August 15: When the BEST part of the day is a 30 Euro, ten minute taxi ride, you know you’re in trouble.
It started well enough. The usual continental breakfast and on the road from St Martin – Vesubie to Nice earlier than I had hoped. Pretty much straight into town and down to the airport which is like Pearson, only a bit smaller. And they speak another language. And they follow practices that nobody but them understands. But that aside….
I went round the terminals (both of them) twice looking for the TT Car drop-off. When that proved futile I decided to follow the signs for the rental returns, 
although there was no sign for TT Cars. That should have been my first clue. Of course, you pass through an automatic gate to get into the rental car return parking garage. There’s no escape route for idiots looking for TT Cars. Once inside, I parked and walked a brisk 10 minutes to the end of Terminal 2 where I found the empty TT Cars booth, with a helpful sign directing me to, essentially, the far end of the parking lot. (Lest you think I’m a complete idiot, I DID look online for the location but found nothing but the address of the airport, which proved to not be that helpful.)
Once in the TT Cars trailer, I discovered that I was supposed to return the car to Paris, not Nice, and that it was impossible for me to be in the rental garage. After some more time waving arms, I’m told to get the car and follow the signs for the bus depot. Go right to the end where there’s a sign that says you must not enter under penalty of being shot and pissed upon from a great height. “Just ignore it and come through.” And you will need a ticket to get the car out of the rental lot, and we can’t give you one of those…
After a further 10 minute walk back, a kindly rental guy from the company in whose lot I had illegally parked gave me said ticket and I escaped the lot. Two signatures later and the car was back in the hands of Peugeot. Two suitcases out of the trunk and a further 5 minute haul across the parking lot to the taxi stand leads to the high point of the day mentioned off the top.
Arriving at the bike rental place I’m told that the guy will be there soon. With the bike. Soon. In the meantime we do some paperwork which essentially involves signing forms printed in French and thrust across the counter with a helpful “La et la.” While we wait, I change in the basement storage room. The bike arrives and it’s not the one I ordered – it’s a BMW 800 with small sport bags and a top box. When I ask about the tank bag I specifically requested, I’m told that they don’t work on the plastic gas tank (in a tone one uses on a first-grader…).
There being no other option, I mount up and ride back to St Martin. In the rain. Did I mention the rain? Showers actually, but still, another element of stress. An hour of that, including a nice side slip on a metal grate in the road and I get back to the hotel where the key for the top box breaks off in the lock. (By the way, the top box comes fully loaded with a 20 lb. chain lock which, in addition to weighing 20 lbs. takes up the better part of half the top box – kind of defeating the purpose of the additional piece of luggage.)
The guy at the bike shop takes a bit of time but finally calls back with the name of a locksmith who can make a key. He’s 20 minutes down the road. And by God he does make a key from the two pieces that seems to work fairly well.
So day one has not been entirely fun. But on the bright side, I have 27 more, 
including 7 with my best buds. And if this is the worst, then I have a lot to look forward to… Tally ho.