Nice was my first real test of solo remote work travel. I chose it because I had two friends already living there, which felt like a safety net. I wanted to understand what it meant to actually live and work from somewhere else — not just visit.
What I found: it's possible, it's beautiful, and it will cost you more than you think. Nice is a wealthy city and it doesn't apologise for it. If you're not financially prepared for that level, it becomes a stress rather than a freedom. That was an important thing to learn early.
The beach incident
The Côte d'Azur in March is warm enough to be at the beach. I didn't expect that. I set an alarm. I had every intention of not staying too long.
The sun on the Côte d'Azur in March has no mercy. It is strong, flat, relentless, and it arrives from every angle — direct, reflected from the water, bounced off the promenade. I fell asleep. Didn't hear the alarm.
That night, something felt strange around my face. By morning I could barely open my eyes. I had burned my eyelashes. My mother called, saw my face on video, and immediately assumed someone had attacked me.
This is what Nice taught me about priorities — and I mean the actual order, the one your body enforces whether you agree or not:
- Sun — it controls everything, respect it first
- Sleep — without it, nothing else functions
- Diet — fuel, not pleasure, when you're moving constantly
- Activities — these only work when the first three are in order
- Social interactions — last, because they require energy from all the above
I know this sounds obvious. It took burning my eyelashes to actually understand it.
The cyclist cafe
I rented a bike for a few days and found a cyclists' cafe that organises Sunday rides — a "macchiato Sunday ride," which I loved immediately as a concept.
I arrived at the cafe and felt immediately overwhelmed. Elite cyclists, all of them — good kit, relaxed confidence, happy to be there. They were kind. We started together. Within 10 kilometres, I couldn't keep up. They were on roads they had ridden a hundred times. I was on a road I had never seen. We split.
I rode on alone, slower, and the landscape was extraordinary. You can cycle along roads marked for La Tour de France. That sign alone made me stop the bike and stand there for a moment.
"I respect your freedom"
One afternoon I went to get food alone, planning to eat on the beach. A man stopped next to me and asked what a young woman was doing there, eating alone by the side of the beach.
I told him — travelling solo, working remotely, seeing what this is. He listened carefully. He wasn't impressed or indifferent in any obvious way. And then he said:
"I respect your freedom."
That gave me goosebumps. I was already aware of how privileged what I was doing was. But hearing it said like that — simply, directly, by a stranger — made me feel it differently. More clearly. More completely.
That moment is one of the reasons I kept going.
