Note to Self:
“Self is no longer in New York City.  Self is not riding subway.
Self doesn’t know where it’s going.  Remove iPod and pay attention already.”

The plan was this:  catch 6:54 a.m. train to Nice, depart Nice at 7:32, arrive in St. Raphael at 8:22, hop on the one St. Raphael morning ferry at 9:30, and be selecting leather sandals by 11 at St. Tropez’s famous Place de Lices market (only on Tuesdays and Saturdays, mind you), before it closed at 1 p.m.  But you know what happened.  You know I missed my train stop at St. Raphael.

This was a mistake of epic proportions, not only because of the potential for missing the all-important morning ferry, but because I soon came to realize that the next train stop at which I could exit for a turnaround was about 100 km away in Toulon.  Toulon.  It was almost painful.  I couldn’t turn back now.  I shouldn’t have to, I’d been on time!  I’d even picked up brochures from the tourist office on St. Tropez and started reading them while en route…though apparently reading them so intently that I overlooked the connection to said destination.

Now, either because I’m a traveler or because I’m lucky (or maybe a bit of both), I didn’t waste any time devising a new plan.  Two hours via bus-from-Toulon later, I was in the middle of St. Tropez, in the middle of a market that was absolutely bursting at the seams.  Overwhelming and in-your-face, this get-together doesn’t let up for a second until the tables are taken down.  After a few, well-negotiated dresses and some extremely expensive spicy olives, I took my traditional stroll through the town.

Later, having had an espresso and having spent some time watching men play petanque (a popular game played with silver balls), I focused on getting some of that famous sun.  The one complaint I have about St. Tropez, however, is that the more celebrated beaches are much further than you might think.  Without a car (or a well contemplated bus route), plan on hours of walking time.  I didn’t have hours.  I had a one-time only ferry to catch home, and I wasn’t even trying to mess around with that.

Accordingly, I’d planned on, and ended up successfully, snagging a chair at a gorgeous private beach nearby.  We’re talking perfect, gold sand and clear water, the temperature of which, I’m convinced, must have been adjusted beforehand by God specifically for my own body.  Chilled rosé was also involved, of course.

Other than beaches and markets, I really couldn’t be bothered with additional sights and goings-on.  That is, with one exception: I did manage to extend my focus to a local pastry, aptly named the “tarte Tropezienne,” a thick layer of vanilla crème sandwiched between two soft, cakey breads, and topped with sugar crystals.

Now, if you’re not from the US, then this adored crème probably doesn’t taste like French vanilla Jell-O pudding to you.  To me it did, but, well, like the best freaking French vanilla Jell-O pudding on the planet.  Understandably, I was too engrossed in the eating experience to think about memorializing the moment, but I did manage to snag a picture from a fellow tarte Tropezienne lover (thanks Aiste!).

So, summary of why we should all love St. Tropez:  First, legendary beaches.  Second, a ‘helluva day market.  And, last but not least, pudding sandwiches, people.  I’m not sayin’ it’s the most popular reason why everyone seems to love fabulous, enigmatic St. Tropez, just that one day, it could be.

Garlic, place de Lices Market

Petanque, place de Lices

La Tarte Tropezienne, (c) 2007 Aiste Miseviciute and www.luxeat.com.

Beach Bum

Vieux Port