The word for blue in French is Azure because they know the color better, deeper, more brilliant.
Riviera rocks put shame to minuscule grains of sand as they do to my feet. When I speak of home through butchered tongue they think of whiskey and hand me the whitest, purest towel kissed on the edges with azure as if dipped into the paint of the Mediterranean. Umbrellas dot the coast like odd trees shielding us from the intensity of a sun so bright I cannot see it. Night is the friend who says she’ll meet you for dinner but doesn’t arrive until desert.The sun retires at 10 p.m. and the night comes as sweet as a dark chocolate macron– the kind we bought as souvenir gifts, but ate ourselves by trip’s end. So, we bought them for twice the price at Duty-Free.