Carnival of Nice: under the confetti and the flower battles

I landed in Nice in February, when the rest of France was grey and the Riviera quietly refused to be. The sea was that improbable blue, the palms along the Promenade des Anglais still stood to attention, and the air smelled — I'm not exaggerating — of mimosa. For roughly two weeks before Ash Wednesday (the date drifts with Lent, so I pinned it down before booking), Nice throws one of the biggest carnivals in Europe, and I'd come to stand in the middle of it with confetti in my collar.

I read up on the train, enough to arrive as a guest and not a gatecrasher. Every edition has a theme, and a King and Queen of Carnival who reign over it all. The corsos — the great parades — roll giant satirical floats built from papier-mâché down the seafront, caricatures so big they blot out the sky, wobbling kings and grinning politicians and beasts three storeys tall. I stood at Place Masséna as the first one turned the corner and genuinely laughed out loud. You don't watch a corso so much as let it walk over you.

The flower battle, and a faceful of mimosa

The thing I'd really come for was the bataille de fleurs, the flower battle, and it undid me a little. Costumed figures ride past on flower-decked floats and hurl fresh blooms straight into the crowd — mimosa, gerberas, mostly flowers grown right here on the coast. I caught a sprig of mimosa one-handed, pure reflex, and the woman beside me caught nothing and laughed harder than I did. It is the gentlest, most absurd, most generous thing: thousands of people on the Promenade des Anglais reaching up for flowers thrown by strangers in sequins.

« You don't watch the flower battle. You stand there with your arms open and let the Riviera throw spring at you. »

And here's the honest snag I hit between two floats. France is in the EU, so my European plan was already roaming « like at home », data and all, no surcharge — that part was effortless. But coverage and capacity are different beasts. Packed shoulder to shoulder on the Promenade, with every phone around me filming the same float, the signal simply gave up. A photo sat there with its little spinning wheel for a full minute. That's not a bad plan; that's ten thousand phones fighting for the same sliver of airwave. Everyone, on every operator, was equally stuck.

The illuminated parade, and the King who burns

At night the carnival changes key. The illuminated parade sends the same giant floats down the front lit from within, glowing against the dark sea, and the whole thing turns dreamlike and a touch surreal — colour everywhere, music you feel in your chest, kids on shoulders, confetti still drifting down hours after anyone threw it. I drifted with it for a while and then stepped off to the edge, because I'd lost my friend in the crush and we hadn't agreed where to meet.

So I made the rule I'd give anyone now: fix one real meeting point before you melt into the crowd — a statue, a café corner, the foot of a specific palm — something you can both find with no screen at all. Don't trust a live location pin to rescue you when the bars drop to one; it won't update, and you'll both end up staring at a frozen map. The old way still works when the new way stutters: « if we lose each other, I'll be by the fountain at seven. »

At the very end, on the last night, they burn the King. The effigy that reigned over the whole fortnight is set alight out by the sea, fireworks over the bay, and the crowd goes quiet then loud. It's a strange, old, slightly melancholy way to end a party — the king of carton-pâte going up in flames so the city can go back to being ordinary. I stood there, mimosa long wilted in my pocket, and didn't want it to be over.

What I take away

Nice in carnival gave me winter that behaved like spring: blue sea, warm light, and a city that throws flowers at its visitors and then burns its own king to say goodbye. The crowd was real, the confetti got everywhere, the network choked under all those raised phones — and none of it mattered next to the simple, ridiculous joy of catching a sprig of mimosa thrown by a stranger on a float three metres tall. I came home with confetti in my shoes, one slightly crushed yellow flower, and the feeling that I'd been let into the Riviera's brightest, silliest, most generous afternoon.

— Hugo, on the Promenade, still picking confetti out of his collar.