The Circuit

Your boss is interviewing Roman Polanski. He wants you to be there to take notes for the blog.

Your challenge: Find a cab on the Croisette at 10:30 am.

I'm not a big fan of reality television, but I have newfound respect for the poor souls who participate in "The Greatest Race."

The Grand Hotel tells me to find a cab in front of the Noga Hilton. There are no cabs at the Noga Hilton, unless they have been dismantled and pocketed by the teeming crowds clogging the sidewalk. I scan the Croisette, run toward a taxi and pound on its window, only to be told, "C'est non possible." There are no other cabs, not that it matters since traffic is all but stopped.

Then I get a brainstorm: Walk away from the Croisette, toward the A8. No traffic jams mean more cars; more cars mean more cabs. I am brilliant.

Thirty minutes later: I have walked far from the Croisette, across the A8 and into the city. I pass a gas station, where I consider waving a 50 Euro note and begging a customer to drive me. I see three cabs with passengers, two without but on the wrong side of the street and one from Antibes who says he doesn't know the address.

I am an idiot.

Finally, I do what I should have done in the first place and find a small hotel, go to the front desk and ask them to call a cab. The Cezanne obliges. I wait in front, hoping the sweat dries before I reach the shoot. When the driver arrives, I smile with relief and tell him where I need to go.

He looks at me like I'm crazy. "That's 400 meters away," he says.

Somehow, that quarter mile still costs me 15 Euros.