The day before we left the French Riviera, we took a day trip to Menton, a town at the very south and very east of France. If France were a profile of a face looking to the right, it would be the chin. And in fact menton means chin in French, though the correlation is coincidental.
In true Mediterranean form, the sea was a gorgeous blue and the buildings were shades of pastel and the beach was covered in pebbles which were impossible or at least highly uncomfortable to walk on barefoot.
Instead of diving into the chilly water, we busied ourselves collecting sea glass. I'd never seen so much sea glass in my life. "I guess we now know what they do in this beach," Jeanine said, then added, "Tristan's dad would be happy to hear!"
It was sunny but not quite warm. A seabreeze blew in across the cold water and chilled us. Seagulls floated motionless in the air, suspended by opposing forces.
We dutifully followed the photocopied map from the tourist bureau to the Jean Cocteau museum, only to find this where it should have been. Detail:
Tous mes rêves étaient cassés, but I soon got over it. The non-Photoshopped blue of the sea was enough.