Hallie, my travel buddy, and I hop into our rental car and begin our trek to VilleFranche-sur-Mer. We leave Arles this early June morning to traipse along the autoroute, following the signs to aix-en-Provence and Nice for the sole purpose of avoiding Marseille. We feast on the sights. Yellow and pink flowers and green shrubs mass the mountain roadside while red poppies peep through. At Brignoles, we drop down onto the low corniche, or coastal highway. Steep white cliffs outline the teal Mediterranean. The narrow path snakes along steep foothills toward St. Tropez. Here, however, teeming tourists, tangles of yacht masts, clustered fishing boats, and the water's glint obliterate any view. Traffic flows like cooling lava. Hallie pushes the car past the resort's limits, toward St. Maxime where the sea changes to aqua, and white sand beaches sparkle. Between Frejus and Cannes, red porphyry rock relinquishes territory to mansions and estates perched atop and alcoved into the cliffs, canopied by deep green umbrella pines. Pink, purple and fucshia bougainvilleas paint the homes' otherwise white neo-classic facades. We value the snail-like pace of fellow ganderers.
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