Sep 23, 2024
The last leg of our trip was in Provence. where we turned this part of our honeymoon into a family reunion, meeting up with Fred’s families. But before that, we indulged in a luxurious night at Hôtel du Couvent, a recently restored 17th-century convent tucked beneath Colline du Château in Old Nice. For two design nerds, it was the perfect conclusion to our honeymoon.
The experience began with a golf cart ride from a nearby bookstore—cars aren’t allowed in Old Nice’s narrow streets. Check-in was a leisurely chat over espressos and fresh Madeleines in the garden with a receptionist dressed in flowing burgundy robes and traditional clogs.
As we waited for our room under an orange tree, surrounded by an almost excessive spread of croissants, bread, jam, and butter, it felt like time slipped away. The design combined the essence of French bucolic charm into one space: sunlit plaster walls in soft yellows tones, terracotta-tiled floors, rich leather/velvet furnishings, and a terrace vineyard and vegetable garden offering breathtaking views of the city.
We were curious about all the details that surrounded us. What brand of faucet was used in the bathroom? Where can we buy everyone’s clogs? And how often do you actually see a maid wearing a traditional maid’s uniform?
There were no TVs in the rooms, only the chimes of a distant church bell and the laughter of schoolchildren down the street. After a relaxing unwind in the Roman bath, we visitied the on-site bakery and enjoyed the best martinis of our trip, served with olives in an elegant silver flute. That night, we drifted into a deep, restful sleep on the heaviest and most luxurious linen sheets.
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We united with the families spent our days exploring stunning beaches, quaint little towns, and of course, the amazing food and wine.
One highlight was La Pêche à la Vigne, a charming neighborhood wine bar and grocery where natural wine was served in a relaxed, unpretentious setting. We also wandered through picturesque towns like Grasse, the perfume capital, and L'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, famous for its antiques, on the hunt for the perfect chore coats and steak knives.
The beaches were unforgettable—crystal-clear, tranquil waters and never overcrowded. Unlike the bustling beaches in Sicily, there were no vendors pushing bench rentals or umbrellas, no massage ladies handing out pamphlets, only self-cleaning bathrooms and expensive yachts in the distance.
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On one of our last nights in France, the six of us—Fred’s parents, his sister and her partner—stopped by Antibes for dinner. We found this small bistro and ordered champagne and oysters. A woman sitting nearby with her husband kept staring at us. It didn’t take long to figure out she was American.
I stared back. She didn’t look away.
Maybe she hadn’t seen many Asian families where she’s from, or maybe the sight of us disrupted her idyllic vision of a perfect French Riviera vacation. To be fair, there weren’t many of us around.
She left soon after. Fred's parents, unaware of the tension, began chatting in Burmese. Fred leaned over, half-smiling. “My parents are having an existential crisis.”
Turns out, after visiting so many French towns, they were perplexed. “How can these people just sit around and have fun all day? When do they work? In Buddhism, drinking is bad, but here people do it every day. And why are people in Burma, who follow all the tenets of our religion, still suffering?” Those are some loaded questions. So we changed the subject, and I found distraction in an incredible Eric Legrand Cuvée Réserve champagne.
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But those two moments stuck with me. And I started to wonder if they are somehow related. We are able to afford this joie de vivre way of living but hey, we don't quite belong here in some people's eyes. And how can some societies can dedicate themselves to the pursuit of pleasure, while others remain trapped in cycles of suffering? I was reminded to not mistake admiration for intimacy.
And I thought about that opening scene in the third season of Atlanta where two men discuss the price of privilege:
With enough blood and money, anyone can be white. It’s always been that way. But the thing about being white is … it blinds you. Cold whiteness. You get hypothermic. You lose logic. You see the blood. And you think someone else is bleeding. Everyone is screaming at you to turn the machine off. But you can’t hear ‘em. You can’t even hear yourself. See, we’re cursed too. We’re cursed too.