My friend Tim has always moved through life as if he were riding in first class on a perpetual jet , and his penthouse apartment in a private mansion called the Palais Royal suited him perfectly. He lived here throughout my French Riviera days and I was a frequent visitor. The Palais Royal is a stunning Belle Époque manor straight out of a movie, nestled at the bottom of Rue Cimiez. Rue Cimiez is famous for its breathtaking architecture, sweeping views of the Mediterranean, the Alps, and the city of Nice. It had also been home to illustrious residents like Henri Matisse, Queen Victoria, and, Tim.

To reach his apartment on the fourth floor, you had two options: climb four flights of marble stairs or hop into what the French insist on calling an elevator, a tiny, cage-like contraption that looked like something out of a circus act. The elevator freaked me out. It was literally a human-sized cage suspended from a single cable in the middle of the building. If you lost your footing during disembarkation at the top, you’d be French toast. I always chose the stairs.

On the front side of the apartment were floor-to-ceiling windows framed by dramatic wooden shutters that swung open onto small balconies with wrought iron railings. Every time I visited, I’d rush to those windows, fling them open and shut with gusto, shouting, “Egoiste! Egoiste!” as if I were auditioning for a Chanel commercial with Catherine Deneuve. I spent countless minutes gazing out those windows, basking in the sun, counting the palm trees in the yard, and silently thanking God that I’d moved to France.