The Cimiez Monastery in Nice tops a hill above the park by the Matisse museum that has paths named after American jazz legends.
The original monastery was founded in the 13th century and has been rebuilt many times over the years.
It was run by Franciscans most of whom were friars. So instead of being cloistered away like self-sustaining monks, they mixed with the community and had to support themselves by begging. This is why in Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales” the friar is portrayed as more worldly than a monk and prey to a host of vices.
In a world where Trump could be elected not once, but twice, retreating to a monastery was a recurring fantasy appealing to my inner monk. In that fantasy my inner monk was in quest of the Sublime Monastery and at times, in that search, yearned to be a friar. Waking up a penitent after a night of cutting loose in a Rabelaisian caper seemed worth joining the Franciscan order. Except for the begging. In the late Sixties I joined some friends trying it out in Haight-Ashbury and came up empty handed. The security of fraternal support monks provide, whether they be Benedictine or Dominican, seemed more like the spiritual ticket.
The Cimiez Monastery provided cells for the friars to live in while expecting them to go out in the community and help out at the hospitals.
Not too worldly an accommodation, but then beggars can’t be choosers. Plus, while we were visiting, the sound of Franciscan brothers chanting echoed down the thick stonewalled corridors creating a soul-soothing atmosphere making one feel less imprisoned. And in a monastery it’s all about the inner life anyway. I once read about a 13th century monk who had been part of his order for more than twenty years and was asked by a bishop to describe the cell he lived in and the monk couldn’t do it; the phenomenal world wasn’t his concern.
Photos weren’t allowed in the church, but outside in the gardens we had free rein.
There’s something to be said about a religiously tended garden with a view.
