A ballet takes place outside my window every morning, which I never miss. The fishing dory passes in one direction, drops its nets, stops for a moment, and then returns the same way. Above, birds swirl feverishly, like so many incantations. And, if I follow the boat's path, my gaze reaches the harbor where fishermen sell their catch directly on the pier.
Until recently, I hadn't seen such a scene in years. And I can't say precisely how many. The scene awakens a childhood memory in me: that of the Raggio family, who used to dock at the Ponche pier and then sell their striped red mullet and sole from tiny premises overlooking the beach; premises which have since been sold. Confined like the rest of the country–even though it somehow feels more protected here than elsewhere–Saint-Tropez has been transforming back into the “fishing village” it had long ago been and is still sometimes called–despite the fact this designation no longer truly applies. It is this village that seduced my great-grandfather in the 1930s, and it is the reason–at least one of them–that I am here today. Or perhaps even he didn't know the Saint-Tropez I now see before my eyes? The lack of souls on the port, which is empty from one end to the other, all the way up to the lighthouse. The Place des Lices deserted at the hour when after-work aperitifs are usually served. The dolphins in the Gulf, the peacocks that spread their feathers without fear, and the wild boars that wander without inhibition on the Pampelonne beach. The silence, constant, everywhere, is so thick that the bell tower seems to ring louder than usual and the slightest raised voice can be startling. Under normal circumstances, the patios would be crowded, and it would be impossible to decipher the conversations being held below. Under normal circumstances, this period (March–April–May) would see the entire town burst into action, dressed to the nines, staking out places for the annual Bravade festivities–which would not even be held this year. This in itself is such a rare occurrence that it is difficult to know how many times this community mainstay has previously been suspended. My great-grandfather, who was once the leader of the Bravade civil guard (or “city captain” as we say here), probably never experienced this either. Or maybe it was also canceled during the war? Under normal circumstances, I would never have gone through the town in Rondini sandals and a nightgown (it was early in the morning, but still) to walk among the red and white flags hung from windows, tributes to celebrations that would never come. Under normal circumstances, I would have crossed the path of the last of the night's revelers and would have been afraid to be deemed a nutcase in this outfit. At that hour, the first groups of tourists would have been preparing to disembark, bunched around tour guides whose beckoning arms would be raised in the air. The first tables to receive the morning sun–the best ones, the ones in front of the tourist office–would already be taken at the Sénéquier cafe. And the yachts would be queuing up at the pump to refuel, while the crews would be calling dibs on the caramelized apple tarts at Delpui. Under normal circumstances, although I wouldn't have dared to admit it, I'd have honestly liked Saint-Tropez to be like this. To stand still, a little. Not for long. Truly, the most beautiful place in the world. Just for one season.
Until recently, I hadn't seen such a scene in years. And I can't say precisely how many. The scene awakens a childhood memory in me: that of the Raggio family, who used to dock at the Ponche pier and then sell their striped red mullet and sole from tiny premises overlooking the beach; premises which have since been sold. Confined like the rest of the country–even though it somehow feels more protected here than elsewhere–Saint-Tropez has been transforming back into the “fishing village” it had long ago been and is still sometimes called–despite the fact this designation no longer truly applies. It is this village that seduced my great-grandfather in the 1930s, and it is the reason–at least one of them–that I am here today. Or perhaps even he didn't know the Saint-Tropez I now see before my eyes? The lack of souls on the port, which is empty from one end to the other, all the way up to the lighthouse. The Place des Lices deserted at the hour when after-work aperitifs are usually served. The dolphins in the Gulf, the peacocks that spread their feathers without fear, and the wild boars that wander without inhibition on the Pampelonne beach. The silence, constant, everywhere, is so thick that the bell tower seems to ring louder than usual and the slightest raised voice can be startling. Under normal circumstances, the patios would be crowded, and it would be impossible to decipher the conversations being held below. Under normal circumstances, this period (March–April–May) would see the entire town burst into action, dressed to the nines, staking out places for the annual Bravade festivities–which would not even be held this year. This in itself is such a rare occurrence that it is difficult to know how many times this community mainstay has previously been suspended. My great-grandfather, who was once the leader of the Bravade civil guard (or “city captain” as we say here), probably never experienced this either. Or maybe it was also canceled during the war? Under normal circumstances, I would never have gone through the town in Rondini sandals and a nightgown (it was early in the morning, but still) to walk among the red and white flags hung from windows, tributes to celebrations that would never come. Under normal circumstances, I would have crossed the path of the last of the night's revelers and would have been afraid to be deemed a nutcase in this outfit. At that hour, the first groups of tourists would have been preparing to disembark, bunched around tour guides whose beckoning arms would be raised in the air. The first tables to receive the morning sun–the best ones, the ones in front of the tourist office–would already be taken at the Sénéquier cafe. And the yachts would be queuing up at the pump to refuel, while the crews would be calling dibs on the caramelized apple tarts at Delpui. Under normal circumstances, although I wouldn't have dared to admit it, I'd have honestly liked Saint-Tropez to be like this. To stand still, a little. Not for long. Truly, the most beautiful place in the world. Just for one season.