Growing up I loved to read. There were always books to explore at home, many of them had been bought for my father when he was a child. Some of them I read over and over. I especially liked the books by Thornton W. Burgess which told of the lives of many colourful animals who lived near “The Smiling Pool” and were forever teased and tested by Old Mother West Wind. Old “Grandfather Frog,” sitting on his lily pad, often told tales that explained the origin or the nature of things. Before beginning his stories he would smooth his yellow waistcoat and say “Chugarum!”

It also seemed that there were always a few magazines kicking around that were intended just for boys. My family didn’t subscribe to them, but they found their way into our home somehow; others were on the tables in the paediatrician’s waiting room. The one I remember best was called Boys Life. It was a publication of the Boy Scouts of America, which didn’t mean much to me. But I enjoyed reading it for some of the stories, for the comics, and especially for the advertising—which is what I recall best about it. I also had an aunt who lived in Boston, and at the corner pharmacy on her block there were racks of many comic books. Whenever I’d visit she’d give me a dime or two so I could buy one or two comic books, and over time these came to comprise a small library in her apartment. They had similar advertisements to what I’d seen in Boys Life, and I’d re-read them whenever I visited.

In fact, looking back, it is a bit difficult to differentiate some of the articles from the advertising. I had an interest in shortwave and amateur radio which was stoked by the frequent articles that made it sound exotic and interesting. I also spent time looking at the radio equipment that was advertised, brands with intriguing names like “Hallicrafters,” dreaming of one day actually owning such a thing.

Other products and services that were advertised made a big impression, too—a testimony, I suppose, to the ability of advertising to imprint upon the minds of children.

Vivre dans un climat tempéré tend à éliminer les excuses pour quitter l’appartement et faire de l’exercice en raison du temps médiocre. Depuis que j’ai déménagé à Nice, j’essaie de profiter du climat agréable pour faire plus de marche aérobique—mes « marches rapides, » comme je les appelle parfois en sortant de chez moi. Le meilleur itinéraire que j’ai trouvé pour cela est de monter la Colline du Château depuis le port de Nice, puis de redescendre du côté opposé, pour arriver au pied de la Tour Bellanda, une ancienne tour défensive devenue aujourd’hui un site touristique prisé, offrant depuis son sommet des vues splendides sur la ville, le Port et la Baie des Anges.

J’ai fait cette promenade de nombreuses fois, en m’arrêtant souvent dans le parc au sommet de la colline pour boire un peu d’eau ou même un café avant de redescendre. Du printemps à l’automne, mon itinéraire de retour me conduit généralement de la Tour Bellanda à travers la Vieille Ville, en empruntant la rue Droite, puis en traversant la Promenade du Paillon (un parc aménagé sur la rivière couverte du Paillon), en direction de notre appartement, situé dans le quartier de Carabacel.

Cet itinéraire permet d’éviter le Cours Saleya, un quartier souvent encombré, aménagé autour de l'ancien Marché aux Fleurs de Nice, dont les nombreux étals de fleurs, nourriture, boutiques, cafés et restaurants attirent une foule immense de touristes pendant une grande partie de l’année. Un matin ensoleillé de fin de printemps, cependant, j’ai remarqué qu’il y avait relativement peu de monde—il devait être encore assez tôt—et j’ai traversé le marché, le trottoir devant moi dégagé et le soleil dans mon dos.

C’est alors que mon ombre m’a parlé.

J’ai baissé les yeux et j’ai remarqué, distraitement, le mouvement d’une ombre—quelqu’un qui marchait avec une démarche que je ne reconnaissais pas. En l’observant, j’ai lentement réalisé que c’était moi, c’était ma propre ombre—et pourtant elle semblait étrangère, à part, distincte, inconnue. Je ne l’ai pas reconnue même après avoir réalisé qu’il s’agissait de mon propre reflet ombragé. C’était la silhouette sombre d’un homme âgé, dont la démarche trahissait une douleur ou une blessure, ou peut-être simplement le prix naturel du vieillissement. Je me suis arrêté et j’ai réfléchi un instant, comme si j’essayais d’accepter que mes observations étaient réelles, puis j’ai repris ma route, incapable de détacher mon regard de l’ombre qui me précédait. La malaise de ses mouvements persistait, même lorsque j’essayais d’en modifier.

Il y a des façons de l’expliquer, je suppose : des blessures à la hanche après un accident de vélo, l’usure corporelle ordinaire qui survient après plus de sept décennies de vie. Mais le manque initial de reconnaissance, suivi de la prise de conscience qui m’est venue lorsque mon ombre m’a parlé, était déconcertant. Ce sentiment persiste depuis.

Je ne sais pas ce qui est le plus inquiétant : la conscience de moi-même qui m’est venue dans un murmure, ce matin ensoleillé, ou le fait que c’était une ombre qui détenait plus de savoir que moi.

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Living in a temperate climate tends to erase excuses to get out and exercise because of bad weather. Since moving to Nice I’ve tried to take advantage of the pleasant climate to do more aerobic walking—my “power walks,” as I sometimes say when heading out the door. The best route I’ve found for that is to ascend the Colline du Château (Castle Hill) from Nice Port, then descend from the opposite side, emerging at the base of La Tour Bellanda, an old defensive tower that is now a favourite tourist site, offering from its apex splendid views of the city, the port and the bay.

I’ve made this walk many times, often pausing in the park atop the Colline for some water or even a coffee before descending. From late Spring through Autumn my route homeward generally takes me from the Tour Bellanda through the Vieille Ville (Old City) along the rue Droite, crossing the Promenade du Paillon (a parkland built over the covered Paillon River), heading to our home in the Carabacel neighbourhood.

This route avoids the often congested Cours Saleya, an area built around the old Nice flower market whose numerous food stalls, shops, cafés and restaurants attract vast crowds of tourists during much of the year. On one sunny late Spring morning, however, I noted that there were relatively few people around—it must have been quite early—and I walked through the market area, the pavement ahead of me clear and the sun at my back.

It was then that my shadow spoke to me.

I glanced down in front of me and noticed, distractedly, the movement of a shadow, someone walking with a gait I did not recognise. As I observed I slowly realised that it was me, it was my own shadow—and yet it seemed a stranger, apart and distinct, unfamiliar. I did not recognise it even after I realised it was my own shadowy reflection. It was the dark silhouette of an older man whose gait betrayed pain or injury, or perhaps simply the natural toll of ageing. I stopped and thought for a moment, as if trying to accept that my observations were real, then continued on, unable to look anywhere other than at the shadow that preceded me. Its awkwardness persisted, even when I tried to change it.

There are ways to explain it, I suppose—injuries to a hip from a bicycle accident, the ordinary corporeal wear and tear that comes from surpassing seven decades of life. But the initial lack of recognition, then the awareness that came when my shadow spoke to me, was discomfiting. The feeling has lingered since.

I do not know what is more uncomfortable, the self-awareness that came to me in a whisper on that sunny morning, or that it was a shadow that bore greater knowledge than I.

It’s one of those lasting stereotypes of life in France—coping with French bureaucracy. French residents and citizens complain about it, and it’s a commonplace among writers in the why-not-move-to-France cottage industry.

But the Administration française actually provides an online tool to make one of the routine nuisances of managing bureaucratic tasks easier: changing one’s address, whether moving within the country, or moving to a location beyond its borders. It’s called the Changement d'adresse en ligne, or simply the “Online Change of Address” service.

The online tool allows one to change one’s address (and in many cases one’s phone number and/or email address) with a number of public- and private-sector services:

* energy suppliers (EDF, Engie, ENERCOOP);

* France Travail (the French national employment bureau);

* social security agencies: health insurance (including CPAM, the national health insurance provider), family allowance and retirement funds;

* Service des Impôts (French tax authority);

* the SIV, the service responsible for motor vehicle registration.

The service is available to all bona fide residents of France, not just French citizens.

To use the service you’ll need to login using either your local credentials for ServicePublic.fr or the FranceConnect authentication service. The site will then guide you through the process, consisting of verifying personal information, submitting details on changes to be made, identifying the services where you wish the changes to be made, indicating the date the changes go into effect, and finally a page that verifies all changes indicated prior to submission.

Then you’re done!

There might be those who assert that the invention of a service to mitigate time spent on bureaucratic functions is really just a testimonial to the oppressiveness of French bureaucracy. But the next time, as a French resident, you move and lurch from one corporate or government website to another to change your address or contact details, pause for a moment and think about how it might not have to be that way. It seems that somebody in the Administration française had that thought, too.

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