From the Galley Window: A Soulful Dispatch from the Riviera

The journey started on a steamy hot day when I landed in Nice, France. The Cannes Film Festival had ended only days prior, and now it just so happened to be the Monaco Grand Prix, so the tourists were flooding in around me.

In order to reach the boat in Savona, on the Italian Riviera, I had to take the coastal train two hours with a changeover near the border, to reach Ventimiglia. With my mediocre French, I eventually found my train, sardined myself into a seat and was underway. With my laptop open on the seat back table, I worked on finalizing my menu for the guests, simultaneously stealing glimpses out the window as the towns whizzed by. Forty-five minutes in, the view became too irresistible when the sun-sparkled Mediterranean jewel opened up, drawing in my gaze. I recognized the coastline instantly, it was Villefranche-sur-Mer, the lovely little French town nestled into the mountainous coastline. I had adored it since a few years back, when we had anchored there. Terracotta, peach and white homes and hotels… it is so quintessentially quaint Riviera vibes. The seductive window views of mountain coupled sea continued as we passed by Monaco, and then at last across the Italian border.

So to back this train up—sorry, bad pun intended—the story goes that the boat had to suddenly undergo last minute work on the prop system so the whole work trip was delayed around two weeks, which is pretty annoying when you are freelance and you have scheduled your life in order to accommodate the originally agreed-upon schedule. One thing in the yachting industry is that boats ALWAYS break. Crew and owners have to learn pretty early on, that repairs can spring up at any time, and most often inconvenient. I won’t even mention that this was a particular Italian build—known secretly, not so secretly in the industry—to be notoriously the make most in need of repairs. They sure know how to make them beautiful and sleek on the exterior and interior, but when it comes to certain other elements of practicality and engineering longevity, the gap is large. Kind of like Ferraris. Yes I had a stint working the Guest Services front at a Ferrari dealership back in Florida, and let me tell you, those cars were ALWAYS in and out of the maintenance department. I digress. So instead of the plan of meeting the boat in a beautiful marina in Cannes, where I could go off and do all my glorious provisioning locally, I met the boat in the shipyard in Savona, a small city on the Ligurian Coast.

After meeting the Italian crew I set off with the credit card to start my purchases. Little did I know the limitations before me. Yes of course I could source the most exquisite burrata and parmesan cheeses, fresh pastas, sauces, olives, you name it… half of the items I needed for my pantry and fresh list were nonexistent. There was not much variety outside anything typical Italian. No cumin, no coriander, curry, or anything Asian to be found. Miso-what? I had to go digging, as any dedicated chef with a funky fermented palate would do to achieve the balance of flavors to wow her guests. It took me a total of ten days to go to all the stores I could find in order to find the ingredients I needed, and even still I had an unfulfilled list. I would have to wait until we crossed into France to get things like my beloved Moroccan spices and pearled couscous, the variety of fragrant truffle essences, fresh mangoes, kaffir lime leaves and lemongrass. In the meantime, I found a covered farmers market housing local butchers where I could get the freshest meats. Interacting with the butchers was nothing short of hilarious since my Italian covers little more than counting and hand gestures… throw in a little Spanish, and then some French if things still aren’t working. But I learned words fast and, in the end, made it work. I still remember the looks on their faces when I kept saying di piu, di piu, more weight, more meat, when I had already filled three freezer bags. Rarely people understand just how much food I have to provision to stock for a three-week trip, and how much planning and organizing goes into it.

Meanwhile in the shipyard each of us crew was working around the clock to get the boat ready for the upcoming owners’ trip. Time was ticking away and I was still waiting on the final confirmations for which guests were coming when, which ones were kosher, how many kids and what they ate, and which port we would be when, so I could have an idea of what best to serve to ensure the freshest presentation. Meanwhile I’m ordering necessary appliances, tools, bakeware, and dessert dishes to outfit the galley which had never been properly done. Meanwhile too, daily feeding a crew of 6 breakfast, lunch, and dinner. All the while doing prep work baking and freezing to get a jump on the pastry side of my dishes. Sigh.

Friday at 5, the Italians in the yard throw in their towels so to speak and the work stops. It just so happened that the shipyard had organized a little get together for the crews and workers that evening as an opportunity to meet up, eat, drink and let loose a bit. The Sardinian chef from the boat next to us had brought over to the common area his portable pizza oven—so Italian—had prepped three dozen dough balls and was already in swift motion stretching and pulling the crusts—cigarette poised at the corner of his lip—spreading the sauce, and sprinkling the toppings. While the crews mingled, I befriended Chef Nico and talked chef shop, equal parts boasting and complaining, swapping stories of the best and worst boats we’d worked on, along with the craziest shit that had happened to us at sea. We talked eclairs and focaccia. How’s there’s zero space for our provisions, agreeing that Italian boats are made for looks not for functionality. Chef Nico also ended up being my savior and took me along with him to do some seafood provisioning since he had already found the best spot in town and was able to tell the women behind the fish counter exactly what I needed and how I wanted them prepared. Turned out to be grace for me, because come to find out, that the Ligurian people are not typically the friendliest compared with other parts of Italy. The women rolled their eyes at me when I requested certain things filleted and heads cut off—gasp at such waste—because it meant more work for them, but little did they know I was cooking for Americans who cringe being served eyeballs or bones. Never mind I knew I was about to spend nearly €1,000 on seafood. With one stop done I still needed some lobster. As luck would have it, just down the street was another little seafood market, and this time with nicer employees. These boys were young and tatted up, and a hell of a lot nicer than the older biddies from before. I scored big daddy blue Ligurian lobsters that I would serve for the guests’ first meal onboard.

With the shafts finally fixed the boat could finally be lowered into the water—or, in yachting lingo, we were ready to splash. This requires a giant, and I mean giant, tractor-like machine to come in at turtle speed, lift us off of our blocks, and with slings snug around us, inch us towards the slipway. The whole process takes hours just to move maybe one hundred meters. From there, a sea-trial is scheduled, and specialized engineers come on board, alongside insurance and management-company representatives, to confirm the engines were running. Once this test is passed, the captain decides in conjunction with the tides and sea conditions what time we would set off and where we pick up the owners.

First stop, Porto Sole Marina, San Remo. First guest dinner coming in hot. Starter: a citrus fennel salad, with grapefruit, orange, avocado, toasted hazelnuts and herbs. Main: butter and white wine poached blue Ligurian lobster (that’s a mouthful) over saffron risotto, with a citrus sauce. Dessert: homemade vanilla semifreddo ice cream melba, with donut peach Grand Marnier flambé, and raspberry coulis. Definitely some Italian and French melding going on there. I won’t bore you with food details, but I do recall the next couple of desserts to be pretty luscious. Like that flourless pistachio cake, made of nuts and other goodies, with a pistachio cream (the Italians deserve serious bragging rights for this jar of delightful decadence) ganache icing. Then that olive oil chocolate mousse with local Savona orange liqueur… Your mouth watering yet?

From there we cruised along the coast, passing Monaco, and into French waters of the Riviera. We anchored before an exquisite view facing Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. A cinematic setting like something out of a James Bond movie. A blue-gray wall of mountain, pale dramatic cliff faces, and a distant coastal road, with an arched viaduct rising up at one end.

After a few days we cruised on, stopping at Antibes and Port Camille Rayon, the marina at Golfe-Juan, and then to the cherished Saint-Tropez. Anchored for a few days there, it was an especially sweet view from my strip of galley window, looking out on its idyllic charming town. From our anchorage, Saint-Tropez lay around the harbor in a crescent of shuttered, sun-faded houses. The marina was thick with white hulls and masts. Behind it, the old town rose in close, irregular tiers, crowned by the striped yellow-and-ochre bell tower of Notre-Dame-de-l’Assomption. I watched an array of yachts and sailboats cruising up to anchor near us for the day. I was especially drawn to a large classic sailing yacht whose three-masted baroque, square-rigged silhouette stood out among the sleek modern yachts floating around us.

From there we made our way further south along the coast to the lovely protected island of Porquerolles. After two weeks of straight dinners on board, the guests finally got off to eat out, and I finally was gifted an early night. I got to rest my tootsies and sit by the water, alone… because this Cancerian crab of a cat needed her time to recharge without the constant bombardment of other crew all up in my shell. Grace continued shining her face, and that evening I was blessed with one of the most memorable sunsets of the entire trip, and one of the top five of my all-time fav sunset photos I have—which says A LOT considering my time at sea. Porquerolles is such a sweet remote place still steeped in its nature. All you hear when you tune in is the chirring of cicadas… taking me back to the Greek Isles. As soon as the shops opened in the morning I walked over and found a nice little market to restock up on all my goodies. I usually grab three bags to take with me, thinking I only need a handful of things and won’t need them, and inevitably I end up scoring and stuffing the bags until overflowing. The nice man from the market looked at me after and asked in French if I was walking back alone to the boat. Oui I replied, and then in making out his next statement I understood he was offering to drive me over to the boat. So grateful to this man, for if I had to schlep all of those provisions myself, it would have been beyond what my already aching body could bear.

The last destination was the fishing-port town of Cassis, back on the coast of Provence, between Toulon and Marseille, nestled next to the Calanques National Park. Cap Canaille rises above the town in a beautiful ochre-colored cliff face. The small town of Cassis is known for its dry white wines and felt like a breath of fresh air, without much presence of other yachts cruising in and anchoring around us.

This journey showed me again that the sea rarely gives you the trip you planned for. It gives you delays, repairs, aching feet, missed ingredients, and too much to carry; then, just when you feel emptied out, it offers a peaceful anchorage, a stranger’s kindness, cicadas at dusk, or a sunset that seems to light the sky on fire. Amidst the long, tiring hours on my feet, the endless choreography of putting out meals, and caring for everyone else, I managed to find my own moments of return gazing before my strip of galley window. An azure coastline slipping past, a beautiful sky of painted clouds, undiscovered mountain ridges, distant vineyards calling… moments of inspiration. Maybe that is what travel at sea has always given me—not escape, but a deeper interconnectedness with myself, and the nature, sea, and Beauty that vibrates around me. There will always be the part of me that still knows how to pause, look up, and be moved by this connection, no matter how tired my aching limbs.