The Côte d’Azur is beautiful in September – even though her beaches suffer from human disrespect. A look back at an otherwise very pleasant stay in Provence.

1. FISHING FOR
CIGARETTE BUTTS
I know, people think I’m crazy, but I can’t help it.
Whether on the Malabar coast or
the Gulf of Saint-Tropez, I pick up the trash
washed up on the sand.
In front of me, a helicopter crosses the gulf. I track it with my eyes. Where
is it going? Which V.I.P. is the pilot dropping off at which villa surrounded
by greenery – majestic clusters of umbrella pines, alleys lined with lavender
and rosemary perfectly tended by a squadron of gardeners? But he doesn’t
land, he flies over a big yacht moored there, a few hundred meters from
the port of Saint-Tropez. The chopper remains suspended for a few
minutes above the ship, obviously making a delivery. Champagne? Caviar?
Food that has travelled thousands of kilometers. Maybe also Miraval rosé,
fine fish, figs and peaches from Provence? Local stuff.

2. SOBRIETY?
WHAT ABOUT RESPECT??
Yesterday was the "journée de la sobriété" (sobriety day). The first one.
Sticking to the news. A sobriety lived daily by billions of human beings out
of necessity. An incongruous word for the lucky few, whose idea of sobriety
is taking out their 4 x 4 in favor of the sports coupe, going shopping at the
market with a nice basket bought in Saint-Tropez at the beginning of the
summer.
Like any other day, I pace the beach, picking up cigarette butts and
fragments of dangerous plastics which can be fatal for the marine fauna.
My fingers stir up the bundles of posidonia abandoned by the morning tide.
Three women, their skin blackened by months of prolonged exposure to
the Provencal sun, observe me. They clearly take me for a madwoman. But
who is the craziest? The one who plants her cigarette butts in the fine sand
without bothering to get up from her little folding seat to reach the first
trash can (which is never far away) or the one who collects cigarette butts
and plastic fragments to protect the fauna? I know that this is just a drop of
empathy for the animal cause in an ocean of rubbish (including millions of
tons of microplastics), but I can’t help it.
IF IT BOTHERS ME,
I TAKE ACTION
If it would only occur to these cackling hens to raise their posteriors from
their folding chairs and pick up some cigarette butts and fragments of
plastic washed up on the beach. It is "their" beach since they come here
every day, sit in front of the white wall, lounge under the eucalyptus trees,
feed the seagulls there, calling "pioupiou, pioupiou". They could take care
of the beach like their potted plants.
For now they float, supported by their ethylene vinyl acetate and
polyethylene foam pool noodle, without interrupting their chatter. I stand
up; I spot a large piece of red plastic sticking out of the sand to my right.
One of the three women gives me a sorry look. "Yes, I’m crazy," but I can’t
help it.
Plan-de-la-Tour, in September 2022