Nice and the Nearly Nudes

You can't trust the judgement of these two types of women:

1) Those that believe that fruit is a dessert.

AND

2) Those who believe bared "breast is best" at the beach.

Both of them are wrong. Period.

Well, our Fourth of July weekend in Nice was our baptism in such bravado.

(Yes, I am woefully behind in my blogging.) 

It was impossible to avoid the cleavage carnage.

  

Everywhere. You. Turned.

Wrinkled grandmothers.

Nubile tweens.

Middle-aged moms.

It was like Mardi Gras. But everyone was sober.

As in, like they made the decision for partial nudity without an ounce of liquid courage. Sober.

Perhaps it is the Puritan madness in me. Perhaps.

But, really, whether it was the Plage du Ponteil on the French Riviera or Sea Isle City on the Jersey shore, in Lady Grantham's words, "Have a care!"

Fortunately, most of the exhibitionists were not French femme fatales. 

And that is the kindest thing I can say. 

So, the kids' interest remained with sand-castle building, wave-riding and shell stalking.

And what was lost in modesty was gained in water sports:  Stand-up paddle-boarding, my Olympic sport of choice, was available for three magical days.

 I felt like Bethany Hamilton. Pre-shark attack.

(Okay, I know she surfed. But I am certain she paddle boards. And we both have firm, lithe, cellulite free bodies with long blonde hair. Practically twins.)

Even Eowyn demonstrated SUP prowess.

And we all missed Hawaii fiercely.

Despite the risque pageantry, our three-day tryst in Southern France boasted buttery croissants, crystalline seas and -ironically- *the* best Italian food with our friends who were never-nude and know the only "dessert fruit" is baked in a pie.