The Bordeaux Bombes cabs were bunched together at one side of the control point in Arles, across from the arena, and strangely, a celebration was taking place. Glasses were clinking and laughter rang out among the six Lestrade brothers.
“Didn’t they just get eliminated?” I asked my crew.
“Oui, when one of the cabs cannot reach the control point, the whole team is disqualified,” said Dizzy.
“But why are they celebrating?”
“Margot,” said Henri and Maurice at the same time.
“That cute bed of nails trick was just a sample of her handiwork,” said Blag.
The two-minute warning was issued, so we headed back to our cars to await the next clue. I tore it open while we waited our turn to leave.
“Sur Le Pont we’ll rest a spell, Ignore the ‘I’ but pick the ‘L.’”
“Sur Le Pont d’Avignon.”
I’d heard Blag sing before, and it was a brutal experience. His roaring metal favourites sounded like Pavarotti compared to this assault on the ears. He seemed to instantly regret it. “Okay, that’s the next destination, but what’s the rest of that nonsense about?”
I scoured the map for towns that began with an I or an L, but no luck. We were waiting for the other cabs to pull away from our checkpoint, the Arles arena, home to chariot races in the Roman era. It was a busy, touristy part of town with lots of cafés, and people continually tried to get into one of the row of cabs waiting for part two of the rally to begin. The Marauders, of course, drew first position again, and I watched as Margot pulled in front of the pack. Her son, Leo the navigator, kept looking behind them out the rear window, an odd tactic, I thought, until I realized that he was looking at me. He’d lost the eyepatch, I was glad to see, and he waved shyly at me. I saw Blag watching, so I didn’t wave back. Leo held his hands up and made signs for I, L, and U before taking off.
“Hey kiddo, no time for daydreaming!” Blag was staring at me intensely.
Oops. “Sorry, I was thinking.” I looked at the map, trying to understand the clue and Leo’s intention.
“Well, I think I know what I L U means.”
I blushed at Blag’s sarcasm. “Blag!” I then shouted as the map made sense. “The route from Arles to Avignon makes an I, but if you make a U turn and go via Nimes, it makes an L!”
He didn’t need to look at the map. When it was our turn, he wheeled around and wove through the crowd of tourists with the rest of the Parisians right behind. “Good work, Nana. I guess you really were thinking. Ha!”
We had drawn the number two position this time, with the Marauders in front of us and the Champagne Supernovas right behind. We all had the same idea, proceeding down rue de Refuge toward Nimes and eventually Avignon.
“Hey, Blag, why don’t you sing the next part of the Avignon song for me.” I smiled at him.
“Yeah, yeah. Very cute.” But I could see him fighting back a laugh.
Eight roundabouts, seven sidewalk cafés, six dogs sleeping in the shade, five tiny cemeteries, four girls on bicycles with baguettes in their baskets, three French hens, two games of boules, and one Roman aqueduct later, we were there.