Let me start this blog post off by admitting that a. I am the least diligent blogger on the face of the earth and b. sometimes it doesn’t bother me. I mean, it would be weird to always feel compelled to share all the details of my life and travels with the rest of the world, right? I dunno what sort of blogger that would make me but in the words of Beyonce, “hope you still like me”.
I guess I should tell you all a bit about the South of France, namely, Saint Raphael. Nestled between Nice and Saint Tropez, S. Raph has got to be the eurotrash traveller’s gem. Alright, Saint Tropez has 25,000 000 yachts mooning you at the port – but the waiters are rude, the coffee is poison and the shopping is just another Yorkville. S. Raph, on the other hand, has affordable private beaches with comfy couches on the beach, a delicious restaurant open morning and night, and a partygoer staff who won’t hesitate to bring you a bottle of white wine on the beach.
Our routine went a little bit like this: wake up in the morning at 10am (really 11am) and go for fresh fruit smoothies at the Nutri Cafe (vegan friendly!). Then we’d walk to our private beach, Le Rocher, to be greeted with balloons and singing chorus girls (or something like that). Roasting began shortly afterwards and would last until 5 or 6pm. Lunch on the beach became a quotidian necessity as our euros depleted with each bite of tuna tartar.
After the beach it was also necessary to have an aperitif at the Excelsior Hotel in the Limonade section, preferably served by Dimitri who disappeared halfway through the week, unfortunately. We’d drink wine because it was the cheapest – wine spiked with cassis, calling it a Kir. Most of you have heard this being named Kir Royal – which is partially true, only the Royal means Champagne and in France this also means an extra 5 euros/glass. No, merci.
Our Hotel, Hotel de Flore, was like the dust you sweep under the rug. But when you’re eurotrash you gotta skimp somewhere. Unfortunately this meant our door didn’t lock, our A.C. caused a misty dew to settle on all of our belongings and the beds felt like sleeping in a coffin. Luckily, the Wifi was always working and I could skype my sorrows away or play Scrabble (I’ve moved on from Cut Rope).
At night we’d eat either on the beach, again, or at local restaurants like Le Duplex or Olivier. There’s even a casino with high tech security. (I got in trouble for sitting in a corner trying to edit my photos on Camera+ on my iphone – apparently they thought I was rigging the slot machines or something. I took that as a compliment, sorta. Everyone knows I have a love for the Oceans 11 movies). Never mind, our private beach was full of celebrity look-a-likes. We saw Italian singer, Lucio Dalla; heartthrob, Brigitte Nielson and a super thin version of Julia Roberts – to which we said “sta arrivando Julia Roberts” every time she made her entrance around 2pm on the beach.
Gosh, I can’t think of anything else to say about the Cotes d’Azur except that I’m definitely going back there as soon as possible. Right now I’m enjoying the life in Florence eating so much pasta and pizza, watching Vin Diesel dubbed in Italian (Tokyo Drift is on TV), and spending wayyyyy too much money on vintage sunglasses. Can’t wait to show you all my purchases and photos!
(This was never a letter)