April 5, 2011
We are to meet friends in Sanaray some 50 miles further along the coast. Philippe and Monique have a small flat there and are down from Paris for a few days. They have generously booked us a room on the harbor front at the Hotel De La Tour. We drive through some rather scrubby, windswept towns whose relationship with the sea seems indifferent. And then Lady CPS maneuvers us into Sanary and parks us 100 yards from the hotel. We are immediately at home. The harbor, unlike St. Tropez, is full of gaily colored, humble sailboats and fishing boats. It’s early evening but the sun is still hot, the town bustling with locals on their way home from work. The hotel sits smack in the middle of the harbor front, the prime location. And yet the hotel itself has no airs and graces whatsoever. Even its two stars are faded. We trundle the suitcases over the cobblestones and are greeted at reception by the granddaughter of the owner. The hotel has been in the same family for 3 generations. It’s a marvelous hodge-podge of plastic bouquets in arbitrary vases, funky paintings staggering up the walls and random pieces of furniture – chairs, bookcases, dressers – all plonked down wherever there is room for them and apparently serving no purpose whatsoever, certainly not the ones they were originally designed for, Our room is 100 euro a night including breakfast and when we fling open the door we gasp. It’s basic and beautiful: a bed, an armoire and tall windows flung open to the harbor. The clincher is on the wall over the bed where huge letters spell AMOUR. What more can one ask for?
Philippe was to meet us at 6 but is held up in a meeting. We sit on a bench on the small pier in front of the hotel and turn our faces to the last of the day’s sun. Around us the old boats creak and groan as the sea slaps against them, their masts rhythmically swaying like so many batons conducting an adagio. It’s a forever moment. One that hold us in its timeless embrace and you can feel the siren calling, “ stay, stay, you can rest now, here, forever.” And we feel ourselves going…and then the great, bounding energy that is Philippe saves us from seduction and after fond embraces whizzes us on foot through streets and alleys telling us of his childhood here, of learning to swim and sail, of his father and grandfather and Jacques Cousteau making the first dive just over there beyond the harbor, his grandfather fashioning a curtain rod into a spear.
Philippe’s lovely wife, Monique, appears from seemingly out of nowhere, her energy more than a match for his and the four of us continue the tour winding up the streets until we reach a look-out high above the town from where we can look out over the sea to distant islands. A seagull chooses my right foot to be its toilet bombing an explosion of crap into the instep of my shoe with such force I yell. It must have had quite the dinner. Bon Chance, I sportingly say while mopping up the deposit with an entire packet of pocket tissues.
We take a short drive to a deserted bay, above which sits a lone restaurant. The wind, coming from the west now, has turned the normally placid water into wild waves. The sun takes its time to set and we could be back in time a century or two. We eat fish, from the morning’s catch. We talk of childhoods and the tumult of the world. Philippe, who is by nature a positive man, says that it is becoming hard to know what to believe in. We tell him what we are trying to do with this book, about our mission to find that which remains of beauty and goodness. He nods, yes, he says, it is important to keep the balance.
We say goodnight, until le prochain fois. Back at the Hotel de la Tour we fall into our bed of amour which while far from the luxury of last night’s bed, nonetheless cradles us into the deepest of sleeps until we are gently woken by the morning sun and the sounds of a sailor tending his boat below our window.
The morning is blue and bright and breezeless, the masts as still as flagpoles. We breakfast on a generous basket of baguettes, pain chocolat and croissant along with a pot of strong coffee and a jug of steaming milk. We are barely in first gear. In fact, I think we are in neutral and the spirits of Sanaray are wheeling us along like twins in a pram. We are so sublimely happy. We could live here. And in fact, when we stroll the fish stands and food stalls along the waterfront our only lament is the lack of a kitchen.
The fishermen just hanging out after selling the morning catch
Markets are so easy that they're hard, if you know what I mean. It's all there lying around looking like beautiful still lives, even color coordinated if you look at it that way. But what always seems to make it tough for me, apart from salivating over all the fruits and vegetables, is the sameness of the purpose; people shopping, caressing the fruits, making friendly small talk with their favorite sellers, moving from stall to stall, no matter where you are in Provence it is beautifully the same. Sure, there are moments when a gesture or an interaction lights up the space, but mostly it's still life for me. So here are a set of luscious, eye-catching and plump French lovelies to gaze upon.
What is it about this place that strikes us just right? It has to do with size for sure: big enough to have energy, small enough to be intimate. The shops are a wonderful hodge-podge of the necessary and the superfluous. The people are easy, quick to smile and stop to chat with each other at leisure. Every other person is carrying a baguette and a market basket, men included. The climate is kind, the sea still bountiful. Church bells chime on the hour or whenever the fancy strikes them. Traditions are being preserved without the patina of preciousness.
We lunch outdoors, watching the comings and goings of people and boats, children and dogs. The food is of course, delicious. Provence IS food. We had originally planned on driving to Cassis but feel so sated we decide to leave it for the next foray. We have just enough time left to catch the stalls before they close and load up on young artichokes, feve beans, asparagus and a luscious tomato before getting on the highway for home.
The drive takes us inland through vineyards, then fields, then a red rocky terrain reminiscent of Arizona. Its slight disorienting: the outbound journey took us two days – the return a mere two hours. We like this malleable quality of time and distance that we’re learning is part of the essence of this land.
Back at the House of Rembrance we sit on the Terrace. We look across the garden to the house with it’s doors flung open, the evening sun lighting up its stone walls, and for a minute we are transported into the past life of this house. We see Josje and her husband bringing food out to one of the outdoor tables; hear the children running and laughing and jumping in the pool. The house is literally pouring out its surfeit of love and happiness. It’s a powerful moment, transcending time and language and boundaries. That’s love for you.
