When the Cat’s Away, the Mice Come Out to Play

There are two very distinct worlds coexisting in the same plane of St. Tropez. This is a playground for the rich & famous, where people spend lazy days exploring the Mediterranean on their six story yachts, drinking expensive rosé, being waited on and spoiled endlessly. They spend their days on comfy mats at five-star beaches without a care in the world. In the alternate universe existing on this same plane live the locals who serve the rich & famous, run the yachts, serve the rosé, wait on the wealthy. They spend their days working at the beach thinking constantly of what they’ll do at night to make some more cash. Though they intermingle all the time, they remain tremendously different. This week I’ve been living in both parallels, yachting to chic beaches by day and boozing with the natives by night.



Today, for example, we played with my friend's boss's toys. We took his 80 foot boat out for a spin, anchoring off the glorious beaches in the private marina of Grimaud, sitting on the table in the back for some wine. And, of course, to play. We put the tender, the little boat for going ashore, and the jet skis in the water simply to “make sure everything worked and stayed conditioned while the boss was away.” Yea, right. We just wanted to pretend we had enough money to buy two 1400cc jet skies and a glorious Ferretti yacht and the bank account to spend the day at sea, admiring the sailboats and bigger boats (mostly private) passing by.




And that’s where I sit now, faking wealthy and enjoying the high life, as I have so many other days this week.



And at night I will return to Le P’tit Club for work, to booze with the locals, to speak French and scrounge for survival. It’s so interesting to contract the two worlds in which I live: the life of the tourist, visiting St. Tropez and spending money like it has no meaning. Then the life of the Ramatuelle-ians: works your ass off as a jardinière or a housecleaner or handyman (Alberte & Z come to Le P’tit Club every night for a drink – they are such wonderful people!), making money off the tourists so you have to work less during the winter when there are none. Denis (did I mention I met his pregnant wife last night?), for example, works until 3 or 4am every night at his bar, sleeps for a bit before returning at 11 or 12 to finish cleaning, then goes to work at the beach until he has to be back at the bar at 6. I met in my travels a man who works as a bartender eight nights a week, without a single moment free all summer. However, come October, he takes a nice four or five month holiday.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m rambling; I’ve had a lot of rosé. But I just think it’s terribly interesting that there are two terribly different worlds existing in this one area. And I think it’s even more interesting that I have a life in both. I am a Gemini, you know…

À bientôt!