In general, when I pass a place that strikes me with the fabulous images it could produce, I put a marker on myself and try to return there as soon as possible. There aren't many places like that in Nice that have made an impression on me, mainly because it's not a city I like very much, but I vowed to come back at least once with my camera and start from Mont Boron. For the whole of the previous year, I'd had a rather special art teacher, a caricature of the old art teacher who already had a set view of the world. He was quite old, but still rather likeable; he carried his pipe around with him all the time and told you such unbelievable anecdotes about life that you didn't dare question their veracity. Towards the end of the year, he had taken us several times by car to the top of Mont Boron to spend the morning drawing. We always went there early in the morning, and of course going back there alone at around seven in the morning had lost its charm. So I went down into Nice, wandering here and there along the coast and the edge of town. Unlike last time, I didn't wander all over the place, in fact, at around 2pm, after seven hours of walking up and down, through bits of forest and poorly paved streets, I collapsed into an armchair at Nice Étoile and quietly toiled away. Surprisingly, I wasn't the only one. I woke up with a stomachache and a headache, so I dropped my sandwich, hurried to my school to catch up and was back home by 4pm. And yes, my feet hurt like hell.