Nice in December: Rain on the Promenade, Victory in the Streets

You see the sea before you really see Nice.

I was flying in from London, and on the way down the Mediterranean filled the window — that clean blue you always think must be edited until you see it yourself. Then the runway appeared right beside the water, the bay opened up, and there was Nice, sitting along the curve of the

Promenade des Anglais as if that were a completely normal place for a city to be.

By the time I got out of the airport, it was raining — just enough to streak the taxi window. The Promenade slid past wet and half-empty, palms still in the drizzle, and somehow the sea kept its blue.

Hauling Bags Into the Old Town

My hotel was in Vieux Nice, which sounds romantic until you arrive with luggage.

There comes a point where the taxi cannot go any farther. The streets narrow, the stone lanes begin, and suddenly you are dragging your suitcase through a place clearly not designed for wheels. But that is

also how the Old Town gets you. Ochre walls, shutters, tight corners, people moving as if they know exactly where they are going and you very much do not.

I found the hotel door, used the keypad, dropped the bags, and went straight back out for lunch.

Somewhere between the first plate and the rain outside, the airport feeling finally left me.

The View That Explains Nice

After lunch, I went up Castle Hill.

You can climb up from the Old Town or take the lift tucked into the hillside. Either way, once you are up there, Nice suddenly makes sense.

The red roofs of Vieux Nice are packed tightly below. The Promenade sweeps around the bay. The sea opens wide in front of everything. On the other side of the hill, the port sits tucked away, almost hidden unless you know to look for it.

There was a Ferris wheel turning somewhere near Place Masséna, above the rooftops. It gave the city a little December feeling — not exactly winter, not summer either, just Nice doing its own

thing.

Coming down toward the port, I passed the monument to Catherine Ségurane, the local washerwoman who, according to legend, helped turn back a siege in 1543. Historians may not fully buy the story. Nice keeps it anyway. I liked that. Some cities are better when they leave a few legends standing around.

The lighthouse at the harbour mouth

The Port and the Other Side of the Bay

The next day I walked over to Port Lympia.

The port side feels different from the Promenade. Quieter. Boats lined up in the water. Buildings facing the harbor. A lighthouse marking the mouth of it all.

From there, if you look back, the bay makes sense again — that long curve of sea and city, with the Old Town tucked behind you.

Nice is not trying to be the most dramatic coastline in Europe. Istanbul hits harder. Parts of Italy and Spain overwhelm you faster. Nice takes its time. The hills are softer. The green is lighter. The coastline does not shout. By the second day, I liked that more.

Red roofs all the way to the hills

Nice was originally Nikaia, founded by Greek seafarers and named after Nike, the goddess of victory.

And that week, victory was everywhere.

Victory on the Promenade

The World Cup was happening in Qatar, but in Nice it felt close.

It was December 2022, and Morocco was having that incredible run — the first African and Arab nation to reach a World Cup semifinal. When they won, the celebration came out onto the Promenade des Anglais.

Flags, horns, families, cars moving slowly, people shouting toward the sea. The same Promenade that had looked wet and half-empty when I arrived was suddenly alive.

I stayed near the edge of it. I was not part of that community, but you did not need to be to understand what it meant. Some celebrations belong to specific people, but the feeling spills over.

And everyone knew what was coming next: France against Morocco.

Two Easy Trips Out

I used Nice as a base for two short trips.

Èze was one of them — the medieval village up on the hill, the kind of place that needs its own story. Monaco was the other, easy by coastal train and strange in its own polished way.

Both were worth doing. Both were close. But each time I returned, I was glad it was to Nice — it was holding the whole trip together, not just hosting it.

Leaving After the Semifinal

My last night was the night France beat Morocco 2–0.

The city changed immediately. The celebration turned French — loud, happy, full of singing in the narrow streets.

Vieux Nice carried the sound beautifully. Footsteps, voices, flags, people moving through stone lanes late into the night.

There had been a chance the trip might end badly. London was under snow, and for a day or two my flight home sat in that annoying maybe-delayed, maybe-cancelled zone. But Nice kept giving me other things to think about. Another street. Another meal. Another walk by the water. Eventually the worry lost its grip.

I left a little after four in the morning.

The city was mostly asleep, or recovering. I was dragging my bags back out to the taxi when I saw a small group of friends still leaning against a wall, badly hungover, clearly dealing with the remains of a very good night.One of them stopped me and asked for the time.

I started to answer, then noticed he was already wearing a watch.

I let it go.

Honestly, who could blame him?

I had been that far gone once myself, back home, the night Pakistan won the Cricket World Cup.

The whole street had emptied out. Everyone was walking around like we had personally helped win it. That is what a big win does. For a few days, fans walk on the clouds.

The flight got out fine.

What stayed with me was the mix: the sea still blue through a taxi window, suitcase wheels over cobbles, lunch in the Old Town, Castle Hill after the rain, Port Lympia on a quiet walk, Moroccan flags on the Promenade, French songs in the streets, and the way Nice had relaxed me without making a big performance of it. I left wondering what it would be like to stay.