Page 58 of French Escapade

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Usually, to get to this village, I take my car. It’s an hour-and-a-half drive from Cannes, more during the tourist season because of traffic jams that clog the only route that goes around the Saint-Tropez gulf.

But for once, thanks to Ted, I won’t be stuck forever behind some German mobile home. This man means business in ways I never suspected.

It’s on the Mandelieu airfield tarmac that we ditch our car for a more direct means of transportation: a helicopter. It will only take fifteen short minutes to get to our destination by air. A fabulous time-save for us.

The chopper is waiting for us, ready to go. My three buddies don’t seem impressed at all. I suppose it’s not their first time. It’s not mine either, but I sure don’t do this every day.

Ted and Jimmy go in first. Ted sits by the pilot and shakes his hand. Jimmy sits in the back.

Now it’s up to Ken and me to climb in. He put a hand on my waist to help me up.

Always considerate, that’s a thing I really like.

We barely have time to buckle up before we take off toward the Mediterranean. We fly over the Esterel and its red rocks, which contrast with the clear water. In the late afternoon light, the view is spectacular.

Ken leans over my shoulder to get a better look at the coast. His arm slides behind me, and his hand comes to rest on my shoulder. His thumb gently brushes against it. My heart beats a little bit faster. The ambient noise makes it impossible to talk. We are equipped with headsets, but everyone could hear us if we used them, the pilot included.

So I remain silent, but I lean against Ken. I drink in his body heat and rest a hand on his thigh. Simple gestures that speak volumes.

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