Chez Michel

I woke up this morning to heavy gusts crying through the shallow spaces in my green, wooden shutters. And to a big, white dog head in my face. I pulled my tired body from under the sheets and stumbled downstairs after only 3hrs of sleep (serves me right for partying until 6:30am), walking out barefoot on the damp ceramic terrace surrounding Chez Michel. The Mistral had come and, smiling, I couldn’t imagine a better day.

The mistral stirs up such feelings of fondness within me. I remember in my youth, staying here on our vacation, being exhilarated the mistral. Back then I thought any big storm was the mistral and here on top of the mountain, in this big old house, any big storm is terrifying. Weather beats this place with such fervor, slamming the old wooden doors, whistling angrily through the holes in the windows, shaking the solid clay walls and very foundations of the house until it seems that we will never survive the storm – and then it dies down, leaving us only to fix the electricity, the pump, and whatever other damage done. Storms here are frightening, but with the lightening they bring an electric feeling, a sense of excitement.

But now, having lived here for two months and spoken of the weather with enough natives, I know better. While the mistral can be a big storm, it can also be a heat wave and a dry spell. The mistral is simply the weather from Africa, and last night it brought with it the red rain. Droplets fell from the sky coated with the rust colored sand of the desert, staining everything they touch on this side of the Mediterranean.

As I considered the disgusting color of my scooter, parked carelessly in front of the laundry house, I realized how much I love this place. Chez Michel specifically. The house is ripe with knowledge, hiding secrets and quirks and history within its walls.



Today is the last full day that Sylvia and her family are here. I am sure that, like every other family member who visited, they will say goodbye and thank you to the tree. That’s right, everyone in this family, everyone who knows the history of this house, pays homage to an oak tree every time they visit – saying hello and thank you upon arrival, goodbye and thank you upon departure. We’re not crazy. This house isn’t called “Le Chêne en Croix” (“the Cross of Oak”) because it sounded good. That tree saved this place, allowing us to have these amazing memories and experiences, and for that we are forever grateful.



No, seriously. Years and years and years ago, there was a great fire. (This part of the world is so dry and hot enormous fires are common. From the view here we can often spot thick clouds of colored smoke spouting up from somewhere over the land.) This particular fire spread, seemingly unstoppably, up Cap Camarat, consuming all that it touched. It seemed to most that the hungry fire would eat the entire mountain, our house included. But as it swept across the land, burning buildings and trees and underbrush, it did something no one expected – something no one thought possible. It stopped. Suddenly. In front of a beautiful oak tree shaped like a cross.

That oak cross saved this property from the awesome devastation of the fire. Everything before that tree lay in ruin, thick black dirt and crumbled houses. Now it has been rebuilt and regrown, but it is new. On the other side of our property, the land the tree saved, there still remains giant pine trees and vivid memories.

But that’s just one fascinating story. This is actually the second house built on this foundation, for family legend has it (family legend confirmed by the museum in the citadel in St. Tropez, which – to my recollection – has an entire bit dedicated to this house) that it was overtaken during World War II by the Nazis and used as their regional headquarters. And why not? The view is amazing – they could see enemies coming from miles away on all directions. But when the Allies did finally come and losing seemed imminent to the Nazis, they destroyed the house. My great-grandmother (an amazing woman I will have to write about someday… once I finally unveil the shrouds of mystery surround her life, and the life of so many of the amazing Michel’s) rebuilt it after the war. But there remain hints of the devastation, of war. On the route to the crique there is the foundation of a bunker from which the Nazis shot down to the Allies landing on the beach below. Off the lighthouse, sunken in the shallow water, lies a dormant submarine, shot down in that battle.


WWII bunker foundation

It is a bit eerie, though. Sometimes when I wander around the house I wonder what the wind will unearth. I wonder if I will find some old artifact just lying on this property. It’s quite possible, given the rich history. Sometimes when I lie on the beaches of Pamplonne I cannot avoid the chin that runs down my spine. On that golden sand, many lives were lost. That’s where the Allies landed, that’s where they came to liberate this part of France, to save the people. I can’t help but to feel guilty for, or at least pay respect to, those who fell on the ground where I know sunbathe topless. It just doesn’t seem right. (At the same time, they were American soldiers. If their ghosts are hanging around I can’t say they wouldn’t be thrilled to see all the beautiful, half-naked chics.)



In St. Tropez, there is a little area off the cost of the fort where one can swim. I doubt the water is very clean, but I am curious. Imagine the treasures you might be able to find! St. Tropez has seen many battles fought with primitive tools, cannons, and machine guns. It has seen pirates and heroes. What tiny artifacts remain safely embedded in the ocean floor?