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St. Tropez is such a lovely city town. Made famous for it’s hedonistic carnival atmosphere, inhabitants dress in the slinkiest, most expensive clothing and do the most daring things – whether they are tourists here for a week or natives living in one of the beautiful apartments tucked down its many streets. Everything is romantic and seductive, forthright and secretive. This is a place to see and be seen, a place to show of off wealth and fortune, or a place to play like the rich & famous. The streets are scattered with Louis Vouton, Dolce and Hermes stores and even the grocery stores overprice their products, simply because that’s the nature of this place.



Last night, it was the perfect place to sit after dinner with a “friend” (my Australian pal I met here two weeks ago) outside on a second floor balcony and drink champagne, overlooking the yachts filled with old, wealthy men equipped with boat shoes and Nantucket reds and young, beautiful girls.



Today, it was the perfect place to spend the afternoon after a lazy day at L’Esquinade. But as I roamed the streets with my family, a sinking feeling in my heart overwhelmed me. I’m on vacation. Life is great. But this vacation will end when my family goes home – and then what? I need a job. I really need a job for money, for friends, for practicing French. And while I’m bumming around this playground, I’m not searching for a spot in a restaurant or bar and because I’m not searching, someone else will take my spot. It’s going to get busy around here soon and I need a piece of that action. Unfortunately, roaming around the streets of St. Tropez isn’t going to get me any.

By next Wednesday I’ve gotta figure out what I’m going to do for myself. Deal?