Beach Party

For the past fifteen years I've spent a good part of each summer in the south of France. While making arrangements for this year's trip I began to reflect on how these annual sojourns have evolved. I arrived in Nice by train one sweltering July day having left my flat in Paris with the intention of being gloriously idle for a couple of months. I had packed in my small valise only the barest essentials- swimsuits and a few shirts, and had with me nothing more formal than my travelling outfit which consisted of cut-off jean shorts, a white linen shirt and suede Gucci loafers. By chance I happened upon a small family-owned hotel that seemed to evoke a primitive charm. Although it lacked many conveniences it was centrally located and extremely cheap. So there I stayed. For six weeks.