I don’t have many photos of Nice because I was sick for most of the time I was there. I’ve been trying to think about and remember this day in particular, though, how I wanted so badly to visit the little town on that outcropping, but just couldn’t. I was too weak, too unsteady on my own feet. So I contented myself with this one photo, a little piece of it that I could remember and take home.
I’ve been thinking about Nice because I’ve been sick lately, because I am starting to get that horrible antsy feeling that the world is sliding by while I’m stuck in bed, taking my temperature, washing down pills and sucking dutifully on my inhaler. But I’m soothing myself with this thought: The antsy feeling? That’s the one that creeps in right when you’re on the brink, when your body can understand—finally—what it means to be better, when you can see the world getting a little brighter. That’s how I started to feel in Nice, on that day, feeling so gross in such a beautiful place. That longing to be myself again.