"You 'ave a lover-ly smile". The cab driver peered in the rear vision mirror and smiled a very suave, very French, very broad, very friendly, somewhat cheeky smile. "You 'ave - what they say? - a very good dentist. You tell 'im I said that".
Now I don't know about you but it's not often that strangers take a shine to my teeth. Or if they do, they don't usually mention it. I'm not sure if he was complimenting me or my dentist but a compliment is a compliment and I'll take what I can get. Besides, my dentist wasn't with me.
While my lips uttered 'thank you' what I really wanted to say was 'please watch the road'.
The easiest thing to do to reach my hotel in Nice was to get a cab. I'm all about ease these days when travelling. In my younger days when I backpacked through Europe (post-37 day Contiki tour) hailing a cab to take me anywhere was most certainly out of the question. And staying in a hotel (one with actual star ratings attached to it and your very own bathroom and clean linen on the bed and no water damage visible on the walls and a room all to your very own self) was as likely as eating at any establishment that had table cloths. As a backpacker you very quickly work out that table cloths means expensive. All that laundry has to be paid for somehow.
Cab drivers in France are a unique breed. They drive like maniacs. Often with barely two fingers on the wheel, slouching casually, they somehow manage to hold a reasonably in-depth conversation with you. Either about your teeth or the make of a car up ahead two lanes across (let's speed up to take a look, 'eh!), or they behave like tour guides (the Pompidou Centre... Notre Dame over 'zere... 'Otel de Ville 'ere), or sing at the top of their lungs (per the female African taxi driver who took us on a swift and terrifying journey from the Montmartre after our evening at Moulin Rouge), all without crashing into the stationary garbage truck they are heading for at top speed. And how they don't take out several scooters after suddenly, with no warning at all, deciding where they want to be is five lanes across and turning left is beyond me.
It is not for the faint-hearted, a taxi-ride in France. After the marathon, for example, we decided to hail a cab. I was all up for getting the Metro back to Le Marais (not really, but I was bravely pretending I was), although I suspect that the time it was taking me to inch my tormented limbs down the Champs Elysee, coupled with my yelps for a toilet, were driving both Online Trainer and Apple quietly to distraction. Apple, being such a go-getting dude, masterfully claimed a cab and in we piled. Online Trainer was not in a cab-claiming position: he had his hands full carrying my water bottles, my free post-marathon fruit, my Finisher's t-shirt and whatever else was too heavy for me. I'm surprised he wasn't carrying me actually. I'll have to take that up with him, now that I think about it.
Possibly because I was squashed in the centre with no seat belt and a full, uninterrupted view of the road (sorry, boulevard) rushing past me at the speed of light, I demanded that Apple and Online Trainer create a human seat belt to protect me, ensuring I didn't go hurtling through the front windscreen when (if) the driver ever decided to brake. Understandably, they didn't seem that keen to participate. I had, after all, just run a marathon and I was grimy with sweat and all manner of grossness (did you know that people spit while running?). I was, as they say, a little less than fresh. Protecting myself wasn't an option though because my hands were busy covering my eyes. They had two choices. Form the human seat belt, or explain to the Husband how I came to be a passenger in Jacques Villeneuve's racing car and was thrown from the car in the process. If I didn't need a toilet before I sure as hell needed one now. For the love of God, man, USE THE BRAKES!
Thinking back, I think I might owe Apple for the cab fare? I know I had no money on me. I have no idea whether Online Trainer had anything beyond a few Metro tickets to get us home and as we all know, he was already loaded up like a Sherpa anyway with all our things (mostly mine). It is entirely possible Online Trainer brokered a deal with Apple - three bottles of water, two lime Gatorade's, three and a half apples, a banana, and some sort of white and blue plastic sheet with 'Marathon de Paris' printed all over it (he may have even thrown in his medal if Apple was in the mood to drive a hard bargain) - in exchange for the cab ride back.
Prying my grubby little hands away from my eyes, I wobbled unsteadily towards the Hotel Duo. "Room 12, please" I asked the lady at reception. Handing over my key (yes, an actual brass key with an actual enormous brass tassel hanging off it, just like in the movies), and in what could quite possibly be the most redundant statement of the year, she chirps "You look tired!".
I stared. Oh, really? Gee, I don't feel tired....
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