The international crowds in search of sand, sea and that golden Provencal sun are arriving in hordes now and the town is filling up.

The neighborhood has been in protracted decline: Large family homes have been turned into cheap hotels and apartments. Pizza and kebab shops abound.

Beyond the shingled roofs, I saw the stacked ochre buildings of the historic district in the distance and the green hillside beyond.

With the hot sun and gentle breeze on my face, I reflected on the day. Absurd really. But I needed to break the seal of sounding stupid. I'll get used to it.

The pebbly beach is scattered with the constant sunbathers and students, but the glassy indigo water seems to be untouched for the moment.

As he is setting off to cover conflicts in the Middle East, I am packing my bags to return to Nice just in time for the warmth of spring.

It's not Provence, but the view from Northwest is pretty nice.

After wrestling with the subways in Paris, trains in Italy and street maps in Ramallah, getting lost in a place where I can speak the language seems luxurious.

As I made my way back up onto the main road, I saw huge Christmas trees strung with lights set up in the big square and a Christmas market full of people buying candied apples and hot cider.

People often talk about how friendly and hospitable Americans are, but I think Palestinians, at least the ones I've met, are miles ahead in this category.

I am in the West Bank, a place fraught with political tension and controversy, oceans away from my friends and family and I feel more at home than I have in a long time.

After we polished off the tiramisu and coffee, we strolled out onto the pebbly sand and, at that moment, with the Mediterranean Ocean drenched in golden autumnal sunshine, and the beach empty but for us, Italy sure seemed a lot like paradise to me.

All of the quirky rules and formalities here give a sense that people are doing the same things -- in the same places -- that they have been done for centuries. This is precisely what I find so fascinating about this country.

Nice is chalk full of restaurants, I can see about 50 from my balcony, but it's not all that easy to navigate which ones are genuinely good and it can be equally difficult to figure out when they might actually be open.

There is a false security that comes with being spoken to in the very slow, very clear, perfectly-formed French spoken only by French teachers.

It was clear that our presence was beyond an inconvenience to them. My lack of French, from the looks on their faces, was an offense punishable by death.

I also received some very confused looks from the women at the home furnishing shop when I accidentally asked them if "they go measuring cups?"

As an American, it's a novelty to go to the bakery for bread and the cheese shop for cheese, and not just for a special fancy item, but for everyday shopping.

It started out tasting like very strong blue cheese, but the flavor quickly went from pungent to spicy and then seemed to coat my tongue and the inside of my mouth like peanut butter.

I felt a sudden deep pang of homesickness and, before I knew it, I had tears streaming down my face. Some of the enormity of what I've done seemed to dawn on me in that moment and I felt a very long way from home.

Each trip out of the apartment must include at least one errand -- shipping boxes, or donating books to the library, something that can be checked off the list.

I made the decision to move to France, quit my job and found renters. The big things posed little problem. It was the little stuff that proved hard to handle.