Antibes – like a second home, sleeping on the lighthouse pad, watching the lights of Fort Carrè across the bay, playing harmonica to the fishermen passing by the harbor entrance, and freezing my ass off in a terrycloth sleeping bag in the evening breeze.
“No Camping” signs – the international pictograms with a red line through a tent – are ever-present along the beaches. This tells me they must patrol the beaches at night. I want an ocean view, but not from the hills which are too far inland. The city parks and gardens don’t work because of the sprinklers and lawnmowers. Plus the parks seem a good place for a heist or dumping a body, and I don’t want to see – or be – a dead guy in the park. For an unshaven homeless bum, I’m rather persnickety.