EuroTour 2010, Day 8, St. Tropez to Portofino Coast

Not long after waking up this morning, we had our bags packed and sitting in the hotel lobby.  But there was am intricate plan.  Visit the Citadel, then the bakery, and then toss the bags into the car and head to Italy.  Just your average Wednesday.

Our hotel is nearly at the top of the hill, so that the Citadel is just around the corner... and up a whole lot of steps.  Sweaty, hot, humid steps.  My biggest, and really only, packing mistake is that I did not bring the sleeveless "clima-cool" shirts that I normally work out in.  I expected these places to be warm, even hot.  But I did not expect significantly hotter and more humid than last summer in practically the same places.

Barbie and Lon entering the outer walls of the Citadel.  A citadel is not just a fort, it is the strongest part of a fort, normally within some outer walls and such.

When we paid to enter the Saint Tropez Citadel, they gave us a little pamphlet about the site.  It is clearly an internet translation, and is hilarious.  A highlight, "During the following centuries the fortress was purpose of various works aiming at either maintaining the existing site or improving the system of defence."  For the record, the Citadel was built in 1602 and remained in use until 1837, when, "Its ramparts had not been sufficient any longer since the shell, which had been invented a few decades sooner, replaced the cannonball."

Now that my friends is a Citadel.

Barbie presents the latest in 17th century defense technology.

During the age of the cannonball, the Citadel kept the peninsula and bay safe.  I often wonder how inaccurate these cannons were.  

Do you see her waving?  Thank goodness she is waving and not aiming a musket.

Self Portrait @ The Citadel Of Saint Tropez.

Time to walk to the bakery.  We have a four hour drive ahead of us, and food in the car will be key.

This area was home to yesterday's flea market.  Okay, I am confused.  The streets and stores bordering this plaza area all refer to, "Lices."  Heck, the gallerie with the Brigitte Bardot exposition is, "Espace Rendez-vous des Lices."  Yet the translator I just used said that "lices" means, um, "bitches."  If only I knew this earlier.  It would have been the most fun fact ever.

The Exposition flyer.  Note the male hand pulling back the brown paper bag surrounding Brigitte.  You might also note my toe.

The road back to the hotel.  We literally drove up that rode on our way to the hotel.  In a car.  Can you imagine a car on that road?  Also, please note the woman's conical hat.  Bold.

We loaded up the car and started on our way out of town.  Along the narrow streets, we often had to wait for people to step out of the way.  In one instance, a little boy was, there is no dancing around this, p--ing on a wall.  His mother saw our car coming, grabbed his arm, and pulled him out of our way as he p-ssed, and then placed him in front of another wall to finish p--ing.  

And the American took his picture.  I fear this boy will have personal issues arise in twenty to thirty years and have no idea that they relate to this moment his mother stood over him and made him p-- in public.

(July 2011 Edit: I have added dashes to these words because sick people in this world google for pictures of this activity and probably expect a different kind of picture.  This is sick and I do not want that kind of internet traffic.)

We made it to the highway.  Le phew.

The first of around five toll booths.  We perfected a dance where I would spot the aisle that would take change, and as Barbie pulled into it I would start gathering the coins needed.  Our navigator/driver relationship is well established.

This is the official, "See, Europe and North America are interchangeable," shot.  When I hear Americans who have not been to Europe speak ill of it, I doubt they realize that they could be knocked unconscious, put on a plane, and then woken up in Europe and not know the difference until they hear the accents.

The highway we are taking goes through many, many tunnels.  Some are rather long tunnels.  When you cannot see light at the end of the tunnel, you have what engineers call a long-ass tunnel.

Tragedy!  Pain!  Suffering!  I was preparing to get a shot of the Italian border, and then we crossed it and I saw no evidence or signage.  Then, as I relaxed, Barbie shouted, "There it is!"  I raised my hands and tapped... and MISSED.  But there you see the final "A" of ITALIA, surrounded by the EU stars.  Sigh.   

This is Italy now.  And I cannot help but wonder why we call it Italy when they call it Italia.  Could the British not pronounce, "Italia," a few hundreds years ago?  It seems a simple enough word to say.  Why drop that last vowel sound?  

Lon & Sean in the back seat, courtesy of that forward-facing camera you keep hearing about.  I apologize for the nerd gushing, but Apple adding that second camera to the iPhone is pretty much the greatest thing ever.  And I have not even had the chance to video chat since getting here.

After more than four hours of driving, we arrive in Rapallo.  Rapallo is in the province of Genova, along the Portofino Coast.  You might get stuck hearing me wax on about Genovese history, as Genova is rather historically significant.

Our bags.  That is all she wrote for four adults.  Not bad-a.  (We are in Italia, where that extra vowel gets added to almost everythinga.)

And our hotel is posh.  Barbie and I are home again, back to five stars.  It is sick, really, but when the hotel is less than five stars we feel it like a rock in the shoe.

Our bed and balcony.  Mediterranean facing balcony, I should say.

Barbie presents the Eastern view from our balcony.

Barbie presents the Western view from our balcony.

Sean & Lon on their balcony.  Their corner room has a fantastic view of the town.

Said view of the town, from Sean & Lon's room.  When you spend many hours cramped into a car, and then get out of that car and move your body into a five star hotel with a view like this, it is like shedding a restrictive skin and being free again.

We are hungry for dinner.  And we are in Italia.  And I have said it before; the food in Italia is better than the food in France.  We walked down the street and stopped at Bella Napoli.

Proscuitto e melone.  This is pretty much our favorite dish in Italia.  In fact, we order it in the USA whenever an Italian restaurant is authentic enough to offer it.

My Penne with zucchini and shrimp.  I am in heaven.

Barbie's seafood risotto.

We shared some chocolate gelato, and I have no idea why I skipped taking its picture.

Time to stroll into town.

Cristoforo Columbo, as it says on the stone beneath him.  I suppose he must have spent some time in Rapallo, as he was born in nearby Genova.  I was about to do my usual thing about the same name in different languages, and then Wikipedia taught me this; his original name in 15th century Genoese language was Christoffa Corombo.    Everyone, even the Italians, are saying a name that sounds like this man's name, yet is not the name he used in life.  I suppose this is a dead language issue.  Names in dead languages get re-interpreted into living languages. 

Interestingly, the original Christoffa sounds closer to the English Christopher than the Italian Cristophoro, no?

Barbie and Lon on the bridge into town.  If you are wondering why there are many Barbie and Lon pictures, it is because Sean is a fast walker who tends to forge ahead, while I trail taking picture after picture, with Barbie and Lon basically halfway between.  And now you know how we roll.

The Rapallesi coastline.  Rapallo has been the site of many treaty signings.  I will assume that it is the tranquility of this village's coastline that makes it the ideal place for wars to be settled by pen.

Our hotel is right THERE.

The Antico Castello.  This little fortress was built in the 1600's to discourage the Barbary pirates that had been raiding Rapallo.

Jeff & Barbie, with the Antico Castello.

Few sights are more pleasantly relaxing.

The view of Rapallo from our hotel.  

Barbie in the Excelsior Palace lobby.

Time for bed.  Actually, time to watch The Bachelorette on Slingbox while typing the blog in bed.  

EuroTour 2010, Day 7, St. Tropez

Saint Tropez.  Named to honor Saint Torpes, a martyr who was beheaded in Pisa during the persecutions of Nero in 65 AD.  During the Fifteenth Century it was a military stronghold.  For the many centuries that followed it was a small fishing village.  Then, in the late 1950's, the most powerful force on Earth discovered it; Brigitte Bardot.  No joke.  She "discovered" this little resort, bought a home here, and was soon followed by the French New Wave of artists and filmmakers who, I assume, wanted to be as close as possible to the Sexiest Woman On The Planet.  It probably took only a season or two for Saint Tropez to become a top stop for the jet set.

And this is why today a little French fishing village is a parking lot for mega yachts.

The view from our window.  If I ever moved from Los Angeles, I would want my new home to be on the Mediterranean.  We often talk of moving to the Italian Riviera, but Europeans I know recommend the French Riviera for the better legal system and economy.  This is not pure folly.  This is consideration.

Time to go for a Tropezian walk.  I did not make up that word.  The locals are called Tropezians.

Breakfast in motion.  Yes, that is a jambon et fromage panini.  I could eat one every day forever.

It's flea market day in Saint Tropez.  (I sang that in my head to the melody of Do You Know The Way To San Jose?) 

The local museum is showing, "Exposition Brigitte Bardot."  I grabbed a flyer.  I read it to you.  "The greatest works that have immortalized the Icon of an era, photographs from Sam Levin, Robert Doisneau, Ghislain Dussart, etc.; pictures from Andy Warhol, Van Dongen, dresses from Paco Rabanne, Esterel, and numerous scarce and exclusive photographs."  (The bad punctuation is the flyer's, not mine.)

We did not go.  I am already regretting this already.  (Double-already was intentional.)  In today's world we do not have Icons where you capitalize the i, we have flavors of the week soon forgotten.

We stepped into a bakery and Lon got a pastry that nearly made him faint from delight.  He had to lean against the wall for support.

Saint Tropez is known for its Botero statues.  These chess playing locals see the statues as little more than shade.  The horse poop joke can remain unsaid, understood by all who see this picture.

I figured you might want to see Botero's horse from a more flattering angle.

I saw the Rolls Royce headed my direction and isntantly pulled out my phone.  I only wish I would have been on the other side of the street so that you could see the Rolls Royce with a background of super yachts.  I must say that the Rolls Royce might be the most yachty vehicle manufactured.  Sure, there are more expensive vehicles, but none capture yachtiness like the Rolls.

Another Botero.  This one you can never get a picture of without someone standing near or pointing at her, well, let us call it fecundity.

Botero's Sphinx.  

We returned to our hotel and Sean & Lon got coffee by the pool.  I noticed an iron sculpture at the other end that I thought was wonderful.  

It is really quite good.  You can see him as hanging on for dear life or about to lift himself up.  I have a feeling that whether you see someone hanging on or lifting themselves up says quite a lot about you.

Lon found, no joke, a four leaf clover.  The picture it is fuzzy, but several independent judges counted four leaves.

We are headed to the beach now.  While we wait for the hotel's driver to take us to the beach, I will give you a brief tour of the hotel, Le Yaca.

Le front de Le Yaca.

Le courtyard de Le Yaca.

Le lobby de Le Yaca.

There is also a bar & restaurant, but I have probably already bored you.  Time to hop into the Marcedes van that is taking us to the beach, which is on the other side of the peninsula.  Did I mention that Saint Tropez is a peninsula?  I think not.  I have now.

Our first viewing of the Tropezian beach.

The view from the club where we paid to have lounge chairs and an umbrella to rest under.  It is a great beach.  Not that I would gush about it and say it is anything better than the Caribbean, Hawai'i, Mexico or California, but it is a great beach.  I assume that these yachts are here instead of the harbor because these yacht owners are too poor to be able to afford the harbor fees.

Yours truly captured by guest photographer Barbara Howard.

Is there a better way to sell hats than to wear seventeen on your head and walk down the beach?  There is not.

My feet have been to Saint Tropez.

I held them up from the sand so that the Mediterranean would be behind them, and took several pictures. As I was snapping away, from behind me a figure dashed by.

There is no doubt that she saw me and thought, "This is it.  My chance to be part of the Colossal Waste."  Bravo young lady, you bested me.

Would I have taken a Polaroid camera to the beach in 1982?  

Son of a... I just realized that I can use this iPhone App "Polarize" to not just make a picture look like a Polaroid but also to have a message fake-handwritten on it.  Get ready for that motif to arrive sometime.

Barbara Howard is topless, but The Waste censors placed a black bar across the inappropriate bits for family viewing.

This business woman stood there and put on and off around a dozen bikinis over a tiny string bikini.  I am not sure if this mobile fashion show is intended more for men or women.

Just in case you dare accuse me of sexism for the bikini shots above, I share with you four hot young college aged males.

We returned to our hotel and cleaned up for dinner.  Before dinner, we will visit the Hotel Byblos.  This is a more famous hotel, one which Barbie and I nearly stayed at last year but we instead went to Eze.

This is the hotel where the celebrities stay, unless they rent villas or stay on yachts.

Very Moroccan, no?

Not bad.

Barbie at the Byblos.  That wall of white stones has water running down it, making it one rather large fountain.

I had an iced tea which Barbie declared was such an attractive iced tea that I must take its picture.

Peacocks are, without doubt, nature's most yachty bird.  I would love to have one wandering the courtyard of our building at home.  I would name it Philipe.

After sitting with the head of marketing for the Hotel Byblos for a while, who was lovely, we walked up to Saint Tropez's highest point where one finds the medieval fort, The Citadel.  The Citadel is closed, forcing us to visit it tomorrow.

I reached over Sean's head to get a picture of him taking this picture.  This is what I see everywhere we go -- life with an iPhone in front of my face.  It is a shame that the haze prevents you from seeing blue sea and blue sky.

Saint Tropez from the Citadel.  I am sure that this picture alone would convince anyone to visit.

The Saint Tropez bell tower rings ten minutes before every hour.  Not sure why.  They need to reset it, no?

We came across this little fella on the way to dinner.  My soft spot was hit.

Dinner at The Strand.  Fillet Mignon with Foie Gras and White Truffle.  Truffles are out of season, and to be honest they tasted like white wax.  But the foie gras was, as always, delicious.

Lon ordered macaroni for the table.  Bless him.

Truffle mashed potatoes.

And this concludes our dinner.

This is actually the view from the window of the stairway that leads up to our rooms.  I know it looks like there is light outside, but do not be fooled.  This is around 10:30 PM.  And I am very sleepy.  Barbie is going to nap and then head back to the Byblos with Sean to check out their nightclub, The Cave.

I am staying in the room to type up the Waste and go to sleep.  Life is good.

We will close with the first picture this year not taken with my camera.  This is for those of you who have forgotten or are too young to have ever known Brigitte Bardot.

This is the face that changed Saint Tropez.  Perhaps it was more than her face, but I believe the point has been made.