Adventures through the Wilderness!

We’ve spoken of the mysterious big rock since well before my family’s arrival last week. On my mother’s dresser there stands a framed picture of Alex as a little boy, balanced at a precarious angle with the house in the distant background. From the beaches we frequent so often (including the one we enjoyed earlier this afternoon), the rock glows like a giant gray beacon, mocking us in our inability to find it. Since the photo of my brother at age 8, we have yet to navigate the wilderness and enjoy all the rock has to offer.


(the view from the notorious rock)

This year we were determined; my father in particular. Today I took my shower, casually meandered downstairs, and took a seat next to my father on the “nappy chairs” – two nice, wooden lounge chairs with creamy white pillows that are so comfortable it’s nearly impossible to stay awake while lying in them. I probably sat for thirty seconds before I turned to B and proposed an adventure. “Let’s go find the rock.”

He put down his book immediately and shouted for my brother to come outside, and off we went. Our first attempt was a huge failure – after literally hacking our way through the underbrush and cutting our shins to the point where they were sticky with blood, we found ourselves no father than the View just steps from the house.

But we are persistent, the Michel’s. We marched right back up the driveway searching for an alternative path. Our second attempt led us back to the small rock Alex, Becca and I watched the sunset from not two days ago, but we were after bigger and better things. We climbed down the far side of the little rock and again entered the dense woods in search of our prize. We were doubtful at first; paths looped in circles to intersect with each other, the woods were terrifying with their grasping branches and howling leaves, the boars were ever-present with snorts and grunts and loose dirt where they’ve been digging for dinner.



As we scaled the mountain, I noticed the woods transforming. Ages ago there was great fire that completely leveled all the greenery on one side – but that is a story for another day. The other side, the side we don’t see often, is still thick with giant pine trees, their trunks widened by age. These forests we struggled to navigate today reminded me so dearly of New England: dry pine leaves carpeted the forest floor, the scent of greenery filled our nostrils, dusty beams of orange sunlight glowed through the roof of treetops. And just as I lost myself in the surroundings reminiscent of home, I heard my father scream with joy.



SUCCESS!!! We found ourselves suddenly standing at the base of an enormous rock. The treacherous slope couldn’t deter us – we climbed our way to the very top and stood proudly overlooking the land below. Then, of course, it was time for our victory bottle of wine…



As we watched the sun set and basked in the glory of our success, we carefully took note of our surroundings and happened upon another path directly behind us at the top of the rock. After the both the sun and the wine disappeared, we decided it would be easier to take this path rather than fight our way through forest again. We were right. This path took us right to the Route du Phare (the road leading to our house) without struggling through thorn-bushes and dead trees.



Along this path Alex also managed to find me a nice place to stay for the two weeks in July during which I can’t live at Chez Michel. My only complaint was I’d have to share my bed with a two-foot long lizard…

The walk was easier and shorter on the way home. We marched down the driveway triumphantly, reeking of success. Apparently Becca thought we reeked of something else, for as we arrived she politely informed us that we smell French. Unfortunately we are allotted only one shower a day due to extreme heat and water shortage, so I guess we’ll just continue stinking all night…



Time for yet another elaborate home-cooked French dinner!

Small Town Girl

I knew from day one that my best bet for a job was a local bar. I was told from my arrival here the only way to learn French was to work in the towny bar where no one spoke English. I tried all along to find something bigger and better. But really, I think my best bet is where the Frenchies hang out. That’s not so bad.

Our waiter Saturday night at the Bar du Porte promised me they were looking for a young, English-speaking cocktail waitress inside and that I should return with a CV. I marched back into town today armed with a stack of resumes and stopped at restaurant after restaurant after restaurant. Though I saw my waiter (and now new friend, Nicholas) the manager insisted he was not hiring. Everyone else told me they were full – but my resume was impressive and they’d call me back. Yea right. I’ve heard that line before. Papagayo still says that and I worked there in weeks.

So I was feeling discouraged, thinking that the best advice I could ever offer someone trying to move to a foreign country would be to stick with whatever job you can get – even if you hate it. It’s money, and you need money to live.

But as I passed the Pit-Club, the local bar by the campground, I figured… what the hell. I’m desperate. The man washing the plastic lawn chairs outside stared in wonder as I pulled into the dusty lot. I pulled myself out of my sauna of a car, digging my spiking heels into the rocky dirt, adjusting my satiny red skirt as I stood up, flaunting my pearl necklace and diamond earrings, and I knew I didn’t fit in. But again, I’m desperate.

So I marched inside and spoke to the manager behind the bar. He spoke no English. Neither did his one waiter. But apparently I speak French, so we did well. We conversed for a while and he told me he was looking for someone to help him behind the bar – and when I told him I really didn’t know how, he promised he’d teach me. He’ll call in a week if they get busy and he really needs me. I’d learn French fast! Hahah

I returned home thinking I had lots of good news to share, but my parents were there full of their own stories from their own adventures – visiting the historical city of Gordes, shopping for jewelry in Isle sur Sorgue, exploring the Abbey de Sénnaque. And they were relaxed, having been heavily pampered by the staff at Les Bories and spending a good 24 hours swimming in the indoor pool, sunbathing in the outdoor pools, and – well – who knows what else…

Ok, I’ve got to go help make dinner. And by help, I mean I need to learn how to make dinner because for some bizarre reason I promised – begged even – to make Christine & Xavier (both very wealthy with a great palate for food) and Ludovic & Patricia and all of their children a thank-you meal and I don’t know how to cook for the life of me. How do I get myself in these messes?

When left to our own devices…

We were full of excitement watching my parents leave. We were excited for them – for their overnight in a luxurious paradise where they actually could relax entirely. We were also excited to be kids: sloppy, lazy and unaccountable.



Waving from the porch, we watched them drive off, kicking up dry dust from the sandy driveway as the sped away. We cranked the music up a couple notches, put some heavier beats on, and opened a bottle of wine. But we don’t do idle well. So we ventured off to enrich our minds by learning the fascinating history of the area at the Musée du Citadel which – like the lighthouse and so many other educational, state-owned museums in the area – was closed for work. Apparently we didn’t see the large sign at the entrance announcing this fact (yes, it was even written in English) so we paid our tariff and walked the grounds anyways, disappointed and angry that we couldn’t enter the fort. We play the part of ignorant Americans well.



I realized that specifically when the three of us stumbled upon an ancient well. We all were leaning far into it, wondering aloud how deep it might actually be. Most people would probably have picked up one of the tiny pebbles on the ground beside the well and tossed it in, counting to see how long it took to reach the water below. Not us. We did it the American way. We all took turns spitting, counting the seconds until our bile reached the water below…



Despite our disappointment (due solely to our ignorance), we saw many interesting things and enjoyed ourselves a great deal. One of the most interesting sights was a beautiful peacock, perched high above the fort in one of the dried out pine trees. And the view.




Lots of stairs to get there, but the view from the top was worth it.

Lunch at Senequiers was tasty before our departure to the Géant Casino to run some errands. It’s been hot. It was really hot. So we spent an extra long time picking out wines and shopping in the air-conditioned store rather than fry in the Peugeot. We felt like alcoholics checking out with 15 bottles of wine, but we felt worse when we decided to stop at every vineyard along the route home to sample the booze at each one. Yummy…




We swam for a bit at the public beach, but we were way to full of energy. Once we got home we still wanted to play, so we started a game of boulle. Sunset was rapidly approaching though, so we packed a bottle of wine and plastic cups and made our way through the obstacle course of brush and boars to watch the sky change colors from the rock.




All day we looked forward to pizza from Le Will. Unfortunately when we arrived to do take out (we looked far too terrible to eat inside), we discovered that it was closed on Mondays. (Everything seemed to be closed yesterday.) So instead we came home and while Alex set the table and opened the wine, Becca and I cooked up some crazy concoction of whatever food we could find – salad with leftover chicken, artichoke hearts, yesterday’s goat cheese, avocado and homemade oil & vinegar dressing to accompany pasta with bottled sauce and chunks of saucisson and artichokes and olives. Needless to say, we managed just fine living alone.

This morning we woke up to go to the market. We shopped a lot, and my dear brother was kind enough to buy me a beautiful silk scarf that I’ve been eyeing for weeks. Aawww, he’s so sweet.



We also walked through the fish market, which is always interesting – and smelly. We bought desserts from Senequiers and lunch from the fresh food stand in the market. We cracked open another bottle of wine and thought that life just can’t be better than this…

Of course I also sadly watched the last of my euros pass into the hands of a Frenchman and realized I needed to tap into my savings account. This is it. No more play. I need a job. For real this time.

For this reason I dropped Becca and Alex off to snorkel and sunbathe at L’Escalet, leaving me to finish some errands before heading into St. Tropez in a few to beg for a job at one of the portside bars. Plus, it’s way too hot for the beach. It’s so hot all the water’s dried up. I think that may really be a problem… I’ll need to go speak with the caretakers…

On the way back from dropping the kids of at the beach, I made a quick stop at Ramatuelle for, as usual, the post office. You can imagine both my shock and the shock of the postman when – after all my billions of disappointing visits – my package had actually arrived! Of course, he wouldn’t give me the package without me first giving him a kiss… Ah, whatever – he’s a dirty, old Frenchman and I probably made his day. Hahaha

Ok ok… time to go to St. Tropez…

Tough Life, huh?

(Despite the picture above) We are young and full of life. As much fun as it is to sit home and drink wine or play nothing on the beach, we want more. We want to dress up and go out. We want to see and be seen. And there’s no better place for it than St.Tropez.

Last night we dressed up nice and ventured off for an evening of boozing and chatting. Sputtering into the hedonistic carnival town in our noisy, dirty Peugeot, girls dressed in hardly anything at all turned to stare at us, rather than being the usual head turners they were. Papagayo was our first stop, where we sat outside to have fruity drinks in fun glasses, admiring the classily skimpy clothing and chic, expensive cars. My friends at the restaurant gave us a few free drinks, but that couldn’t keep us. Like I said, we’re free spirits.



It was at Papagayo that we met Angela, the girl who’s selling me her scooter. She became our friend instantly, bonding in the ex-pat kind of way. Together, the four Americans slunk around the heart of the city, stopping for a drink at whatever bar we fancied, speaking terrible French and wallowing proudly in our blatantly foreign ways. It was fun. And – I found myself quite the job lead…



But when it comes to deciding between work and this? I’m just not sure I’m quite ready to give it up…



Today was what this place is really all about. L’Esquinade is a guaranteed goodtime on bright, sunny days – with delicious food, nice wine, ample space for playing, and mats perfect for napping.



After our strenuous day in the sun, we came home for an intense game of boulle (Alex & I remain the undefeated champs) and faced the task of painting our toenails and reading intellectual novels. Needless to say, we survived the evening. We had such a delicious lunch at L’Esquinade that we could barely stuff down the delicious omelets, fresh cheese, and nice meats for dinner, but it was – as always – quite the spectacle of a dinner. Now, after quite a bizarre ant incident in the bathroom (who knew ants had a thing for extra-strength tampons?) we have resigned to playing cards and drinking wine.

Like I’ve said before, who would ever want to go home?

Some things never change

Today was Becca’s first day here. Having visited this amazing place all my life, it’s fascinating to watch the reactions of someone who is just seeing it for the first time. We took her to Ramatuelle to see the quaint, medieval hillside village. We went to the lighthouse to show her the entire bay, but it was closed. We went to the crique, to teach her how to really snorkel and hurl your body off of rocks, fearless of whatever lies below.



And as we showed Becca our favorite childhood haunts, I watched both my father and my brother regress into children themselves. (I’ve noticed it with B sine his arrival a week ago.) My father’s favorite activity is still diving off the top cliff, even though he’s far too large and old to be doing it safely. He loves to snorkel for what seems like hours, carefully examining each rock for octopus and starfish, chasing schools of fish as they swim by. And then there was Alex… catching jelly fish with his new net and wishing he had the spear-gun we stumbled upon at the marché so he could catch us dinner. Now the boys are getting ready to play boulle or cribbage. As I lie here keeping my mother company, I feel like I might as well be six years old – not old enough to play in the boys’ games, keeping my mother company as she doses off after lunch. And my brother and my father might as well be twelve, fearlessly competitive and forever restless, anxious to play whatever game or partake in whatever activity.

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It feels good to be with the family again.




Watching Becca reinforced all the feelings anyone who’s been here shares about this place. She was impressed with the beauty of Ramatuelle and Chez Michel. She thought we ate extremely well, we had an unlimited abundance of wine, and the warm, Riviera sun was impeccable. She said the fruit tastes better here. So does the coke. But, above all else, she was fascinated by the bountiful, giant luxury yachts anchored out in the harbor. Wait until she sees the port in St. Tropez…



Hahaha, I love this place = )

Bonds – here are some shout outs

I really missed my family. Of course, I don’t think I knew how much until we all went through four or five bottles of wine tonight. When Alex called me from the airport, I suddenly was filled with excitement – I got to see my brother soon. And he came – finally – and we had our fun and welcomed Becca to the family and it was lovely. I love my family; I’ve loved their emails and phone calls. I have an amazing family; I am forever grateful for the constant support and love.

But I was thinking of the bonds you have with the people you love all day today, after speaking with an old friend and roommate about how, to use her words, “you meet so many good people in this world and sometimes you just feel like you can never seem to appreciate them like they deserve to be.” (Nisma deserves a shout out, too.) I have met so many amazing people throughout my life that have helped me in more ways then they know and as much as I try to show my gratitude and love, they deserve more. My family is phenomenal. Both sides of my family have always pulled together to help me and inspire me and guide me through life; and never will I be able to thank them enough. Especially here. My grandparents, my aunts, my cousins. Moving to the south of France and writing (on whatever level, so a blog will do for now!) has always been my dream. Without their guidance and support, and constant emails of love and encouragement, this never would have been possible to achieve.

I have friends, like Chrissy, who have tolerated me since I was five years old. I have friends, like Shannon, who love me unconditionally and encourage me to do whatever I want. Throughout all the trials and tribulations of college, it was Shannon who kept me sane. I have friends, like Amanda Coskie – who I barely see any more – who said the right things at a crucial time – adolescence – so that now I could pursue my dream. She knew that I could accomplish all these things well before I did. As did Lisa, my roommate in Southie, who knew I spoke French before anyone else. Without people’s faith in me, I’m not sure I would have had enough faith in myself. I have friends like Jon Trotta, who never seems to forget my birthday. He is a man who cares about me and deserves a ton of thanks. My friend Beth, who I only went to school with for a moment, has one of the purest hearts I’ve ever stumbled across. Tristan, and all of his brothers, welcomed me into their fraternal family and kept in touch long after my connections faded. Old friends from high school, like Sean and Seth, still keep in touch to keep me on track, and remind me exactly where I came from. My friend Christina saved me by showing me how to have fun at a time when I had almost forgotten. My coworkers at L. My ex-boyfriend’s family has been an inspiration since the day I met them – they are amazing people. He himself was a wonderful man who taught me how to always have an intense passion for life. My mother’s coworkers at Healthy Families (who are probably reading this right now) have all served as encouragement and support and comfort – for keeping my mother sane. I do give her gray hairs.

And these are just a few. In my head I can rattle off a billion names of people throughout my life who have influenced my character in a major way. I just hope that all of these people know how thankful I am to have had them in my life, even if for just a fleeting second. You guys are amazing, and I love you.

There, I said it. Another bottle of wine, please…

: (

As written in The Alchemist, "Anything that happens once can never happen again. But anything that happens twice is sure to happen a third time."

I had huge travel difficulties coming into Nice that resulted in the loss of several days here. My parents also ran into trouble, making their arrival some five or six hours late. Now, as I look online at AirFrance, my brother & his friend's flight is delayed terrible, making them miss their connection in Paris so who the hell know when they'll arrive.

Life's tough...

Of Nationalities and Such

Today was a beach day.



Mom and I decided to walk through the vineyards to L’Esquinade. Along our travels I began to think about how different and how similar people from all over the world are to each other. We directed a car full of Dutch twenty-somethings to their destination using only hand singles, since none of us shared any languages. Scrawled upon an old cement well in the middle of the vineyards were swear-words in both French and English. Sami, the gate-attendant, tried desperately to speak French to my mother who is awfully rusty and helped me stumble along through my conversation lacking essential words.

As I spoke with Sami, I got to thinking. I always think it’s funny how he stops to lean in my car window and have a full conversation with me as I pull into the one-lane road to the beach regardless of how many cars are behind me. That’s just the way French do things. It’s like, or so I’ve been told, when you ask a truly French chef to cook you dinner he will reply, “Absolutely… as soon as I’ve finished mine.”



Regardless, I discovered that the combination of no patience and not speaking French well will get you into trouble. We were in the middle of eating our expensive lunch, overlooking the blue-green water and sipping nice rosé, absorbed happily in family conversation, when the vendors began to arrive. They have always come, peddling their gifts on the beach, and usually they’re not a bother – just ignore them or say “no thank you” and they pass. Not today.

It’s been awhile since the three of us have had the opportunity to enjoy each other’s company like we are here. I’m awfully protected by it. By the time the third vendor stopped at our table, I had lost my patience (I’m not one to have a lot of patience anyways). He came, dropped his cheap jewelry on the table and began to speak with us – as if we weren’t in the middle of eating. My father said his “no merci” and continued eating, trying desperately to ignore him and wishing him to vanish into midair. I couldn’t take it anymore. He kept chatting. I didn’t want him to be our new best friend; I just wanted him to go away so I could get back to enjoying my family. So, lacking any other potent French word, I told him “Allez” – “Go.” He didn’t like that much, and stayed longer to let me know it.

Yes, I do feel bad if I offended him. But maybe he ought to consider that it’s offensive to drop your sandy wares just inches from my dinner plate.

Regardless, on his next pass he made a point to come by and speak with me. I was lost in a conversation with my mother, so I heard none of it. But my father informed me of his presence after he left. I insulted him with my limited vocabulary and desire to be left alone, to relax – and to have a clean eating area. Sorry?

He may hate me, but one of the vendors on the beach stopped to have a full conversation with me after lunch. With nothing better to do, I chatted with him. He wasn’t too pushy, just wanted to know what life was like in the good old USA. He left me repeating, over and over, “Americans, good. Good Americans!”

I’ve found that being lost in another culture makes you appreciate what you know even more. Take my ten gay men at Papagayo from San Francisco – who bonded with me and begged to have me as a waitress, even though it was just my first night. They all gave me their numbers and promised to write, and we met up after work for drinks and dancing. Alison, my new pal that I met on the beach, became my new pal simply because we both shared something – an American heritage. We were both “ex-pats” in a way, living in a strange land. I have signed up for a website (AngloInfo) that is an online community (think Craig’s List) of English speaking people in the French Riviera. It’s a place where you can send an email to someone to meet for a drink or sell washing machines or find all sorts of information – in English. I’ve received several emails just saying “hi,” shout outs from fellow Americans overseas. My most recent proof of the bond between Americans abroad involves yet another scooter search.

I noticed on this AngloInfo site of mine that some people were selling motorbikes, so I contacted a girl who was selling a nice, large bike because she was returning to the US. She wrote an email in return that had a very friendly tone, telling me everything from the color of the bike to the accessories, excited about selling it to a fellow American girl. I was almost sad to see her go – I felt in just our few lengthy emails we could have been friends, had we had more time to know each other. I was happy, though, that she would sell to me despite all the other inquiries.

mY pLayGr0uNd

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?

Another Day in WonderLand

There’s nothing like being woken up at 730am by rapid French.

But today I was, as Alberte – the caretaker – called my brand-spankin new cell phone to tell me the electrician would be here to fix the light switch by 9. I wonder how coherent I was during the conversation; I did just wake up from too short of a rest with a headache from lots of wine and a dream in which everyone spoke English. I decided as I hung up that I love having a cell phone, but there certainly was something relaxing about being unreachable these past few weeks. Waking up to the shrill ring of Pink Panther isn’t all that fun.

Naturally, I woke up the rents. Someone had to receive the electrician if I fell back asleep. And after chatting with Mummy until 2am and waking up to shut all the doors because of the wind at 5, I figured falling back asleep was quite possible.

It was a gloomy morning, perhaps foreshadowing my ominous afternoon. The electrician never came and we couldn’t stand sitting in the house any longer. So we left. With nothing much to do, my parents decided to help me go scooter shopping. We bounced from one store to another, peering in the windows at the seemingly endless inventory of colorful motorbikes, growing frustrated as we continuously missed each one by just a few minutes before they closed for lunch.

So we went to Géant Casino. Grocery & shoe shopping are always a good way to pass time. We grabbed a panini for lunch – which was a bad idea for my mother, with her wheat allergy and all – and headed to the public beach my L’Esquinade for a bit. Then it was back to business. I need a scooter.

On the way back to the house my father announced he was going shopping as is – dressed in his bathing suit and sweaty tee shirt and beat-up, homemade Rondini sandles that look similar to what Jesus may have worn. Considering that I was planning on making a fairly significant business transaction at the scooter stores, my mother and I protested.

“Why?” my father demanded, stubborn in his leisurely ways. “People wear their bathing suits all the time in St. Tropez!”

St. Tropez is known for being chic. You cant show your face unless you look amazing and seductive, trendy and hip. “Sure they do,” we replied. He was right… kind of. “They wear their bathing suits and linen button down shirts and boat shoes. It’s just not the same.”

We returned to Chez Michel and changed quickly. I sat downstairs waiting for my father to join me and as he casually descended the winding staircase, I had to laugh. There he was in his bathing suit, a linen button down shirt and boat shoes. Oh, B. Haha

Needless to say, scooter shopping has been one of the most frustrating experiences I’ve encountered. (Not quite as frustrating as this evening, after getting some drinks, when the ATM ate my card and said, in perfect English, “BNP Paribas will be retaining your card for safekeeping. Bastard.) No one has any used motorbikes or scooters and the new ones are far too large and expensive. No one is clear on what the rules are regarding licenses and insurances, so I’m left guessing. Not to mention I really don’t speak French. We finally found one that would work – a ’91 Honda POS that would get me from A to B and cost only 650€ (not including the two helmets I’d need and the lock to keep it safe or the insurance in case I hit someone or someone steals it or whatever) – but, of course, someone had come just moments before to put a deposit on it. So I left extremely discouraged, having spent another afternoon at every scooter shop in the area with absolutely nothing to show for it.

I did have a nice dinner out and some drinks, so the evening wasn’t a total disaster. It did suck to have to pay for parking. A scooter, if I ever find one, will change all that…

Daughters be good to your fathers, and be good to your mothers too

Though I managed all the responsibilities of this house well before their arrival, since my parents have come I’ve slid easily back into the role of their child. And they, with all their loving instincts and whatnot, are eager to play the role of my parents again. I’m on vacation. I do very little, I eat a lot, I sleep and I relax. They are also on vacation. But once you’ve grown up, once you have kids, you’re never really on vacation ever again.

Sure, they relax on the beach. They drink more wine than usual. They’re happy, and they think they’re chilling out, completely on vacation. But – no matter how much I offer – my mother still cleans the house daily to prevent ant infestation. My father still prepares every meal. And after we eat, the two of the clean up the majority of the kitchen.

I appreciate their work, their love, and their obsession with food & wine more than either will ever know. I wake up late and breakfast is one the table, or I shower and dinner’s already made; I make a phone call after clearing the table (waitressing skills – it’s the least I can do every night) and when I return, the kitchen is mostly clean. I offer and offer, and I do work hard too. And I did all of those chores by myself before their arrival. It just makes me a little sad that once you grow up, there’s so much you have to do on vacation that though it feels like vacation, it never really is. Unless you’re pampered at some five star hotel.

Which they will be, soon enough. My brother and I made sure that – using their anniversary as an excuse – all their love and hard work through the years was well rewarded by a leisurely getaway in the beautiful Les Bories hotel in Gordes.

Thanks guys, you’re the best ‘rents around ; )

The Crique

No day here is complete without a good swim. Especially a day as beautiful as today. But when it’s late afternoon and it’s not worth the hassle to pile in the beach buggy, drive down the mountain, pay the gate attendee, and lay out your towel on the beach for a swim – you go to the crique. Today was that kind of day.

Around 4 o’clock, after we had finished all of our errands, we put on our suits and descended down the rocky, narrow path to our semi-private swimming hole. The crique has always been a favorite childhood swimming spot, since the days when my grandfather would come as a boy, throughout my father’s generation, and certainly during all of my youth spent here with my brother. It used to be different; it used to be owned entirely by the Michel’s and my great-grandmother took care of it – trimming the path, paving a staircase, pouring cement at the base of the jumping rock so there would be a place to lay out towels.


(it may be tough to see here, but this is a deteriorating step where my great-grandmother carved her initials and the date, August 2, 1938)

But, I suppose, all good things must come to an end. The government purchased the land in the name of conservation, making it part of the vast networks of parks that span the area. They leave the path a mess so now it is a tangled terrain and a walk down involves battling with pricker-bushes. Anyone is free to swim there, but not many really know about it. There was a time it was only our secret, when the path was wide and clear enough a car could make it almost half way down. Those days may be over, but the crique remains an amazing place.



Aside from hurling yourself off the giant rock into the crisp, refreshing waters below, the best way to pass time at the crique is snorkeling. B and I strapped on our gear and headed into the water and we were greeted by a plethora of fish. Underneath the green mask of the surface, jagged mountains sprawl across the ocean floor, disappearing into the darkness below. Fish of all shapes and size, painted in all sorts of exotic colors, meander carelessly as far as the eye can see. Looking past the rocks and into the heart of the bay, it appears as if you are witnessing hundreds of fireflies dance across an open field at dusk. In reality, thousands of tiny inch long fish swim through the deep blue sea flickering for a moment as the sunlight catches their sliver scales. It’s beautiful.



We saw all sorts of fun critters today. Lots of fish – some big enough to feed a family for dinner, others so small they look like bugs underwater. We saw a fish whose defense mechanism is to pass as a strand of seaweed; it looked like a long reed of grass, save for a penny-like fish tail on one end and a long, drawn-out seahorse-like head on the other. He was fascinating to watch. Another favorite was a rust-colored starfish clinging desperately to the rocks on the ocean side, as well swimming into the schools of yellow fish packed together so thickly you could feel their silky scales slide across your skin as you passed through.

The crique has always been – and always will be – an amazing place. It is a secret treasure of this house, a place I hope that I will show my children someday.

It’s just one hell of a walk.

So now we’ve returned and are resting, waiting impatiently for this thunderstorm to pass. Maybe dinner will be inside tonight.

The Market

Quiet is a noise never heard in St. Tropez. During the days the port is bustling with artists and tourists and the rich & famous. After sunset, the night brings all sorts of miscreants – the young and restless, the party hoppers, the wealthy looking to be seen in the hottest nightclubs. But Tuesday and Saturday mornings promise a constant and loud buzz of trampling footsteps, strained shouts of screaming vendors, and crisp jingling of exchanging money. It has been said that the market in the place de lises, the heart of St. Tropez, is the best outdoor market in Provence.



Who could argue? Thing of an entire park filled with tent-like stands displaying the shop’s best of the best – their nicest produce and meats, the best-made desserts and pastries, the finest olive oils and herbs de Provence. You can find anything from homemade soap to Christian Dior purses, bathing suits and clothes to watches and jewelry, pet collars to pottery. Everything and anything is for sale, and all the locals and tourists push and holler their way through the mob to buy whatever treasure they’ve discovered. If you look hard enough, you can find the most surprising things buried under an odd mess of flea-market finds. It’s quite the experience.



After spending some three hours wandering the many twists and turns of the market, we returned to the cabanon by the beach to drop of my newly purchased thank you gifts (an adorable little blue lamp with tiny sea shells speckled all over it and a mat to wipe the sand off your feet that read, in French, “welcome to my little house by the sea”) and to finish cleaning. We enjoyed an exquisite Provencal meal that we picked up at the market of ratatouille, tomatoes stuffed with spinach and cheese and ham and other mysteriously delicious foods, and quiche. Yummy.

Afterwards we made a quick stop at Ramatuelle to pick up a cell phone mailed to me from eBay. I had a very fluent conversation with the mailman (who recognized me as the crazy lady who came every day last week to pick up a package that never came) and, because I’m dressed very French today and speaking the language, he took the time to help me locate my missing mail from the States. Apparently it’s been relocated to some tiny town near Toulon because they couldn’t find my house it’s so far in the middle of nowhere. But my new friend, the mailman, told me to just have them send the package to the Ramatuelle bureau du poste and he’d take care of it.

I spoke some more French to Alberte, the very sweet caretaker of chez Michel. She gave me some great advice and I gave her the keys to the cabanon; I’ve noticed that my key ring is shrinking rapidly. There was a time when I had the keys to chez Michel, the keys to the cabanon, the keys to the car, and the keys to the mailbox and I had, with the generous blessings of friends and family, full responsibility of and access to all of the above. However, I passed up the keys to chez Michel to my father when he came, I said goodbye to the cabanon when I regained a bed in the big house atop the mountain, I’ll have to give the car keys to Sara (a French cousin) upon her arrival in two weeks, and though I may be the only one receiving mail at the moment, I’ll have to pass on the key as soon as an actual owner of this house arrives. I gotta get me a scooter or I’ll be left with naught but a keychain…

But that’s for another day. Right now I’m way more concerned with having some espresso and tarte-tropezian (another treasure from the market) by the view.

= )

B told me today that he liked my smile more nowadays. I was happier, and my smile showed it. He said he hadn’t seen me smile like this for years.



Duh. I’m living in the French Riviera. Hahha

Belated Birthday's at the Beach

The sun shown bright in the sky this morning, slowly burning off the haze of heat that hung over the inlet below the mountain. We had a delicious breakfast of fresh fruit and yogurt while sitting at our table outside. It was amazing. After breakfast we made our way to St. Tropez for a few, quick errands. Then it was time for the beach.

As always, L’Esquinade received the Michel family with open arms and big smiles. Manuel knew that today we were celebrating our birthdays; my mother’s is the 16th and mine is the 18th. So Yannick, the beach boy who helps me practice my French, led us to three mats with umbrellas and tables and we settled in for a nice relaxing day at the beach. It was probably around 11:30.

That’s about when the boozing began.

The waiter came to our mats and graciously presented us with a three flutes and a wine bucket. To my father he said, “This one is from your father.” My grandfather was kind enough to call over and send us a wonderful bottle of fine champagne and we sat, sprawled out on our mats, baking in the warm, French Rivera sun, sipping our birthday gift. The bottle disappeared too quickly. It was just that good. We then entertained ourselves by taking frequent dips in the refreshing Mediterranean Sea or by people watching or laughing at the dogs rolling around in the mounds of seaweed washed ashore by last week’s storm.

When lunchtime finally rolled around, we dragged our asses to the palm-tree covered tables for the always-delicious escalop du veau. Before we could even order, the same man who brought us the champagne came over with a bottle of wine – “This one is from your sister.” It was tasty. As was the food, and the chocolate cake we had for dessert. And the other bottle of wine. And the espresso. And the final glass of vin blanc we downed before passing out on the mats for an afternoon nap. Honestly, with that much booze and that much food and that much sun – you’d sleep too.



Our nap was interrupted by the urgency of errands. We went stopped off at Ramatuelle to check for packages, but the post office was closed. Our final destination was Géant Casino where we bought a few necessities – including a Wanadoo account – and shopped for shoes.

I am thrilled to have the Internet. It’s a lovely feeling to connect whenever I want, rather than having to make the trip to the café and pray that it’s open. I know, I know: I’m addicted. But so are you.

Other good news? I applied for a job – the kind of job I really want. Some British company wants to hire someone to write weekly articles about life in the Côte d’Azur. I think I could handle that… ; )
Hey – at least that way I’d be putting my BU degree to good use!

Bugs… and lousy sleep

I woke up because a mosquito was eating me alive.

I could feel the pinch of his little mouth as he excreted his venom into a pocket under my skin so that I would itch in that location for days to come. Swatting my hand through the darkness, I tried to end his tiny little life but my hand ended empty upon my shoulder, where I moved my fingers slightly to feel four large bumps where he’d already done his damage. I pulled the sheets over my bare skin.

Exhausted, I rolled onto my stomach in an attempt to fall back asleep – exposing the top of my back to the night air. It wasn’t long before I felt tiny pinches there. So I pulled the sheets up higher.

Then I heard him. In my ear rang that awful buzzing of a mosquito too close for comfort. His wings disturbed the soundwaves in the air as he flew towards and away from my golden skin, figuring out where to land next. Turns out, he chose wrong.

He landed on my cheek as it lay face up in the night air. I felt his tiny feet grip my face as he prepared to bite and – whack – I felt pain. Yea, I have no problem slapping myself in the face. And I killed the little sucker, too. Of course this was all enough excitement to wake me up enough that I couldn’t just fall back asleep. I decided I’d open my eyes, see where in the night I was.

Middle of the night. Pitch dark. Thick black night air surrounded me and I could see nothing more with my eyes open then closed. No moonlight snuck through the screened window, and I noticed not a single noise emerged from the wilderness outside. Silence to accompany the blackness. It was unnerving, considering I’m staying ontop of a mountain, close to both the lighthouse and the moon, in the middle of the woods, usually filled with life. I lay there with my eyes open, hoping they’d adjust so I could make out some sort of object in my room, realizing that no matter how safe I knew I was in my room, the darkness and eery silence of the night would be enough to scare anyone.

That’s when I heard it. Rustling, just feet from my bed. Loud.

Footsteps? I don’t think so – too in consistent. I heard it again. Whatever it was, it was large. The noise grew stronger. It was touching one of the plastic bags loose in my room, flipping out and making quite the racket.

That’s when it really dawned on me. There was something in my room. Being the big, strong, mature and brave girl I am, I hid under the sheets. Pulled the covers right up over my head. Feeling slightly safer, I needed to know how it got in. My window was shut and boarded by the thick wooden screens. My door was closed firmly. There are no holes in my room in the roof providing a portal to the wilderness of the dark, Ramatuelle night. None that I knew of, at least.

The creature shifted, rustling the bag again. Whatever It was, it was large. It couldn’t realisticly be a person, could it? No. Maybe a lizard? Or a rat of some type? Perhaps it was another ferret… but all the way in my attic room? By the sound of it, it had wings. A bat? But how’d it get in? The noise grew louder.

I explored my options. I could scream; my dad was right downstairs and he’d hear me. (Imagine if I had been in the house alone?) I could turn the light on and brave the beast, hoping that the sudden brightness didn’t piss him off and make him attack me. Or I could quiver under the sheets all night, hoping to fall back asleep.

Clearly rest would not come to me while I remained locked in my room with an unknown animal. I had enough pride not to scream. I was smart enough not to just flip the switch and hope for the best. So I curled up tight under my covers, reached one little arm out to my night table and searched blindly for the lamp. My fingers ran across my picture frame, my clock, the lampshade… down the cord to the switch. I held my breath. Light. And no noise.

Carefully I adjusted the covers so I had a clear peephole to my now bright room. I saw nothing. I slowly flipped over. Nothing above me, nothing on the other side of the room. I pulled the covers down to my shoulders. Still, I saw nothing. As I sat up in my bed, however, I heard it again. Quickly my eyes darted toward my lamp where I knew I would find my nemesis, disappointed to only see a large moth flutter its wings.

I am a wuss.

Of course, I am now way too awake from all the excitement to fall back asleep. I got up and went down stairs, brushed my teeth, hung out… and now I’m writing long, dramatic stories of my real-life encounters with three inch beasts to keep myself entertained. The bugs have gotten pretty bad. When I first arrived, I was wearing a white skirt one morning and decided to stand eating my yogurt outside, overlooking the water. By the time I finished my little cupful and returned inside, my bright skirt was covered with harmless black bugs clinging to its many folds. It was a little gross, but safe. Now we have blood sucking mosquitoes and things that go bump in the night.

And boars. The “white pigs” have grown more prevalent since I stayed here alone. We’ve caught glances of a few and hear them snorting, crunching leaves under their giant hooves, searching for truffles, every dusk. My mother hates to sit outside with them so close; I can’t wait to see one out in the open. (I imagine I’d be saying something different if I was still alone here.) I like the grunts they make, too – sound a lot like my puppy back home. She’s kind of a pig, too.

Well as much fun as this was, I think I have successfully bored all of you with my bug adventure and therefore it is time to try that sleeping thing again. This time, I’m protected by the mysterious defense power of the mosquito net… Bon soir

How many Polacks does it take to do the laundry?

It was beautiful this morning. There’s nothing like starting the day by eating fresh croissants, delicious fruit, and hot chocolate at a table outside, overlooking an amazing view, with your family.

But after breakfast it was down to business. We had lots and lots of laundry to do and not a whole lot of French vocabulary – so figuring out the new washing machine was not that easy. There’s a water shortage here as well, so we had to ration our showers in order to get the clothes done.

Now, laundry here is not like laundry in the States. You don’t just run to the basement or bathroom or wherever your washer and dryer is and throw your clothes in, add a little detergent, and come back in a bit to finish it off. Oh no. Here, it’s a process. We have to sort the clothes inside the big house, stuff one load into the only laundry basket, walk across the driveway to the little house, pour the clothes in… and learn French. Everything’s in Celsius, the cycles are different, the soaps come in tablets that we have no idea how to use. It’s just a matter of adjusting, of course, and as my mother and I stood with our clothes in front of the machines, carefully scrutinizing my French dictionary, we felt like two dumb Polacks doing a simple chore in a strange land. Not to mention the dryer has two settings – one for four hours and one for eight.

We did figure out the system and our clothes came out smelling clean and dripping wet, load after load. Because the dryer takes forever and is so small, we did our best to air dry the laundry on the clothes-line with the few clothes pins we could find. And, my mother – being very Polish – refuses to let her clothes have “bibits” (you know, the little marks that the clothes pins leave if you don’t hang them up by the seems?). I’m sure an onlooker would have found it quite humorous to watch my mother and I – the two women – walking in circles around the clothesline (located in the middle of the woods about prickly bushes and dirt – so don’t you dare drop any of your clean, white laundry… like I did…), rearranging articles of clothing so that they all fit and none touched the ground, while my father sat admiring the view or reading books or – if he was feeling productive – making lunch. I became a human drying rack with pants and shirts and towels draped over my outstretched arms, sheets wrapped around my shoulders, a basket of clothespins in one hand and the other occupied by bras and socks. My mother took her sweet time hanging everything up, cursing to herself when my twisty strappy shirts caused problems and having full conversations with her mother (my dead Babci) when she couldn’t figure out how to hang something without leaving those damn bibits. After one particularly verbal conversation, I laughed.

“Well all I can hear is her saying to me, when I was young, ‘Don’t hang those like that, Bernice Joan, or you’ll have to iron it all!’”

It occurred to me as she said that that someday I will probably be standing somewhere on vacation with my hands full of damp clothes, telling my daughter not to hang that like that or she’ll have to iron it all…

It’s amazing how wisdom gets past on.

It’s also amazing how much wisdom there is in the advanced techniques of laundry, particular in the air-drying part.

Long story long, we successfully juggled the clothesline with scattered pins, the dryer with a billion-hour setting, and the washing machine we couldn’t understand so that by mid-afternoon everything was almost clean and dried – or at least drying on the clothesline or in the machine. Then we decided it was time for the beach. My father put down his book and took us to L’Escalet, where we soaked up what was left of the sun and went snorkeling and had a grand old time.

Pizza’s on the way, the sun is setting, and life is wonderful here in Cap Camarat.

Goodnight!

After three bottles of wine, the best pizza in the world (from Le Will), great conversation & the company of my parents – I am one happy camper. This is an amazing life.

Bed time.

Joyeaux Anniversaire

I love that feeling when you first wake up in the morning on your birthday and you realize that today is a day worth getting excited about. It’s like Christmas – when you grow up and gifts aren’t as important, you don’t look as forward to the holiday in the same way. It’s a great excuse to have some quality family time, but it’s no longer mysterious and exciting. However, when you open your eyes Christmas morning, you can’t help but to get excited.

That’s how I felt this year. I know I’m out of sight and out of mind and I was a little disappointed because I’ve always had an incredible time with my buddies on my birthday, but I thought a quiet evening with my family would be a nice change. Yet when I woke up this morning, I couldn’t resist the smile creeping across my face. I couldn’t resist the excitement growing inside. And to no one other than myself, I said aloud – my first words of the day, “It’s my birthday!”



Unfortunately it really wasn’t the greatest birthday. I am here in my version of heaven so I hate to complain (though I know I’m really good at it) it’s just that birthdays are meant to be filled with friends and family and food and laughter.. and booze. Not today. My mother was terribly ill all morning – so sick we considered bringing her to the hospital. (That really says a lot because you have to be pretty desperate to go to a hospital in France – where everyone is about working as little as possible – on a Saturday, no less.) So while she slept it off, my father and I tried our best to clean the cabanon entirely, but it needed so much work we couldn’t finish in one day. It was beautiful outside, but between my mother and all the stuff we had to do, we couldn’t relax on the beach. So we cleaned some more, packed up the car (and let me tell you – lugging huge bags of clothes and trash up the path and the stairs in the blistering heat to the parking lot and dumpsters is not a good time), finally got my mother out of bed and into our big house, and decided around 4pm it was time to go shopping.

Honestly, sitting in one spot all day puts me in a bad mood. But I tried! I felt optimistic about searching for a scooter, but found none. I was pumped to get the Internet, but the wanadoo server was down. I was relieved to buy something nice for Christine and Xavier for their cabanon, but nothing was good enough. And on top of everything else, I got a bee sting in the ass. Seriously, right in the center of my left butt cheek. Ughh… I’ll stop whining.

Needless to say, today was not the ideal birthday. I’m sitting at the view now thinking what an amazing place this is, just how I wish I felt more at home. I wish that my mother didn’t start her vacation like this.

This is also the first year since I was 15 that I haven’t worked on my birthday (remember I really like to work). It’s just odd to know I’ll go to bed tonight sober.

The Arrival of Ma & Pa!

Ok! I woke up today (Friday) – seriously this time – excited for my parents to come and… well, they never showed. I spent my entire day waiting, and it wasn’t until well after 4 that my parents finally decided to grace me with their presence. Not that they had a choice – they also had an awful travel experience.



But needless to say, they arrived and the fun began. We started with some wine and cheese, then moved on to dinner and wine, followed by sunset and starlight and wine – all accompanied by great company and wonderful conversation. It really was lovely.

Seriously, we’ve had lots of sun and wine and little sleep. I can’t write. I’ll try again tomorrow.

Oops…

I went to bed at about 6pm I was so exhausted from doing nothing all day. I had the most pleasant dreams, rolled over and looked at my clock: 8:04am. I got up, feeling really refreshed and excited to see my parents in a short four hours, and threw open the shudders on the big window to greet the day.

It was light, but the sun hadn’t quite reached its full intensity yet. People were already eating at Chez Camille, which I found rather odd... They have the strangest hours – and usually I wake up well before they’ve even finished cleaning for lunch. But breakfast? Must be a special party or something…

I put on my bathing suit anticipating another gorgeous day – not a cloud in the sky, again. I tidied the house a bit and sat down with my computer to keep myself entertained until the sun warmed up the beach a bit.

About a half hour had passed and the day wasn’t getting any brighter. Curious, I looked at the clock on my computer: 21:17, Thursday, June 16, 2005.

It wasn’t dawn I was witnessing; it was dusk. It was dinnertime at Chez Camille, not breakfast. I hadn’t slept all night; I just had one hell of a power nap.

So I’m now feeling wide awake, looking at the stars starting to come out, feeling hugely disorientated. It’s already dark, so I don’t really want to leave the house – but I’ve got to do something to tucker myself out enough to go back to bed for the night. I need to sleep now, too, because I don’t want to sleep through the arrival of my parents in 16 hours – not 4.This is why I don’t nap. I get way too discombobulated.

On another note – it’s Mummy’s birthday! Yea!

And we’ll celebrate hers and mine on Monday, dining at L’Esquinade. It’s odd to celebrate a birthday overseas; I feel so out-of-sight-out-of-mind. And usually my birthday is a big deal – I feel like I’m starting to catch up with my friends? Eh… someday I’ll be grateful I’m so much younger.

I didn’t do a damn thing today (I am still tempted to write yesterday… I can’t believe that was just a nap and not an evening’s worth of rest). I went to the Internet café and bummed around, went to the bank but my card still hasn’t arrived, shopped around a bit, went back to the Internet café to have lunch, and left St. Tropez. I made a very quick stop at Ramatuelle to see if my package was there, but it wasn’t, so I went to the beach for a quick dip. Manuel offered me all sorts of food and drink and fun activities – but I literally jumped in the water and prepared to leave… but ran into my two new friends and some of their friends. So I chatted a bit, and then left. Called home, then called it a day.

I know, I’m boring, what can I say?
But I’m not so anxious for a job this time I’m bored. More excited to have playmates…

I also noticed today as I made the full-sized bed with two king flat sheets (because that’s all I have) that it’s a damn good thing I am one with the attitude to make the best out of things. Because since I’ve moved overseas, nothing’s been particularly easy. I never seem to have the exact thing I need and instead need to use some sort of ghetto contraption to accomplish what I’m going for. And that’s fine. I’m just very happy my glass is (usually) half-full!

Aritey… gotta find something to entertain myself with until I can actually go back to bed.

I am so spoiled it’s not even funny.

I had a lovely day at the beach – the second full beach day I’ve enjoyed since my arrival. Chatted a bit with an old English couple; the husband thought I had the most beautiful teeth. (I get all sorts of compliments from old men about my teeth. As flattered and grateful as I am, I feel like it’s very odd. Though I once had somebody tell me I had nice forearms. That’s weirder.) Anyways, as the sun was beginning to set, I heard a woman nearby speaking with her husband in American English. So, being as desperate for friends as I am, I marched up and said hello. And we all hit it off.

As it turns out, Alison’s from New York and met her husband, François from Ramatuelle, while studying at the University of America in Paris. They’ve lived together in Paris for some years, moved to New York for a bit, and now are living in London. They were very charming. We talked of books and movies and Ramatuelle and St. Tropez – and they bought me a drink at L’Esquinade before going to Ramatuelle for some more. We had such a great time that when it was time to go we exchanged kisses and numbers and promised to meet up tonight.



So they met their dinner date and I had my bowl of cereal at home and we rendezvoused at Senequiers around midnight. The café was closing, but that’s not where we planned to spend the night anyways. Instead, we had some drinks right up the street at a local bar before going to yet another underground place with their very gay friend – one of the last true Tropezians – Patrick. It was great. I had a lot of fun – and it felt good to have drinks with people. We have plans for Friday night, too.

Unfortunately, it was still dark when it came time to leave and the bar down the street (who actually is owned by a friend of Alison & François’) was closed, so I couldn’t borrow a flashlight. I was even at Géant Casino yesterday (I bought myself a hair straightener – my first French electric device!) and somehow forgot to buy one. In fact, I never seem to remember that I need one until I arrive at the top of that first staircase and entirely lose my nerve. Not to mention that aside from the thick darkness of Southern France (which does allow for phenomenal star gazing – assuming you’re not terrified of wild animals and gypsies and whatnot), I was scared out of my wits by the sound of a cat clearly being attacked and dying. Ahh, the sound rack of my night…

All I can say is I’m very grateful I decided to charge my camera battery tonight – the flash proved to me a suitable light to get me down the steps, through the path, and across the beach to my front door. It always seems, though, that when you want into your house the fastest is when your key doesn’t work. It took me a few minutes, but I made it in… and locked up tight behind me. It’s official: after my stay here, I am afraid of the dark.

I was so anxious to get a job not for the money – though it is a necessity – but really for the friends. When you work with people in a restaurant, you go out with them afterwards. They become your primary group of friends. But I realized today that there are other ways to make friends, too. I still call up those kids from the Papagayo, I’m sure I’ll see Anthaya and Elanie around, and by simply sitting on the beach today, I was welcomed with open arms to a whole new group of friends. The guy at the gate of the beach knows me well – and often lets me in with just a wink and a smile instead of 4€. The guy at the Internet shop remembers me every time – and loves to tease me. The guy at the post office in Ramatuelle is probably less than pleased he is as familiar with me as he is – and he grumbles a “no” before I even have a chance to ask him the question. I’m starting to find a place here. And I have all summer to find a job. In the mean time… life is good.

Boob Salad Everywhere!

I feared after my first few visits to the beach that no one went topless anymore and I – being obviously American (or not French, at least) – didn’t want to be the only one. When I expressed these concerns to Aunt Sarah, she flat out laughed. “The day St. Tropez is no longer topless!” She, of course, was right. Lying at L’Esquinade today, there are plenty of boobs out.



It’s another beautiful beach day. It’s so hot the cold water is refreshing, not uncomfortable. The sky is mostly cloudless, the regatta of sailboats passes just in front of the beach (making for a lovely view), and – aside from the mounds of seaweed washed up by yesterdays storm – it’s perfect.



I spent a couple hours this morning meandering down the narrow streets of Ramatuelle, munching on a freshly made pain au chocolat, browing all the homemade crafts at the pottery & basket market. All I really wanted was my package from the States that apparently will never come. But I love Ramatuelle. It’s such a quaint little village, perched on the side of a mountain, full of secrets and tricks and mazes remeninscent of the middle ages. Everyone know everyone. Everyon’s friendly. If I were native to this area, I’d live in a tiny little apartment there overlooking the cascades of mountains rolling into the ocean below. I may live in Boston and I may act like I like bright lights, big cities and trendy clothes, but I’m a small town gal at heart.

I’m supposed to check out my new job today but I think I will call him and say I can’t work until next week. The rents are coming and I’d like to spend some quality time with them – and I don’t want to work every day and every night right now. There are still too many amazing things here I have yet to explore…