Bonjour Madame

I see hundreds of people everyday walking around Old Town Antibes.  I leave my apartment in the morning and except for one or two quick stops back in, I’m out all day.  And it’s hot.  I notice my natural ingredients Tom’s deodorant (which I’ve been using since Tony Robbins told us in the seminar that the aluminum present in most others is associated with Alzheimer’s) does not seem to be working very well.  I carry a water bottle with me, just like I usually do in the states when it’s hot.  Actually, there I keep one in my car all the time. 

It’s super easy here because the tap water is wonderful!  I don’t know where it’s coming from, maybe straight from Evian, but it’s better than any bottled water I’ve had.  So I have a couple empty bottles and I fill one with tap water in the morning and carry one with me during the hot day.  Now… I’ve noticed that NO ONE else has a water bottle.  NOT A SINGLE PERSON!  Pour quoi?  When I eat in a little café sometimes I don’t ask for de l’eau (some water) because even though it’s free, it’s a big production.  It comes in a big colored glass bottle along with a glass with ice.  Always the same thing.  So rather than bother the garcon (waiter) for a carafe of water which leads to a big discussion of glass bottle, with or without gas, I just pull out my plastic bottle, knowing they appreciate my being less of a bother.  I have plenty of things to bother them with… more sucre (sugar), can I have some salt, please, je voudrais de beurre (I would like some butter).  And God knows what else I can think of needing while I’m eating my little meal.

One day, I even smiled and laughed, showing the waiter how I find the need to pour extra water- from my bottle- into my café American, because even the American-style café is too strong for my taste buds.  I noticed that day in particular he had a very strained look on his face.  Who knows? 

I was sitting in Le Crème Brulee, one of my new favorite free Wi-Fi hangouts, eating my sucre avec beurre (sugar with butter) crepe and sipping my coffee syrup or whatever they call that coffee when I noticed the owner saying something to my waiter while two other female servers listened with a look of disgust.  And they seemed to be glancing my way.  I was dressed nicely, and the place wasn’t busy.  I thought that in France there was an unwritten rule that you could sit at your table as long as you liked, it wasn’t even polite for the garcon to bring your bill until you requested it.  There were empty tables all around me.  Were they just tired of my being there?  They certainly weren’t acting very French-like if they were going to hurry me along.  And they’re the ones with the free Wi-Fi, so of course they should expect some people to lounge a little longer than normal. 

 I saw the garcon- very handsome and proper I might add- walking towards me.  What was he going to say???  What instruction had the restaurant owner just given him… because I could tell by his walk and his head slightly lowered that he didn’t want to be the one to deliver the message.  And his crew was watching him sideways, trying to act like they weren’t. 

“Excuse me, Madame”, he said softly… “Would you please remove your water bottle from the table?”  And I glimpsed the other two female servers quietly snickering. 

What???  What in the world was the problem with my water bottle???   “Oh, certainly” I said, and couldn’t get it in my purse fast enough.  “Je suis desolate”  I am sorry.  Sorry for fucking what!!!  When did it become so RUDE to have a water bottle on a table in a casual café? 

After that, I finished what I was doing on the internet, left an extra large tip and left.  I felt so flustered and stunned. 

Later that evening I was sitting in the tiny “The Happy Face”, the only place besides the Lebanese restaurant that has internet Wi-Fi available in the evening.  By the way, I have now mentioned in my blog the four places in all of Old Antibes that has Wi-Fi.  If you plan on coming here, make a note because they have been extremely difficult to find.  I bought a drink so I could ask for their confirmation key number to log on.  As I was sitting with my computer on the bar, feeling very uneasy and nervous about making another etiquette custom mistake, I asked the girl near me if it was considered rude to be using your computer at a bar or café.  “Oh, Non!”  C’est d’accord!”  Oh, no, it’s ok!, she said happily.  And how about at a café, while eating a crepe?  I thought I would make her answer a second time to make sure we understood each other.  No, no, no.  Absolutely no problem.   Hmmm… ok….. so….. how about having a water bottle on your table?  Is that ok?  She looked as if someone had struck her!   No, no!  She shook her head and wagged her finger with a horrified look in her eyes.  “Non, non” she said.  Wonder why. “It’s impolite?” I asked.  “No bottle water.  Non, non.” she said concerned, as if she was hoping for my sake I hadn’t committed that terrible faux pas. 

So, there you have it.  Now I keep my water bottle hidden in my purse and turn when I drink it, as if I’m blowing my nose or something.  I don’t know what it is about the bottle of water, but I won’t make that mistake again! 

And, as a footnote, when I was in the cell phone store buying my phone with my bottle deep in my purse, two French women were chattering away.  One laughed and I heard her say to her friend, “Look, I’m thirsty all the time just like an American” and she took her water bottle from her purse and took a drink.  I don’t get it.  What’s it all about? 

I have good news about Le Crème Brulee.  Like falling off a horse, the best thing to do is get right back on… the next morning, guess where I chose to have my crepe?  Yep!  Le Crème Brulee!  And I followed all the rules. Well, most of the rules.  I asked the girl (a new one that hadn’t waited on me yet) for a crepe avec sucre and du beurre.  Imagine that.  And she was real confused about the du beurre.  Apparently I was saying it like du ‘bear’ and it’s supposed to be du ‘ber’.  But we finally got that settled… or so I thought.  When the crepe came it seemed a little dry.  I took a bite and tasted no du beurre.  No du beurre to be found.  She finally came back into view and I motioned her over and tried my best to explain in francais that my crepe didn’t have the du BER that I SPECIFICALLY asked for.  Actually, I was very polite.  She left and returned with two cold pats of butter wrapped in gold foil and tossed them on my plate and quickly turned and left.  Oh no, that will never do.  I actually thought about spreading the cold butter on my crepe but at $7.00 US a pop, I pretty much want the crepe to be parfait (translated as perfect)!  When she walked back into sight I motioned her over.  Lots of commotion- my trying to tell her I wanted warm melted butter and her looking very confused.  She called over one of the other servers (one of the smirkers) and they chattered a flury!  Then she started to remove my plate.  I had only taken one bite, and I didn’t need for the kitchen to make an entirely new crepe.  I’m not a jerk, I just wanted melted butter on my crepe!  The smirker girl came over and said something to me in French which I didn’t understand, but it obviously confirmed what the first girl had said because the second girl whisked my plate away!  Go figure.  So I busied myself on my computer thinking I had awhile before the new crepe arrived and then voila!  My original crepe with the bite taken out returned with a cute little bowl of melted butter beside it.  “Perfect!” I said with a big smile.  And they smiled too.  I guess The Crème Brulee has a stern rule about bringing melted butter out by itself.  Who knows? 

My crepe was delicious and I left another sizeable tip in hopes that they won’t only not cringe when they see me walking their way, but that they’ll actually hope I come in.  Before I left, in the 90 minutes that I sat there using the internet after finishing my crepe, the smirker girl came towards me and said something about me, and my using the internet and motioned outside.  I said, “Not a problem, I’m ready to leave”, thinking she was telling me my time was up.  She profusely made it clear that that was not what she was trying to convey, but that a woman seated in outside seating needed help connecting, and that perhaps I (since I’ve apparently spent more time in their restaurant on-line than all other people combined) might be able to help her.  So I got up and went over to the lady’s table and helped her get on-line. 

Now when I walk by The Crème Brulee they smile and say bonjour.  And I smile and happily say “Bonjour” in the french sweet sing-song voice!  After all, they’re my internet connection.  And their crepes are really good!

And another happy note… look how beautiful the Mediterranean is today.  I walked around the corner of my narrow street and the view opened to the sea and the cobalt and turquoise jewel tones of the sea set against the bright blue sky took my breath away.  I hope even a tiny bit of the warm, vibrant energy comes through in the picture.  In person, it makes me breathe faster and I feel a soothing wave move through my body.

Note: since I didn’t take pictures of Dr. Bruno or his patients- I thought that might freak them out- I filled this blog with some of my favorite Antibes shots.  All of these pictures except Brigitte are things within a block or so of my place.

I want to go to St. Tropez badly.  That town has just been in the press recently, but most Americans aren’t too familiar with the south of France.  This just isn’t a place that Americans (and when I use the term Americans, I’m talking about people from the U.S.  I’m aware that people from Mexico, Central America, Canada and I guess even South America are all American’s from the America’s) vacation.  I hear a lot of people talking about being in Cancun or one of the Caribbean islands, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone I know talk about vacationing on the French Riviera.  Since I’ve been here I have not seen or heard talking ONE person from the United States.  I hear English, but it’s spoken by Australians and Brits.  And then it sounds funny. 

The reason the town of St. Tropez has been in the news is because that’s where Jon Gosselin of Jon and Kate Plus 8just vacationed with his 16 year-0ld  girlfriend.  Ok, maybe she’s 22, but she is the daughter of Kate’s plastic surgeon who did her tummy tuck in the first season.  And because of that Jon CROSSED THE LINE!!! 

Anyway, that’s the only American I have heard of ever vacationing in the south of France other than the movie stars at the Canne’s film festival and they don’t count.  They’re just there because it’s the cool place to be seen that week. 

But, the reason I want to go to St. Tropez is because every Thursday between 3 and 5:30, Brigitte Bardot hangs on the beach in front of the tourist information office and signs autographs!  Bless her heart… she turns 75 this year!  I can’t wait to see what she looks like and how in the world she holds up in this hot sun.  I’m melting and I’m a quarter century younger than she is.  Her 1956 movie “… And God Created Women” was filmed in St. Tropez and was steamy enough to put the town on the map!  I don’t remember the film but I do remember her being such a sex goddess when I was young.  A true icon.  As true an icon as Elvis Presley, who I did see in concert the year before he died.  (amazing concert!) 

The problem with going to St. Tropez is that besides being on Thursday, which is the clothing market day in Antibes, and I have yet to see, is that it’s going to cost $75 Euros to get there.  With the weak exchange rate, everything is so expensive here and my money is going faster than anticipated.  There are no trains into St. Tropez so it’s either by bus, boat or car.  The bus would take ridiculously long and I don’t have a car.

I wanted to do this badly enough, that I earmarked $100 in my mind for it.  But… I spent it.  I decided to buy peace of mind instead.  Those chest pains that I’d been having since I’ve gotten here were getting worse and I wasn’t feeling too good.  It’s scary to be sick in a foreign country when you’re by yourself, don’t have transportation, don’t speak the language AND have no way to call for emergency help.  I don’t have a cell phone here nor internet in my apartment, so to communicate I have to walk with my computer to within the wi-fi signal of the Lebanese restaurant and then get on-line and use Skype.  I checked the bus and train schedules to Nice, thinking that if I awoke in the middle of the night, knowing I needed emergency help, I would be prepared with what to do.  I was left with walking to the bus or train station, either about a 15-20 min walk and hoping it was when service was running.  Not a real good option.

I found the number of an organization that helps “Anglos”  in the French Riviera find English-speaking emergency care.  That’s the term the organization uses- Anglos.  Now… this is where the interesting things about the French health care system became apparent.  When I called the number a physician answered the phone!  What the???  And he asked me about my problem.  He gave me the number of an English-speaking doctor, Doctor Bruno Lavagne, in Antibes and told me to call the next day at 9 AM.  I called around 10:30 and guess who answered the phone?  Dr. Bruno himself!  He asked me the nature of my problem and then continued to ask about further details.  He asked me to come in at 3:30 the same day!  What service!  I’ve paid nothing, no one knows if I can pay, and I’ve already spoken with two doctors and have an appointment that day. 

I walked myself to his office, about ¾ mile away.  It was an odd entrance. The little room looked like a foyer with a hallway with doors.  What struck me was the lighting.  A receptionist sat at a desk in very soft light.  Barely enough for her to see to read, but all she did while I was there was talk to people so maybe she didn’t need light.  I told her in French that I had an appointment at 3:30.  She asked me to write my name.  “Where?”  She nicely pointed to a little scrap paper- definitely not a sign-in sheet.  She was super friendly in a quiet way and told me that I could wait in the room in front of her (I had no idea that door led to the waiting room) and the doctor would be with me.  I went into the room with five other people, sat down and then wondered what in the world I was doing there.  He wouldn’t be able to diagnose anything in his office.  It would be terribly expensive.  How could I even trust his competence?  The tile floor was beginning to have a cheap look to it…  and how long would I be sitting in this waiting room with these horrible foreign illnesses floating around me?  I walked back to tell her something came up, and I’d have to re-schedule but she seemed so nice.  So instead I asked her how much it would cost.  That would be my deciding factor.  I wasn’t going to pay over $70 Euros ($105).  I would take my chances and just get myself to some emergency room if need be.  She said “33 Euros”.  “Oh”.  So I went back into the sick room and took my seat trying not to breathe.  Actually the only person who looked sick was a little girl with both her mother and father who appeared to have a fever.  But then that made me nervous… the other adults didn’t even look sick, so God knows what ailment they could be hiding.

Then not so long, a thin, pleasant, mild-mannered man wearing casual pants and a stylish Indian-cotton shirt appeared.  Another patient?  He said, “Vickie?”  It was the Doctor Bruno who did not look like his name.  Well, maybe the Lavagne part. 

He showed me the room and from that point on, he never left the room nor did a nurse or the receptionist do anything- not even come in.  It was one-on-one with the doctor.  He did a thorough exam and then pulled out wires with metal half-balls on the end that looked like it could be from a Frankenstein movie.  I had already decided that I WAS NOT going to let him do anything invasive- not even a shot.  I would handle his drawing blood and only if I could see that the needle was a disposable, pre-packaged kind.  He said he was going to do an EKG.  No waiting for someone to roll it out from another room, no waiting for a nurse to have time to get to me.  Nope… voila!  Dr. Bruno did it all!  The EKG wires that attached to my body were metal ½ spheres hooked to a suction ball.  He squeezed the ball and the metal thing attached by suction.  Odd… in fact I have a very funny mark on my chest left by one of the suctions that looks like the EKG machine and I had a hot and heavy date!  But he ran it, pulled the strip, made some marks and said, no, I was definitely not having a heart attack.  And then he gave me the strip of paper to keep. 

We talked for a little while more, mainly my concern over in case of an emergency i.e. waking up knowing I was doomed, what I should do.  I was surprised to learn that the hospital in Antibes is supposedly superb for vascular surgery, and the University hospital in Nice may not be my best choice.  He also told me that the emergency system is different in France compared to the states.  If I would call the ambulance here (#15) a doctor would answer who would access the problem and determine which hospital would be the best one for treating the problem, since the closest hospital may not be the best.  Interesting.  Then a group consisting of a doctor, a nurse and a few other helpers would arrive in the ambulance and stabilize me at home.  And begin treatment.  The goal is not to get you to the hospital as fast as possible, but to do almost everything they can at the original location.  Hmm… wonder if the French team can perform an angioplasty in your home?  Just kidding, I’m sure they would get a patient to the hospital as quickly as possible if that’s what had to be done (wouldn’t they?).   

Then it was time to pay.  Dr. Bruno wrote the bill and told me I could turn it into my insurance company.  The EKG added another… get this… 25 Euros!  If the exchange rate was what it should be, that would mean I had a first time doctor’s visit and an EKG for $58!  And on the day I called!  With the exchange rate it cost $86 US dollars.  He seemed to be waiting.   I asked if I should pay the receptionist.  Oh, no, she had already left.  I was supposed to pay the doctor!  I looked through my purse for three $20 Euros and handed them to him and he reached into the drawer of his little desk and handed me a $2 euro coin for change.  When was the last time you handed money to your doctor?  And he gave you the change?

Walking home I felt much better, but still decided to stop by a cell phone store and purchase my very own, use-in-France cell phone.  That little sucker put me back $39 Euros.  Bummer.  But I knew that in an emergency I would feel so much better being able to call for emergency help from my room rather than trying to walk a block away from my apartment and wait for my computer to get connected. 

So there goes my $100 I had planned on using to see Brigitte Bardot.  Oh well… I had to make a choice between peace of mind, or getting to see in real life if a 75-year-old woman still has the ability to emanate sex appeal.  Hmm… now that I think about it, maybe both could have given me peace of mind.

Today I put on my short khaki skirt that I wore all summer long in Ocean City.  I packed for fall weather and it’s been hot and sunny here.  Way too hot for my jeans and all the long sleeve shirts I brought.  So my summer wardrobe is a bit limited.  I added a nice little tank top to the khaki skirt, thought I looked cute and went out to enjoy another beautiful day in this charming town. 

I stopped in the boulangerie (bakery) near my place and got a raisin biscuit for breakfast.  Take a look at this adorable place!   And it had the warm smell of freshly-baked bread.  The biscuit was wonderful!  I vowed to come back for a baguette the next day. 

Then as I was walking around, suddenly I realized how frumpy I looked compared to everyone else!  I saw hundreds of people throughout the day and NOT ONE other person was wearing a short khaki skirt.  Everyone else looked either flowing, in long, airy skirts that fluttered in the breeze when they walked, or spunky, like the girl in the short shorts whose cheeks of her round, firm butt showed when she took a step.  She had beautiful, thin legs up to my neck, those crazy short shorts and pointed shoes with no back and a tiny heel.  Quite the package.  I couldn’t stop staring at her, but that’s another thing I’ve found odd here.  I’ve seen some spectacular women here- just absolutely stunning in their beauty and dress.  And back in the states the women would’ve turned heads.  Lots of people would’ve stared at them.  They’re remarkable- they’re stand-outs!  But here, no one seems to be impressed.  These fabulous women walk by and I’m the only person who appears to be wide-eyed!  What’s that all about?  How could they not be noticed?  No comments, no cat-calls, no mumbling when they walk by…. Just everyday normal and no ripple of reaction in the crowd.  Anyway, I decided to ditch the khaki skirt, even if it only leaves me with three other bottoms to wear during this hot weather. 

And… still can’t wait to see the clothing market.  It’s supposed to be really good.  I wouldn’t know because it turns out they only have it on Thursday mornings.  I looked all over yesterday for it, in the streets where it was supposed to be set up, but saw only a few areas of antiques and flea market stands.  I was out last Thursday looking for it, but was apparently too late and by the late afternoon all the stands had folded up and left.   Now my anticipation is really building. 

I’ve wanted to see Juan Les Pins, which is only about a mile and a half or so from here.  It’s supposed to be a vibrant, energetic little town with nice beaches on the other side of the peninsula.  Normally I would walk, but sometimes those “about a mile” things turn out to feel like a day-long hike.  Remember, the “4 or 5 blocks” to get from the train station to my apartment?  And besides that, I’ve been having these weird chest pains since I’ve gotten to France.  I’ve had them before over the last couple years, and had them checked out and nothing serious was found.  But I also recently got a blood test showing that my triglycerides were off the chart coupled with a not so good cholesterol level.  So now chest pains seem to alert me more than before. 

With all of this going on, and wanting to see Juan Les Pins, I reduced myself to taking “The Petite Train”  tour train through the streets of Antibes, through the port and over to Juan Les Pins.  Roundtrip with the availability to get off for as long as you like (it makes the trip every hour) for 7 Euros ($10.50).  How embarrassing.  I- wanting to appear so French- riding in the little car of The Petite Train in my frumpy khaki skirt.    

Juan Les Pins IS fun!  I was there around 6 pm and it was hopping!  Lively restaurants and busy shops crowded into maybe a 3 or 4 square block area.  And their beach was lined with many waterfront casual restaurants with tables in the sand.  It felt like a fun mix of Mexico’s playful Playa del Carmen and Florida’s cosmopolitan South Beach. Jlp beach restaurant What an area!  They actually rake their sand so that it appears groomed.  All the restaurants had this look- almost like the lined sand was their floor but running right out to the water.   And there were sofas and chairs on parts of the beach! 

I stopped by a busy little shop selling Grand Marnier crepes and ordered a sucre avec buerre best crepe .  They handed it to me folded in its own little pie-shaped container with special little tongs for eating!  YUM!  I think this was the best crepe I have ever had!  It had a touch of the Grand Marnier in it to just give it a hint of an added flavor.  And each side was grilled to perfection!  Absolutely delicious!

The promenade along the water had outside candy stands maybe ten feet long selling all different kinds of candy.  There were two of those within one block.  It looked so cute and fun I wanted to buy something but didn’t want to ruin my dinner, especially after downing the crepe.    I chose one piece of candy, a nougat with nuts, sort of like the Mary Sue pecan Easter egg we have in the states.  I asked for a bag since I wasn’t going to be eating it in one pop.  This caused a little disgust and a tone of voice that even though I couldn’t understand the words, I knew meant she didn’t want to waste a bag on one piece of candy.  Come on… it’s only one little pink and white striped paper bag.  Get a life.  Although the bag really was cute.  The shop owners appear nice until you ask them to step out of their normal routine.  But I got my bag and put the rest of my nougat in there.  After a few steps however, I realized how good the candy was!  I nibbled some more and before long the whole nougat was gone.  I crumpled up my little, pink striped bag that had had a useful life span of less than 5 minutes and tossed it in the trash.  And then got back on The Petite Train to head home. 

Back to my little flat within the walls of the fort.  I like it so much.  Often when I get home for the evening, I walk to the water to take a look at the sea before going in for the night.  Here is a special little video I made starting at my door, going by my window with the old shutters and heavy locks, around the corner to a view of the sea. This was shot at 8:30 pm- it’s still fairly light here at that time.

All posts beginning with Day 2 will be much shorter!  If you’re interested in reading the  longer version, stop by www. AnotherLevel.wordpress.com.  

Day 1- Arriving!

I arrived in Antibes yesterday.  What a long grueling trip to get into my new apartment.  I had tried to pack lightly.  I weighed my suitcase at home after I finished packing- 58 lbs.  Eight pounds over and way too heavy to carry.  Unpacked piles of clothes.  Went through the must have and maybe piles for the 20^th time.  Took out all of the maybe items.  53 pounds.  Did a major streamline of all my toiletries.  Took out the shampoo and conditioner I knew I would need and have to spend triple on in France.  Couldn’t get below 51 pounds and finally decided to take another carry-on bag.  Got the suitcase to 48 lbs.  Seemed like a success- was not thinking about hauling around a 48 lb suitcase in and out of buses and trains and up and down the streets of Antibes. 

We landed in Paris and I knew I had to make a connection.  We arrived an hour early due to strong tailwinds so I knew I had plenty of time.  But, I decided to find my gate first, make sure everything was in order and then use the bathroom, look around in the shops and get something to eat.  I first found out whether I needed to do anything with my suitcase or if it would automatically continue to Antibes.  I needed to do nothing.  Good.  I walked by some Parisian postcards that caught my eye and stopped by a patisserie and bought a 2 euro ($2.80) tiny cookie.  I got to my gate and saw it said “Rome”.  Not good.  Hopefully I wasn’t in the wrong terminal because I had had to re-enter security for some reason.   That hadn’t made sense.  I didn’t remember leaving security after getting off the plane, but had to spend 50 minutes in line getting through again.  Maybe everyone had left the secure area after they checked the passports in customs.  Yes, I remember now seeing all the people holding signs with last names.  Now I know that that means unless you’re on your way to baggage claim and leaving, you’re going to have to re-enter security to get where you’re going. 

I found a customer service area and they told me that my flight had been changed from Gate 30 to Gate 24.  Not a problem.  Same terminal.  Thank goodness.  My new flats were hurting my feet.  I had even packed a change of flats, and the new ones hurt too.   By now it was a pain to walk even a few steps.  I walked over and saw the people waiting, double checked the boarding time and departure time.  Everything in order.   I had a little over an hour and looked forward to getting something to eat, sitting down, taking off my shoes and firing up my internet.  I needed to see how to get from the train station in Antibes to the rental office where I would pick up my key.  I knew how to get from the Nice airport to the train station.  I had the number of the bus I would need to find.  But once I got off the train in Antibes, I knew nothing.  I felt panicked when I thought of myself standing alone on the platform after the train pulled away and not being able to get Wi-Fi to get on-line to find my directions.  Luckily, now I had time to use the airport Wi-Fi and find the addresses of the rental agency and the apartment and copy onto paper all of my walking directions.  Why was I feeling so nervous?  I guess just being so by myself in a country where I don’t speak the language.  And wondering why I was doing this in the first place.

I saw a delightful snack shop with freshly-baked sweets and quiches and freshly-brewed coffee.  Perfect!   I was so tired from not sleeping on the plane and I looked at my watch- it was the middle of the night at home.  No wonder I felt so sleepy.  I wanted to eat something other than bakery items, knowing I would have some walking ahead of me and needed something nutritious.  I placed a slice of ham and cheese quiche into a flimsy, triangular cardboard container with no covering and ordered a cup of coffee.   Looking forward to relaxing and having this.  I balanced the quiche, covered with a napkin into the top of my carry-on, and holding the coffee with the other hand that was carrying my zipped carry-on, looked for a place to sit in the coffee shop.  I thought better and decided to go to the gate to find a seat, with my coffee swishing every now and then over the top of the little cup.  As I made my way towards my gate, I saw that everyone was in line and boarding!  What?  I had an hour before boarding!  I went through the gate and realized we were standing in line to get onto a commuter bus to take us to the plane.  Now the coffee would really splash.  I tried to drink it, but I hadn’t gotten the sugar in yet and now I had no extra hands to do it.  It was bitter and hot.  The quiche was starting to stick to the napkin that I had put over it as it was only supposed to be a temporary cover.  This was not my idea of a leisurely breakfast and getting me organized while I had the luxury of having Wi-Fi in the airport.  I took another sip of coffee, put all my bags down, and found the sugar.  I was last in line and everyone moved ahead.  I took two nice gulps of coffee and two pinches of quiche- who knew where my fork was, and then threw the rest of the coffee in the trash before getting on the tram bus.  Everything was so discombobulated and again I wondered why I decided to make this trip.  I still didn’t know why we were being hustled along so much ahead of our departure time.  When I finally got myself and my belongings organized on the tram, I asked a person why we were leaving early.  The language barrier was a problem but they wouldn’t have understood my question even if I had asked in perfect French.  Apparently we were leaving at the correct hour.  Somehow that five hour difference that I was aware of during all my dealings with the French while in the states had turned into a six hour difference.  How could that be?  I can’t figure that one out unless over and over again while making my trip arrangements and communicating with people in France, I was wrong on the time difference.  Which means that I probably unknowingly called some people too early or too late.  I don’t get it.

We left rainy Paris as I remembered that I had forgotten to bring along an umbrella.  Had thought about making sure to bring it, but it never materialized past the thought.  I imagined myself walking for hours with my heavy suitcase and two awkward carry-on bags in the rain, and showing up drenched in the rental office.  Not the look my sister had imagined when she helped me find just the right outfit with flats and the new belt and scarf she had bought me to wear.  She said she wanted me to make a good first impression when I met my first people in Antibes.  Right then I was just glad to be on the plane.  That would’ve been a real mess trying to communicate arranging a new flight and asking about the planned location of my suitcase.

Surprise!  When we landed in Nice, just an hour and half away, the skies were bright blue, the sun was shining and it was a wonderful 82 degrees!  Now I was beginning to remember why I booked this trip!

Locating my luggage was easy.  I found a nice place to sit and pull out my computer and spend the 30 minutes finding and copying the walking directions I would need when I got to Antibes.  And I needed to check my email.  I had been totally out of touch with Bud and my family.  No one had a way to get in touch with me for the last 12 hours since my plane had left Philadelphia.  My Verizon phone doesn’t work here.  No emergency emails in my inbox.  That was a relief.  The baggage area cleared quickly and it felt strange and odd in a lonely way sitting by myself in the huge, empty baggage claim area.  But it was a nice setting to find what I needed and to get all the details straight. 

Next, buying my bus ticket and finding bus 99 and platform C was easy.  I used my first required French!  Bus 98 pulled in one platform away and everyone from my platform got up to board that bus!  What???  In fast French I said to a lady leaving “Does bus 98 take you to the train station?”  And I assume in perfect French because she answered in French (but easy to understand obviously) “No, to downtown Nice.”.  Perfect!  I was on the right platform, waiting for the right bus….  But I still don’t understand why all the bus 98 people going to downtown Nice had been waiting on the bus 99 platform. 

Train station- easy!  What a relief!  Everything was going as planned.   Imagine that!  I was beginning to feel a little smug.  And a little French, but more fake it than real.  Close enough.  I got my boarding pass- only 4 Euros, same price as the bus had been.  The bus had gone five miles through the city in 20 minutes.  The train would go 15 miles in 20 minutes.  Much better deal.  The bus trip had actually felt exhilarating!  I was seeing all the things I had seen in pictures over the last few months.  And it looked exactly like the pictures!   Clear, bright, that beautiful sun-drenching sunlight that is so different here than other parts of the world.  Matisse recognized it and so did Picasso.  And Renoir.  At least one of those artists had actually painted the same landscape at different times of day and named it something like “a study of the sunlight”.  It was intriguing.  And now, here I was, bathed in the same beautiful light!  And talking about sunbathing, I was surprised as our bus traveled on the highway alongside the beach that all of Nice appears to be a topless beach!  So odd for me as an American.  Just steps from a busy, city road are numerous topless women.  And everyone acting like nothing is out of the ordinary!  Interesting.    

All easy except that ridiculously stuffed, heavy suitcase.  What was I thinking!  As the day wore on, the suitcase got heavier and heavier.  It was almost impossible to lift it in and out of the bus while holding my two carry-ons and protecting the one with all my cash, new mini-computer and digital camera.  The auxiliary, last minute carry-on held my shoes, my hairdryer, a jeans jacket and a thin beach towel I thought I might need.  While maneuvering my suitcase on the train, trying to get it down a small ramp from the doors to the seats an old man decided to tell me exactly how to position it to fit in the width of the ramp.  How irritating.  The width of the suitcase allowed the wheels to barely fit on the ramp which would allow me to wheel it rather than turn it sideways and carry it like he thought I needed to do.  Didn’t he see my hands were full and I didn’t need his telling me to do it his way?  Just like a man- they always think their way is better.  I twisted it around and eventually got the wheels situated right where they needed to be so I could pull it as planned.  One wheel caught the side of the ramp for a second, but a hard tug and it moved to where it would roll.  That simple tug and extra force on that wheel would later cause bigger problems. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to get irritated and disregard the old man’s suggestions. 

I was moving forward.  This part of the trip, getting from the Nice airport to inside my apartment was what I worried would be the most stressful.  So many things could go wrong and leave me feeling stranded.  And having to figure out, on my own, what to do.  Not to mention while feeling even further bogged down by all the heavy luggage I decided to bring. 

I arrived at the Antibes train station and there were taxis!  Unexpected, but welcome.  I dragged all my stuff over to one and asked in French the cost to go to the address that I had written on a little piece of paper.  He told me in broken English that it would be 10 Euros (calculated by me as $14).  Seemed reasonable to delete the stress over the part of my trip that was the most anxiety-provoking.  But then he said, it was only a short walk, 5 minutes at the most.  He jumped out of his car and pointed to the street I should get on.  Go past the circle and fourth street on the right and there it was!  So simple!  But I did remember thinking that four simple streets could feel like a lot of walking while dragging the suitcase with the carry-on on top of it and the other heavy carry-on over my shoulder.  But, of course I should save the $14.  Why not!  I thanked him with several beaucoups at the end of my merci’s and set off in the direction he told me.  And walked and walked and walked.  And walked.  Finally I took a right before the circle, thinking that I must’ve passed it and hadn’t realized it.  Maybe circles look differently in France.  A block to the right and I now recognize no streets when comparing to my messy, quickly-drawn map in the Nice airport.  And the suitcase is becoming harder to roll.  More like having to drag it.  And then I see what’s causing the sound- the wheel that had been a little stuck on the ramp in the train is now sitting sideways and is ready to break off completely!   And there are no longer any taxis in sight on these small streets.  Oh no.  I try to fix the wheel and position it so it rolls easier, but it’s not good.  And now I walk a block back over to the left.  And then turn right.  Where I had been before but a block further along.  And walk and finally I come upon a circle.  And it’s the right circle, comparing the street signs to my map.  The street signs by the way are those little hand-painted signs posted on the top edge of buildings that the French use.  So cute and so hard to see.  Very hard to locate.  Not all buildings on each corner have a sign and some corners have no signs.  This causes the American dragging the heavy suitcase to become very disgruntled. 

Walk, walk, walk.  Sweating, my hands and arms are tired and sore.  And my feet hurt.  And finally, finally after 40 minutes of walking and lugging that stupid, lead-filled suitcase all over the thousand year old streets of Antibes I find the rental agency office.  What a relief!  It feels so nice and cool, a mild 80 degrees inside.  But better than the 90+ in the sun, whose beautiful light turned into a stifling heat with head-aching glare. Wonder if the famous artists were ever bothered by the glare of the sun?   I don’t think the woman (me) who walked into their office was the image that my sister had in mind of how I should appear.  Or maybe I did.  I noticed all day that I must’ve looked somewhat Parisian.  People would ask me questions in French, choosing to talk to me before others around me, I think because I looked like I lived in and was familiar with the area.  Or maybe it was that worried, self-absorbed look that made me look like a French woman.  Who knows?  That and wearing a scarf around my neck in 90 degree heat perhaps. 

Marc, my contact guy from the rental agency was very nice, but quickly handed me over to a nice young lady who spoke almost no English.  Not a problem.  We communicated what we needed.  Marc insisted the apartment was VERY close by and even drew two little stars on the local Antibes map to show me how close.  I saw many streets between the two stars, but really had no choice but to begin walking again.  The nice female office worker carried two bags of linens and towels and I dragged myself and my suitcase.  At one point we came to an uphill, cobblestone climb.  She strutted along, and finally I had to do the embarrassing oh-my-god- I’m-getting-old number.  I had to ask her to stop while I rested!!!  How old am I!!!! I never had to do that before.  It was the heat, the exhaustion, the uneasiness from this decision to come to France.  So we stopped for a few seconds.  I pretended that I caught my breath and was surely rested and we continued.  By the time we reached the apartment, my head was pounding and I literally felt sick.  But here I was.  Finally, from Philadelphia, all the way with plane changing, busses, trains into the unknown, and here I was!  At my destination!  Yes! 

But no… this little, teensy, tiny room surely couldn’t be all there was to the studio apartment pictures I had seen that made me put down my money.  Did the place shrink?  How could a person live in this one room?  And no tv or internet?  The tv was so important to me, that when I couldn’t turn it on shortly after the female from the agency left, I walked back to their office and told them I needed help.,  Marc came and showed me that I had not turned on the power to the power strip.  I had checked every plug and connection to the DVD and tv, making sure everything was plugged in and connected so I wouldn’t appear a fool.  I missed the power strip button.  Yes it had been plugged in, but simply not turned on.  So I did appear the fool.  But that didn’t bother me nearly as much as no tv.  It comes on, but only to run DVD’s.  Todd and Kent forgot to mention that.  The tv is my company.  I wanted the background noise, the connection of live tv news… anything to provide talking and feeling in touch during this time when I’m so by myself.   I’m really disappointed that there’s no tv.  The internet, I knew, but not the tv.  FUCK.  Excuse my French.  Now, I’m thinking maybe I did make a mistake in wanting to come here to think things over and clear my head.  I could’ve chosen Florida or somewhere.  I’m sure there are plenty of nice places in Florida.  Actually, I wanted to get far away.  I knew that that would be part of the catalyst to make me think clearly and would be detached enough so I could really get in touch with myself.  When you’re all by yourself, you learn to depend on and trust yourself.  First few steps in getting your head screwed back on straight.