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. . arriving at the appointed time, the same desk clerk informed me, in an officious tone, that the room was not ready and I would
have to wait. I didn't like his attitude, it was as though he was doing us a favour by letting us stay at HIS hotel, but I agreed and took a seat in the foyer. Five minutes later his colleague, a
younger woman, phoned the room which was presumably the one I was waiting for, to ask its occupant if he was ready to leave.
'He says he'll be another twenty minutes', she said to the other desk clerk, prepared to leave it at that.
But this young man was made of sterner stuff! He stood up, straightened his tie and his five-foot frame and said to the girl in a masterful
voice, 'Leave this to me!'
He grabbed the phone from her and said in a steady tone, 'This is the Head Receptionist. You must leave immediately, I need your room
now!' and he banged the phone down. He then turned to the girl, and with a smug self-satisfied grin, he straightened his tie again and said 'That's how to do it!' He then sat down
again and began drumming his fingers on the desk to demonstrate his impatience.
A short while later the ex-occupant of our room came downstairs, panting, with his hair still wet and struggling with a large suitcase from
which various bits of clothing were protruding. He apologised for the delay and asked for his room bill. As he was paying his bill, the clerk narrowed his eyes and trained his most wilting gaze on
him. He snatched the completed credit card slip away, with a barely audible 'Merci'. As the man went out the door, l heard him say to his female colleague 'Piece de Merde!'
indicating that he thought his ex-guest and paying customer was little better than a steaming heap of something that Taku might leave behind him on the grass after his morning walk . . ( .
.continued).
* * * * *
. . .Juan-les-Pins is the much-vaunted gathering place of the young and the beautiful. We happened to be close to a group of teenage
French girls, probably no more than seventeen, all wearing the fashionable one-piece swimsuits, but which they had rolled down to the waist (perhaps even below) so as to expose the maximum amount of
flesh both to the suns rays, and the admiring gaze of the groups of young male onlookers.
The groups of beautiful, bronzed young girls discretely eyed the groups of handsome, bronzed young men, who in turn gazed openly at
the groups of beautiful young girls. We were surrounded by lean young bodies which glistened as the sunlight reflected off the suntan lotion which had been liberally applied. The smell of coconut oil
filled the air, and music carried on the breeze from radios playing current hits from the French music charts. The sound of the sea could still be heard as it lapped incessantly against the white
sandy beach. Girls giggled as they jumped about catching beach balls, and the more energetic teenage boys leaped about on the sand, displaying their skills at beach volleyball.
For the rest of us however, this was a perfect day to just lie in the sunshine, to sleep, to read a book, or just to do absolutely nothing.
The cry of ‘Melone, melone’ could occasionally be heard, as a young man walked up and down the beach carrying a large ice box, containing slices of cold, juicy water melon . . . . . ( . . continued)
* * * * *
. . . .it was seven o'clock in the morning when we arrived in St. Tropez. We parked the car next to the quayside, and after our
breakfast, we took a walk around whilst waiting for the Tourist Office to open. At this hour of the day, St. Tropez had the feel and smell of a real fishing port. The pavement cafes lining the
quayside were almost empty, save for the odd local partaking of his morning coffee and croissants. The fishing boats had obviously unloaded their catches not long before, and the tiny fish
market just behind the cafes was doing a brisk trade in wonderfully fresh fish and prawns, and live langoustines and lobsters with their claws clamped shut with rubber bands.
St. Tropez as everyone knows, has the reputation as the exclusive, expensive, haunt of the rich and famous. A place where people come
to be seen. A paradise for people watching. At this hour of the day it was anything but. Walking around the old town, which runs uphill behind the quayside, we could appreciate the charm of this
completely unspoiled hamlet. The sun shining down on the narrow winding cobbled streets which lead up to the citadel and down to the port, the smell of fish and freshly baked bread, the locals with
arms full of baguettes after a visit to their favourite Boulangerie. There was no sign of the St. Tropez we had heard so much about - until we began window-shopping.
The buildings on the outside are quaint little shops in traditional stone, but inside, the latest fashions straight from Paris, Milan and
London. The labels read like a who's who of the fashion world, Dior, St. Laurent, Kenzo, Gautier, Gucci. Needless to say there were no price tags to be seen. As they say, if you need to ask the
price then you probably can't afford it.
Keiko's eyes widened.
'I like it here', she said. 'Can I find sexy dress?'
I had promised to buy Keiko a new dress, but I would need a wallet transplant if I let her loose in one of these shops.
'Yes, we can look around later on', I said trying to side step the issue.
We sat and had a coffee at Senequier, the largest and best-known quayside cafe, which is right next door to the tourist office. In the
morning light, with so few people about, I could have a serious look at the town.
The harbour at St. Tropez is one of the prettiest I've ever seen. It is small, and the four storey houses surrounding it are
painted various pastel shades of yellow, pink, and blue. They are narrow and all huddled together as they look down protectively on the harbour, as if closing ranks to shield it from outside
intrusion. It looks as though nothing has changed for a hundred years. There are no hypermarkets, no high-rise hotels or apartment blocks which blight many other resorts. There is nothing that spoils
the feeling of a traditional fishing port. The only concessions to tourism are the cafes and restaurants that surround the port, and whose tables spill out onto the pavement, and two lone motor
yachts the only outward display of wealth. . . ( . .continued)
* * * * *
. . . . The restaurant was on the first floor above a shop, and was one of the few still serving food quite late at night. We climbed
the stairs to be met at the top by the waiter - or was it waitress? At first I couldn't tell. The jeans and boots, the straight short blonde hair, the stocky build and the absence of make-up. I
was either looking at an effeminate man, or a masculine woman. The voice was no clue either. I opted for the masculine woman, deciding that the two small protrusions under the white shirt were the
giveaway clue. . . (. . continued)
* * * * *
. . . . The briefest trip around Cannes confirms all that you have heard. The 'Festival du Film’ is well underway and the
penguins, the 'invités' in their dinner suits and bow ties, are parading themselves along the promenade. Wealth flaunts itself wherever you look, from the designer gowns on the
late-night lovelies, to the Ferraris and Rolls Royce's cruising the boulevards, to the motor yachts moored in the port. I ask myself, how do so many people acquire so much wealth? The harbour is
full to bursting with yachts lined up side by side, like competition entrants waiting for the judge to arrive. . . ( . .continued)
* * * * *
. . . . Inside the boat, Mr. Floating Lamborghini was giving last minute instructions to his crew, all dressed immaculately in their
crisp white uniforms and all now standing stiffly to attention. He managed at the same time to chastise his teenage son (who looked bored to tears), and down a quick snifter. Dressed in his
yachtsman's fashion-of-the-week outfit, he began busily checking his pockets and making sure all was ship-shape before his departure. Could they all really survive without him for the next three
hours? . . . ( . . continued)
* * * * *
. . . .The only shady place was under a nearby tree, so that's where he headed. Unfortunately, a rather corpulent lady had already
occupied this spot. She was about fifty years old, wearing a one-piece bathing costume that bulged in all the wrong places and she was completely sheltered from the sun under the branches of the
tree, although her red lobster-like skin was evidence of quite recent exposure. She didn't seem to be enjoying herself much. She reminded me of the stereotyped jolly fat lady always found in
old-fashioned 'wish you were here' picture postcards from English seaside resorts, but minus the jolly expression. We watched as Taku approached, grunted and lay down, ignoring her presence.
The woman jumped up with a start. It was obvious that she didn't like dogs, and besides this one was invading her space. She glared at Taku, and began brushing imaginary fleas from her arms and
back. Then she moved very slightly further away and sat down again, wearing a facial expression which made her look like she had just bitten into a particularly sour lemon. She glared at Taku again
as if wanting to make him disappear, but she would not give-up her territory, and was too afraid of him to risk upsetting him too much (well he does look a bit like a lion). She cast the odd glance
at us too, as if to say 'Why don't you do something about this awful creature!' Taku, however, was there to stay. He was quite happy to share the tree. But, it being a tree, he
couldn't resist peeing on it. . . ( . . continued)
* * * * *
. . . Monsieur led us across and introduced us to the Marquis and Marchioness de Sade. They were considered celebrities here for
obvious reasons, and I wondered if they ate here for free. . . .(. . continued)
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