I was in Nice — here is what I saw and didn’t see
Stoney Creek man walked promenade shortly before a truck bore through the crowd
We arrived at Le Meridian Hotel on the Promenade des Anglais in the early afternoon of Bastille Day. A military parade was scheduled for that afternoon, followed by fireworks at nightfall.
From our hotel balcony we watched as dozens of soldiers armed with machine guns assembled below. Four French jets performed a flyby, the crowds cheered, and we applauded as army jeeps and small-arms military gear passed by. We felt safe.
As dusk set in, I strolled along the Promenade, a magnificent concourse following the Mediterranean beach. The night was lit up with that wonderful French joie de vivre. People from all cultures shared in the mood. I heard English, Dutch, German, and dialects of North Africa.
Laughter is the universal language — there was so much of that. Food kiosks were scattered along the walkway, moms and dads pushed strollers, and bands played from temporary stages. At some point as I walked further and further from our hotel, I stopped, turned around, and walked back, taking my time to revel in the fun. I turned back because I didn’t want to miss the fireworks from the vantage point of our hotel room. The balcony looked directly out over the promenade.
Thousands of people were just as in awe of the spectacle as we were. I had never seen anything like it. Two boats were anchored just off the beach and for over half an hour, they spit up round after round of blazing fireworks, all syncopated to the sounds of music blasting across the promenade. Snippets of pounding rock and house music danced with the explosions in the sky. I will now remember Thunderstruck by AC/DC and Paint it Black by the Rolling Stones in a very different way.
When the fireworks ended, the carnage began where I had walked moments earlier. I did not know that then. Two of us from our group had gone back outside where we heard a sharp blast that sounded like a firecracker. The fireworks had ended so my first thought was terrorist attack. No one seemed to be put out so we sauntered back to our room only to witness chaos on the street below. Police officers were running along the promenade and sirens filled the night as emergency vehicles roared past us. I stayed out on the tiny balcony to see what was happening. Throngs of people were now in panic. The first police cars roared by, soon followed by soldiers running along the strip, ordering people to get out. There was a rumour that our hotel, Le Meridian was under siege. Fortunately I didn’t know that then. In fact it was not true. Then the ambulances started coming, one after the other, too many of them. All night they came and went, shattering the hours in a mournful cacophony of death and destruction. At one point, because we had so little information, I called the front desk. They knew only that several people were dead and that we needed to stay in our rooms.
The next morning was another deceptively Mediterranean one, with a sunny sheen glowing over the beaches. We checked the news — 84 dead and hundreds injured. There was talk of a crazed terrorist driving a huge white truck. I walked down to the promenade and saw the police and military barricades set up next to the hotel. A huge white sheet was stretched across the street obstructing my view. Later I would look at the photos I took and see the top of the truck just behind it. It had been halted — and the driver killed — just one short block away. He had made it nearly 2 kms along the crowded strip, enough distance to kill too many innocent people. Remembering my walk along that area not very long before, I still see the faces of so many people I left behind. I’m guessing that entire families were obliterated in the attack, including tourists and locals of all ethnic groups. Everyone was a victim.
This is what I didn’t see. In the early Bastille Day afternoon, the area around our hotel was alive with authority. The army was out in force, each soldier resembling an armed fortress. But that was an illusion. They were there for the parade, not as observers, but as participants. It was their show-and-tell time. Later in the evening, when I walked that promenade, I did not see a single police officer or any military presence. It’s my understanding that, before the attack, barriers to the streets leading to the promenade were removed. The only thing I saw was another illusion, people celebrating in a safe and happy environment.
Before I left Nice, I walked over to the barricade one last time. For a moment I stood quietly with those who gazed reverently at a growing shrine of flowers, candles, and saddest of all, stuffed toys in memory of the 10 children who perished. It was my first chance to reflect in 24 hours and I still wasn’t ready. Maybe that’s why so many of us stayed for just a moment.