Nice is often described through its light, its sea and its legendary Promenade, but for me, the city has always been more than a postcard. It is a place of layers: childhood memories, family addresses, hillside views, old rituals, and the quiet feeling of coming back to somewhere that has always known you. I was born here, in a small apartment facing the Russian Orthodox Cathedral of Saint-Nicolas, where, according to my mother, I had a prince’s bedroom. For decades, my grandmother lived on Avenue Robert Schuman, high up on the hill, and as a child I would come to visit her several times a year during school holidays. Years later, my mother bought an apartment on the other side of that same hill, and from our terrace, I can now see the building where my grandmother once lived. In Nice, places seem to answer one another across time.
My memories of the city are made of simple, happy moments: walks along the Promenade des Anglais, afternoons in Parc Jean-Moulin, visits to Parc Phoenix, ice creams at Fenocchio, pizza dinners at Cresci, days spent between La Petite Ferme, Aquasplash and Antibes, and the green slopes of the Colline du Château. These are not grand memories, but they are exactly what makes Nice so special to me. Beyond the sea, the colours and the Mediterranean beauty, it is a city that feels intimate, generous and deeply alive.
And perhaps that is the best way to discover Nice: not as a checklist, but as a city to move through slowly, from the sea to the Old Town, from a market morning to a hilltop view, from a famous promenade to a quiet street that suddenly feels like yours. Whether you come for a weekend or return again and again, Nice has a way of making its beauty feel personal. It is a city to walk, taste, watch, remember, and above all, feel.
