“I’ll walk with you.”
We wander the narrow streets, the cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.
Paul points out hidden treasures—a medieval doorway, a tiny chapel, and the local bakery that makes the best pain au chocolat.
“It’s the Saint-Tropez that tourists never see,” he tells me.
Next he stops at what looks like a closed storefront. “You have to see this place—best blues club in town.”
“It looks closed.”
“That’s the point. Come on, I’ll show you.”
The entrance looks like a high-end souvenir boutique. Merchandise branded with Saint-Tropez is displayed like fine jewelry in gleaming cases.
Behind the counter, girls wearing black cocktail dresses lean elegantly against the displays.
“What is this place?” I whisper to Paul. “A bordello?”
“Not exactly,” he says, leading me past the storefront, then through a velvet curtain and down a narrow staircase.
We emerge into something entirely different—a cavernous space where century-old stone walls and ancient moldings contrast with throbbing music.
Black velvet drapes the walls. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, magnificent and slightly precarious.
The mix of decay and glamor captivates me. For 2 AM, the place is packed. “This is the hour when Saint-Tropez really comes alive,” Paul says.
The crowd is a mix of what the tabloids call “beautiful youngpeople,” wealthy older people, and artistic types who’d never make it past the velvet ropes at the beachfront clubs.
A hostess guides us to a tiny table near the front, complete with Tiffany lamp. The whole scene is like something from those old movies Hilary and I used to watch with Grandmother Lola when we were little.
“What would you like to drink?” Paul asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
“You order for me.”
He says something in French to the waiter, who returns with tall glasses containing two ice cubes and barely a teaspoon of liquid.
“What is this? It smells like licorice.”
“Pastis. It’s what we drink in Saint-Tropez. We mix it with water like this.” As he pours tonic into my glass, the liquid becomes cloudy, almost opalescent.
I take a sip. “It’s delicious!”
On stage, a woman with smoky eyes and a voice like velvet sings Edith Piaf songs, gesturing expressively.
The crowd watches in rapt attention. When she finishes her set, the room is warm with appreciation.
Then the hostess reappears at our table, whispers something to Paul.
“I told her earlier that you’re a singer. She must have told the manager. She’s asking if you’d like to perform.”
“At this hour?”
“Why not? Of course, if you’re tired...”
“Sure, I’ll sing,” I say, feeling a second wind. “Tell them I’ll need the band to follow my lead.”
“They always do.” Paul grins. “It’s that kind of place.”
