elevators, croissants. HOWEVER, that would be our last of our Niçoise mornings, for today, we left for Cannes and later, Aix-en-Provence.

We arrived in Cannes along with 5000 ‘cruisers’ awaiting an unlikely spotting of George Clooney. Instead, they had to settle on the impression of his hands in front of the Cannes theater. We walked along to the front of the building for a group photo featuring cardboard cutouts of celebrities no one in Gen Z knows. And Pedro Almodovar. Afterwards, we split to do our own things; many shopped for souvenirs, and some, like myself, ventured to the old town, popping into a medieval church including famous post-Renaissance Christian artwork. The vistas were, again, something to behold.

We departed next for Aix-en-Provence. Suddenly, the pieces of Cézanne came to life; mountains glided like clouds against the close, fast-moving, spiral of the cypress trees; light danced across the landscape in hues of emerald and garlic-beige; rambling vineyards, each holding some future for a Provençal rosé. Each glance was imbued with sounds of Ravel, minted by nostalgia for something still unknown to me. Watching the passing farmhouses tinted orange had me wishing for a simpler life.

Getting to the hotel, we drove down the Cours Mirabeau and watched the few people who were on the streets; most people were inside celebrating or traveling to family for Bastille Day. Buildings were decorated by Belle Époque architecture and French public amenities. I later took a walk to see a Gothic Church, completely circumventing the Art Deco theme of the city—yet documenting its history prior to its Romantic Era pinnacle.

We finished the day off with a delicious three-course dinner, along with several comparisons of sunburns. Some were lucky enough to catch a glance of the Bastille Day fireworks, but at least to us Americans, that was beyond wimpy.

Next town: ARLES.