St. Tropez

I don’t generally believe in taking surreptitious pictures of strangers on the basis that you run the grave risk of a clip around the ears or a public dressing down in a language you don’t speak. But what better way to start my day in St. Tropez than with eyes befallen on this exquisite scene. Which part is most divine? It’s hard to say. Is it the slightly dropped shoulder? Or the look of serene hate. Perhaps it’s the cigarette. I wanted to take her hand and walk with her until we ran out of conversation: what did she think of global vape adoption? How many ex-husbands did she have? Alas, cowardice got in the way and we shall never know more than what we see.

To some, boats are a symbol of prestige. They are in a hierarchy where bigger is better and where you moor your boat is as important as how many decks it has. Well let me tell you, St. Tropez has got big deck energy. The only thing worse than the scorn on the faces of boat owners as they disembark is the jealously in the eyes of the everymen walking through St. Tropez’s harbour. I wanted to grab them by the shoulders and shake them, but I was of course a hypocrite, having agreed to participate in a bus tour trip to St. Tropez.

It wasn’t clear to me at the time whether the soldiers of St. Tropez dressed like this normally, or whether it was a special occasion. They seemed to be quite serious. The ear plugs (pictured) should have been a warning to me, but I was caught completely by surprise and almost had an accident in my trousers, when they all simultaneously fired their rifles in the sky. It was nice to reflect that St. Tropez and Afghanistan both participate in celebratory fire, despite clear health and safety warnings by the World Health Organisation (or some other UN body, I do forget). In and amongst the noise and the furore, I totally forgot to ask anyone what was going on. Nearby, a child burst into hysterical tears and I walked away.

There was not a fisherman in sight. The lobsters, untended, were ripe for the taking. But this is St. Tropez, one doesn’t steal a lobster, one eats it with garlic butter in a charming covered square, with a side of [unpronounceable] sauce. Sadly, I had already spent my daily food budget on a croissant and 2 espressos. I’d already become detached from my bus tour group and decided to go it alone. Walking anywhere in a group of 20 is criminal enough, let alone piling into a tiny catholic church and pretending to say a rosary. When I was an infant, visiting cathedrals to sing in my school choir, I often lit the candles without paying and it haunts me to this day (I CONFESS!).

Notwithstanding what I said earlier about the horrors of looking on at the expensive boats wishing they were yours, I declare it acceptable to feel that way about these buildings. Imagine the scene: you push open the shutters to let the soft morning light land on your disturbed bed sheets. You sip the day’s first coffee as the seagulls attack children in pushchairs. You wonder if you have enough Ricard in your cupboards to get your through the long weekend. It’s St. Tropez and you’re rich, of course you have enough Ricard. You chuckle.

Where better to end a day pretending you are richer than you are, than at the beach? The warm sand between your toes offering a reassurance and comfort that is necessary when surrounded by continental men with their penises on show. I took the opportunity to have a sparkling water - one last attempt to simulate wealth. I enjoyed the ice cream more. Overall there are limits to how much I can get out of the beach. My alabaster skin must be protected at all costs.