owners of the grand boats moored in the harbor, boats that cost a fortune and that can also be rented for a small fortune. Tanned, shirtless young men work constantly keeping those boats immaculate, swabbing decks, shining teak, and polishing brass. Chefs from the boats browse the local market in the early morning, seeking out the freshest goods: mushrooms picked at dawn in a field inland; melons grown near Aix-en-Provence; the tiniest and sweetest wild strawberries, the fraises des bois of the region. And of course, the sea bass and grouper and red mullet fished before daylight to be grilled to perfection and scattered with herbs and a little garlic and the good olive oil.
Farther out to sea is a specially constructed jetty, where giant white cruise liners moor, being too large for the harbor itself. And in back of the port, narrow cobbled streets are strung with washing from tall house to tall house and tiny shop fronts display minuscule bikinis and T-shirts with the townâs name, so when you return home youâll remember you were there, and perhaps remember how it felt, and how it smelled. Youâll remember the fruits too, displayed in wooden crates outside those small stores, and the lavender sold in tight bunches, picked from the lower reaches of the Alpes-Maritimes, on the peaks of which, sometimes even in summer, a snowcap might be glimpsed.
Hot new boutiques with good prices are next to jewelry stores, the cheaper ones with local handmade earrings and bracelets, the expensive ones offering diamond necklaces. The ice cream shop with popular pale-green pistachio is next to the upmarket shoe store whose custom-made flat sandals everyone seems to wear to traverse the bumpy cobblestones, while expensive chiffon evening gowns compete for attention with the skimpy white shorts and South of France T-shirts.
Flowers are everywhere, bunches of jasmine and red roses tied with ribbons. Hair bands and bathing suits hang on hooks on the sidewalks outside the shops. There are straw hats on shelves with a little mirror to check out your look and sexy lingerie shops with lacy thongs and demi-bras guaranteed to lift and shape and look adorable in every color from red to black, lavender and coral and rosy pink.
And then thereâs the Grimaldi Palace where Monacoâs royalty still live, and the Old Town, the place the ârealâ people live, and where they shop at the small grocery stores with salamis hanging overhead and tall glass jars of fresh made-that-morning pasta standing by the door. You can also buy the homemade sauce for that pasta, and fresh garlic to add flavor, and the juicy tomatoes to serve with cheeses made with milk from local goats that eat only grass. You can buy chickens from the outdoor grill where they rotate until crisp and golden and whose smell makes the mouth water, and whose fat and juices cook the small potatoes underneath. There are field-fresh lettuces, green and pink and red-edged, to be served crisp and cold with a vinaigrette made from local oil and vinegar the farmerâs wife has been selling at the market for years.
All of it is there, all to hand, all ready to be eaten, or to be worn, or to slip your feet into, or to decorate your tanned arms and neck, or perfume your body. The South of France is a sensual experience and one never to be forgotten.
When I first came here, it was as though I suddenly came to life. My London body, kept wrapped in coats and scarves and with a sweater more often than not even in summer months, changed in days to a body clad in sweet little T-shirts in pretty colors, my newly brown legs displayed in those white shorts, my fiery red hair held back by a jeweled band, my lips painted pink. I had come home. I had come to life.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
One day out of hospital, I was definitely a new woman. First, I needed transportation. Aunt Jollyâs small SEAT was uninspiring; I wanted air and life and speed. What else but a Harley?
Farther out to sea is a specially constructed jetty, where giant white cruise liners moor, being too large for the harbor itself. And in back of the port, narrow cobbled streets are strung with washing from tall house to tall house and tiny shop fronts display minuscule bikinis and T-shirts with the townâs name, so when you return home youâll remember you were there, and perhaps remember how it felt, and how it smelled. Youâll remember the fruits too, displayed in wooden crates outside those small stores, and the lavender sold in tight bunches, picked from the lower reaches of the Alpes-Maritimes, on the peaks of which, sometimes even in summer, a snowcap might be glimpsed.
Hot new boutiques with good prices are next to jewelry stores, the cheaper ones with local handmade earrings and bracelets, the expensive ones offering diamond necklaces. The ice cream shop with popular pale-green pistachio is next to the upmarket shoe store whose custom-made flat sandals everyone seems to wear to traverse the bumpy cobblestones, while expensive chiffon evening gowns compete for attention with the skimpy white shorts and South of France T-shirts.
Flowers are everywhere, bunches of jasmine and red roses tied with ribbons. Hair bands and bathing suits hang on hooks on the sidewalks outside the shops. There are straw hats on shelves with a little mirror to check out your look and sexy lingerie shops with lacy thongs and demi-bras guaranteed to lift and shape and look adorable in every color from red to black, lavender and coral and rosy pink.
And then thereâs the Grimaldi Palace where Monacoâs royalty still live, and the Old Town, the place the ârealâ people live, and where they shop at the small grocery stores with salamis hanging overhead and tall glass jars of fresh made-that-morning pasta standing by the door. You can also buy the homemade sauce for that pasta, and fresh garlic to add flavor, and the juicy tomatoes to serve with cheeses made with milk from local goats that eat only grass. You can buy chickens from the outdoor grill where they rotate until crisp and golden and whose smell makes the mouth water, and whose fat and juices cook the small potatoes underneath. There are field-fresh lettuces, green and pink and red-edged, to be served crisp and cold with a vinaigrette made from local oil and vinegar the farmerâs wife has been selling at the market for years.
All of it is there, all to hand, all ready to be eaten, or to be worn, or to slip your feet into, or to decorate your tanned arms and neck, or perfume your body. The South of France is a sensual experience and one never to be forgotten.
When I first came here, it was as though I suddenly came to life. My London body, kept wrapped in coats and scarves and with a sweater more often than not even in summer months, changed in days to a body clad in sweet little T-shirts in pretty colors, my newly brown legs displayed in those white shorts, my fiery red hair held back by a jeweled band, my lips painted pink. I had come home. I had come to life.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
One day out of hospital, I was definitely a new woman. First, I needed transportation. Aunt Jollyâs small SEAT was uninspiring; I wanted air and life and speed. What else but a Harley?
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