Cap d’Antibes Hike (Sentier Touristique de Tirepoil)
In France, the devil is much more often in the details, in my opinion, than in other countries. We wanted to do the hike. We read what Rick wrote, but we missed a little tiny detail – near the seam in the dead tree book — that the bus #2 of interest to the carless does not in fact, according to its published paper schedule or other sources, have a "stop," "arret," or what you like at the Gare Routiere (local bus station) in Antibes. Get this: at that bus station there are numbered bays, and there is one numbered "2." Gotcha! Bus 2 does not stop there or ever go there, but bus #10 stops at the 10 bay, &c. Bus #2 has a stop that is actually only one block away, and for close readers of the maps in Rick's book, the stop can be seen. However, if one waits forever at the #2 false stop at the Gare Routiere, and is finally pestered enough by his companions to inquire within the bus station, he is, in rapid sequence, essentially called a moron, "the bus never stops if you wait in the wrong place" (in French). "What is the right place?" (she names a stop over 1 km away). In fact, the nearest stop was one very short block away. Sigh. Walking toward the 1 km away stop, and looking at a map, I found myself in an involuntary conversation with a Frenchwoman wanting to practice her English. (This always make me only speak French.) My reading of the map showed a closer stop than the hostile woman at the bus station (not hostile, mistaken application of perceived authority, perhaps?) had showed me. It was called Diables Bleus (blue devils), but the fine detail on the schedule showed it had the stop for the direction I wanted, whereas the stop in the other direction was (blocks away) at Place de Gaulle, quite near the bus station. She told me she had lived here all her life. My expectations about the import of such a claim are not high. She told me she had never heard of it, I should go to the 1 km away stop. In my fog (I've only been here a month), I walked along in that direction unable to prevent myself from looking for the Blue Devils. I found them, about a block from the Tourist Info office, north side of the street, very clearly labeled, near a six street intersection the like of which are few nearby, and only 3 blocks from where "lived here all my life" had "never heard of it." We boarded the bus. The next stop, the one shown near the seam/page joint in the dead tree book, was one block from the bus station (labeled as such, but not - ha! - for number 2). At that stop, the bus halted for 7 minutes as an Italian tour guide or school leader purchased, with much loud conversation, hand waving, and opening and closing of velcro plastic dossiers, tickets for 19 Italian schoolgirls or college students, whom we later met on the trail/sentier. They entered the bus at last, very slowly, with only the most dim grasp of how the first ones on should move to the rear or the process will take … 7 minutes. Travel broadens. Every other detail of Rick's description is just so, but this one might benefit from enhanced clarity, should that be attainable.
About "lived here all my life," Doyle writes about Holmes asking Watson how many steps lead up to his residence at #39 Baker Street. Watson professes ignorance. Holmes asks Watson to estimate how many times he has climbed the steps. Watson falters. Holmes offers an estimate, then names the number of steps, then says, "The problem, Watson, is that you see, but you do not observe." (or something very very similar to that). What is it that's fun about travel? The one Italian schoolgirl who is taller than one's wife?