The fantasy of the French Riviera seemed like a far-off dream, not easily attainable, or only reserved for wealthy people. Where did this stigma come from anyways? Why is it so engrained in our American brains that visiting a place like this is meant to feel bougie? I had the same stigma centering around the Hamptons. Only rich people, status, fancy cars, etc. etc. But, after spending summers there, I found lovely, quaint culture sparkling beneath the façade of exclusivity. Don’t get me wrong, both the Riviera and the Hamptons are stock full of every delicious luxury name brand store, but the truth is, there is a majority of areas that don’t require you to be donning your best Chloe or Louis Vuitton pumps and hand bag. Perhaps I had it wrong in my head, and being in a place considered exclusive meant affording the perks of the less-trodden, less touristic, quaint lifestyle. Either way, my mind and heart were open as I landed upon the southern French soil, and I easily took in the idyllic, quintessential French style construction in towns like Nice, Cannes, and Saint Tropez. Even more compelling is the landscape’s natural, organic beauty, full of greens, colorful flowers, and wild bougainvillea squirming out and over walls and fences. Let’s not forget the Mediterranean’s seductive jewel toned sea beckoning you forward to frolick and plunge.
Bougie constraints aside, let it be also be known that people, (and I mean a majority of Americans) could also do well to drop the stigma that all French people are snobby. While yes, many of them are impatient and take on the air of a New Yorker with places to be and people to see, and don’t give a shit about you, so many more are lovely and warm. I mean, we must first recognize the futility of GENERALIZING in the first place. French people will even say that it is Parisians that give French people the “bad name” for being arrogant. Being from Florida, where there’s a high concentration of Latinos and Mexicans living and working, I’ve heard all too many times from American mouths something to the effect of, “I ain’t learning Spanish. They’re in Merica, they need to speak our language.” With this thought basis I find it deeply hypocritical how many Americans are so quick to judge French people as being snobs who don’t like Americans. Americans who visit places in France like Paris just take advantage that most French people can speak English well, and don’t even try to learn or speak a bit of French, and that is why they get a less than agreeable response from a lot of them. How is you being in their country any different than the concentration of Latinos and Mexicans being in your country? The truth is, if you simply speak to the French in their language, even if all you know are the basics, they are 1,000 percent more likely to act kindly with you, and even oblige you by continuing in English. I used my basic French in the south of France and was met with warm receptivity, laughing with them that my accent etait horribluh!
What brought me to the French Riviera? Well, when I’m not consumed in my “writing hermitess, vortex,” I’m cheffing on yachts! A one-hour plane ride from Palma, and there I was arriving in Nice and taking on my two-week freelance gig. Although working the typical 12–14-hour days standing in a galley, I was charged with invigoration, inspired by the beautiful, fresh produce available around me. The open-air markets in France really are something to brag about. (Snooty Parisians are nodding their heads). Any yachtie knows what I mean when I speak of doing south Florida’s typical provisioning run to Publix or Wholefoods, that you enter into a time warp, your buggy as your chariot, traveling through a massive refrigerated ice box, blasted with fluorescent lights. Hours go by as you fill your now, second chariot buggy, and you’re hunched over pushing with all your might while simultaneously dodging annoying “insta-cart” or “amazon shoppers” fulfilling their orders with their portable machines and annoying beeps. And yes, many chefs and stews utilize insta cart…but that doesn’t work for me; I like to see my produce before I buy it! I need to fondle it, be inspired by it, and then add it to my bounty.
So, let’s address a fun fact here. Food in America. Its atrocious. Pristine, pre-packaged, plumped, double D chicken breasts. Plastic containers, plastic wrapped and sealed produce. Ever wondered why some of your “fresh” produce lasts for weeks? Curious indeed. It’s modified, mass produced, monocropped and that is why there is less flavor! Compared to many countries in Europe, like France, there is a HUGE difference in what’s provided. Newsflash: The food system in America is rigged. Gasp! That’s right, big pharma is an advocate for processed and modified food that keeps Americans unhealthy, sick, and yes– overweight. Chew on this research: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3791249/
The food in France was a complete breath of fresh air. And breathe I did, strutting along in the open-air markets, engrossed in wonder at all the different, vibrant, varieties of provisions…produce, seafood, poultry, teeming with high vibration, sure-to-be-delicious on the tongue goodness. Oh, and everything was grown seasonally! I bought this and that. I bought it all. Deep colored lettuces, white asparagus, baby artichokes…the most delicious strawberries I’d ever tasted in my life… Olives, pastes, fat dates…and don’t get me started on the assortment of cheese…. Provisioning was actually fun, pleasant and didn’t seem like work that I just had to get through. I was beyond inspired.
It’s no wonder the French are known for being arrogant. They have every right to be! Pastries, baked goods, macaroons, cheeses, wine…macaroons… ;) This is all just my personal opinion, and don’t tell Spain, but the best wine comes from Bordeaux. Let’s be real.
Food aside, my favorite memory from the whole trip was being on anchor overlooking the charming, idyllic town of Villefranche-sur-Mer. I woke up early that morning as the sun was rising, before guests had risen, before the dogs, and snuck to the aft swim platform to do my yoga and meditation session. The morning was serene. The water so calm it looked like glass, and looking out south, the sky bled into the sea like one giant mirror. You could not tell sky from sea. Keep tracing the horizon and your eyes land upon the lovely city tucked into the mountain. Charming houses, hotels, and restaurants all in shades of whites, and peaches, topped with terracotta roofs. The sun’s morning rays cast a golden glow against the landscape, glazing it like one giant welcome apricot macaroon I wanted to sink my teeth into. Eyes continuing down. Cypress trees sprawling and thick. The whole scene painted in beautiful reflection in the water below. Sailboats on anchor added to the allure, added to the connection in my soul, the longing for this sea life. Pure satisfaction. I plunged into the frigid water, awaking all my senses and welcomed the day.
From Where I Sit From where I sit a golden emblem flaunts its head over the station that guards a mighty fortress blazing the ever-gushing infinity Infinity where it lies No one really knows What it is utterly known though is how your heart flutters and is captured by the synchronous surrender that ever present still hums the harp leading to the core to the tunnel. That place funneling somewhere, from where I sit
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Christin Marie Writes 