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 AWOKE to sunlight streaming through the wooden shutters at the Oasis and prepared for a breakfast with a view of the Mediterranean from the Moyenne Corniche. Gilles and Becky, whom I met informally the night before, were already up. I mentioned that I had to download two days' worth of emails and they happily agreed I could use the phone line at the bar. The AT&T Global dialler did the rest, though the downloading took a considerable time due to quantity.
   Over breakfast I mentioned that I was due in New Zealand for the spring and we found another connection: the couple would journey to the America's Cup Village for the summer and close L'Oasis temporarily. We couldn't chat, however: a family needing to travel on El-Al from Nice Airport required Gilles' help; an Italian caller subsequently called while the multilingual Gilles was out and Becky had to ask him to call back. It was a busy morning at the Oasis as I sipped my third hot chocolate (note to self: thank Ann for the addiction, and what an addiction!) of the morning and discussed the pronunciation of Maori and its vowel similarities to French in the word Rotorua.
   One of my problems about being in Italy was my lack of knowledge about where to shop. No such problem in France. I bid farewell to my hosts and drove to Nice for a spot of shopping. Bargains can be had by following the signs to the local Carrefour, in a complex that includes the Maxi-Livres bookstore which had numerous art titles on Monet, Degas et al on special. Being the first year of the common currency, prices, as they are for most of France, were in euros and francs, though the till was set to euros exclusively.
   'Vous habitez en France?' asked the clerk, wondering whether to give me the frequent shoppers' card for the bookstore chain.
   'Malheureusement non.'
   ‘Malheureusement ... vous êtes très gentil.'
   These southerners are si sympa.
   Shoppers are reminded that they should get a card from the store they shop at to get free parking in the huge underground lot—while recalling exactly which numbered area they left their car in. I didn't, and had quite a time finding the silver Opel, but was quite smug having picked up two six-packs of Fuji film at €12 each, not to mention countless presents for the holidays.
   I backtracked to Monaco, which was vastly different in the daytime. Tourists streamed in as French and foreign number-plates outnumbered local ones; the opposite had been true late at night. I noted a sign as I approached the principality that indicated the Rallye des Alpes route and promised myself I would take it later. But for now, it was lunchtime and I wanted to get to the American Express to change some more travellers' cheques. Or Travelers' Checks.
   Amex had closed its foreign exchange branches in New Zealand for inexplicable reasons, so if these locations are dying breeds, I was going to enjoy them while I could. Going to the American Express in a city is a sign of civility. They are not mere token signs such as funding for some arts which no one ever sees, but a necessity for the international traveller. However, getting to the branch on the Boulevard Princesse Charlotte proved impossible, because of an absence of (easily found) parking. Parking was much easier down nearer the yacht club, but then these are tourist magnets.

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Going to the American Express in a city is a sign of civility. They are not mere token signs such as funding for some arts which no one ever sees, but a necessity for the international traveller