In early January 1973, when I was 15, my family arrived in Menton by train and at the station my parents asked a taxi driver to bring us to any hotel by the beach. My father was taking a year's leave from work in Washington and my parents had decided we should go to France. Someone had recommended Menton so there we were. We stayed at that hotel for a week while my parents hunted for apartment to rent. Each day while they looked for a place for us to live for a few months my younger siblings and I spent hours on the stony beach. It was winter but very mild to us. There were bits and pieces of colored marble tiles washed up on the beach and we built little towns from them. Eventually my parents found an apartment to sublet in a big apartment building on a hill, called the Sospel I think. It had a dome and you could see it from almost anywhere in town. My brother and sister and I were enrolled in school, and on the floors of the classroom I recognized the designs we'd seen on the tile pieces on the beach. We stayed until mid-March but that first week on the beach was the most wonderful period of freedom.