Before departing toward Italy, Anne Marie gave me rose petals to place at the foot of the statue of the
Virgin Mary of the Roses in San Damiano, but I never made it. Perhaps I would have expended the extra effort if a statue of Brigitte Bardot, Our Lady of St. Tropez, had been there instead; but the Virgin Mary was one too many ancient idols. The lady or the tigress? The tigress would have won. Naughty — but Nice was waiting. I carried the rose petals and cards around for a couple of weeks and then sent them back to my mom who kept them till she died 18 years later. Sorry about that, Madame Frys.
The flesh was willing but the spirit was weak.
On this day, bodily heat outranked religious heat.
Made my way by thumb 99k or 62 miles up the blue coast ⇒
St. Tropez ⇒ St. Raphael ⇒ Cannes ⇒ Antibes ⇒ Nice ...
Slept somewhere overlooking the city of Nice.
Somehow managed to miss all of Nice's Matisses.
Sorry about that, Monsieur Matisse.
Obviously,
the hot light of the French Riviera had a different effect on Matisse.
I prefer the cool light of Chartres.
So shoot me already.
