Castellaris, at home in Provence

I love Castellaris in Southern France because it is like going back in time not only in historic time because of the ancient roman walls and olive groves but back in time to the memory of my youth. I attended lycée Etats Unis, a high school in Cap d'Antibes when I was 16.  I was somehow fortunate enough to persuade my working class parents that I actually was a worldly Prince mistakenly sent to them in Long Island and that I should try to find my European roots with a 3 month travel across foreign lands with Mrs. Livingston, my 400 year old French teacher at the time. I'm sure she is now 440 years old and living in St Barts somewhere over looking Saline Beach but she doesn't recognize me when she sees me there. After 2 months of travel from the UK to Switerland, a month in Antibes was paradise. I ate tons of rabbit and nectarines, hung out with a very wealthy girl from Beverly Hills who wore caftans before caftans were chic and managed to actually go to class for French civilization and cooking (I can still make a mean quiche Lorraine-at least in my own mind.) I lived for a few weeks with a French Family who's Patriach was a tour guide to Timbuktu. I remember their good looking son was an avid surfer and bring some years older, wasn't really interested in a little house guest. I'm so sorry I lost them, they were so kind and generous, but my contacts all were lost along with my photos so it's like I have no proof other than my memory of that sweet time. I did once find a photo of a chandelier at Versailles, I remember that it was nearly impossible to capture the grandeur of that palace. In contrast to the little house of my family, which was just as grand with love and generosity, I remember the tiny white tiled kitchen. I loved that kitchen and what I loved most was that is was a suggestion of a place where one might cook, not actually a significant room where much was actually done.  How unlike today's idea where we put so much priority on cooking and surfaces, what a mean joke.  Grasse, Antibes, Juan Les Pins, July 14, the magnificent man, black as tar that had been hired from a hotel by the Austrian owners of a magnificent yacht that sailed  back and forth, in the white pants and purple shirt he sailed a yacht with the motorcycles parked on the dock, the wicker table and chairs on deck with a few dozen roses in it, the sun setting into the op of a palm tree each evening as I stared out the window, knowing even then never to forget that moment and that I would be back. When I return this October, with my friends, K and S, who are generous and lucky enough to hold this deluxe home,  I will look for my shadow or ghost at the Matisse Chapel or in Vence or past the gated Picasso studio.