Sophia Antipolis

No one would really go to France to spend time in Sophia Antipolis unless they had to. Referred to as a technology park, it's mostly a series of industrial buildings centered loosely on an unfortunately (and one could say aptly) named residential community, Garbegaire. This is not where we're going to live, but this is headquarters for the ISP tennis academy and where Luke's future school is located at the Centre International Valbonne (CIV). It's where we've landed for the first two weeks at the Grand Hotel Mercure where Luke will play tennis for hours every day while Jeff and I adjust to.... to what, I wonder? The next two weeks in Sophia Antipolis? The start of a grand adventure in Europe? Or, what it feels like the most, the fact that we've just packed up and left a house we love, an incredibly supportive community and all of our best friends and family. And why did do we do that exactly? After living most of my life overseas, I've become a home girl.

Sophia Antipolis is a complicated mass of carrefours (roundabouts) and steep streets that lead one way but not the other. The car we've rented -- like most cars in Europe -- is a stick shift, and I've forgotten how to drive one. Jeff is patient, but I just can't conquer the delicate balancing act that involves the gas pedal and the clutch. For the most part, I make my way up and down the hills of Sophia Antipolis, although I'm moving at half the posted speed limit. The first time I go to pick Luke up from his French lessons by myself, I panic. We're heading towards one of the gates that regulates entrance/exit to the CIV. If you're already inside the CIV, the gates lift up automatically when a car approaches. My problem is that this gate is uphill. I stall on the way up and the barrier, that had opened up so willingly upon my herky-jerky approach, slams back down into place. We're trapped. Luke looks at me in that uniquely 13-year-old boy way. "Really, Mom?" He rolls his eyes. Finally the gate opens again and with a dramatic rush of noise and gas, the car lurches through the gate.

Ken E. once wrote a very funny piece about driving in France and the warning at the roundabouts: Vouz n'avez pas la priorite! I see this at almost every carrefour. I know, I know. I do not have the priority. I barely have any standing whatsoever to be out here navigating these hills.

The hotel is near a forest and a large park that stretches from the tennis courts to the CIV. Charlie and I walk there together, missing our CCW pack. But at least no one honks at me.