We’ve been in the south of France for five days now. We started in La Seyne‑sur‑Mer and then, pushed by circumstances, moved on to Saint‑Tropez. I know it sounds paradoxical to complain about being here of all places, but that’s the reality. These past days have been a bit of a shock, especially after the peace and comfort of Dordogne and Carcassonne.

I don’t know what standards other people have, but for me, normality on vacation means a clean room that smells fresh, a comfortable bed with spotless linens, a modern shower, and enough space to move around without bumping into furniture. And for us, since we travel for long periods, a functional washing machine isn’t a luxury — it’s a necessity. I don’t ask for much — not even a kitchen, since I have no intention of cooking while on holiday.

Well, it seems my experience here in the south of France falls far short in the comfort department. When I booked the “luxury” apartment in La Seyne‑sur‑Mer — as advertised by the owner on Booking.com — I naïvely believed it would actually be luxurious. Not Santa Monica, California level, but at least close.

Reality was something else entirely: I’ve never seen rooms so cramped, so tiny that we couldn’t even fit our suitcases inside and had to leave them in the hallway. The showers and toilets were so tight we could barely squeeze in, everything was eaten away by rust — probably from the salty air — and there were ants on the floor. The only real advantage was that the apartment was indeed right on the beach.

Our reaction upon entering the apartment was to grab our heads in disbelief. And this after nearly seven hours on the road, already exhausted. As a bonus, the cleaning crew hadn’t even finished after the previous guests.

We did our best to pull ourselves together that evening. We left Anna in the apartment and went out with George to explore the area: the beach, the surroundings, the shops. We stopped at a restaurant, hoping to recover after the long day — but that experience turned into yet another trauma.
The steak was full of gristle and fat, practically raw, the fries were burnt to a crisp, and the bill came to about 80 euros. George insisted we pay and leave everything untouched. I would have complained, but I was too drained.
We then found an Indian restaurant where we finally ate something decent. And that’s how we survived the first night.

The next day, however, I reached my psychological limit and filed a complaint with Booking — at this point, I’ve become an expert. 🤦🏻‍♀️ Two hours after my first message, I received a reply from the owner: he would refund us in full, but we had to leave the same day. Quite shocking, especially since he casually mentioned he had other guests arriving the next day, in the same “luxury” apartment.
My conclusion? The people here in the south of France are some of the lowest‑grade scammers I’ve ever encountered.

So, we packed our bags again, got in the car, and, completely disoriented, tried to figure out where to go next. We needed accommodation for the next five nights anyway, since after that we’re heading to Switzerland. After a few long moments of hesitation, George decided: we’re going to Saint‑Tropez.
His choice probably had something to do with Louis de Funès’ film The Gendarme and the Gendarmettes, but I no longer had the energy to comment. I was already at my limit.

So we quickly searched for something in Saint‑Tropez, hit the button, and booked. “God help us,” as the saying goes. After about two hours covering the 68 kilometers between the two locations — yes, the traffic here can drive you insane — we arrived. And… another trauma.

When I booked the apartment, the photos on Booking showed something modern: a spacious shower, large rooms, everything spotless. In reality, we found ourselves in an almost cave‑like dwelling, right in the port area of Saint‑Tropez, a house from about 200 years ago, probably once belonging to fishermen. Everything is stone, covered with a thick layer of paint, and the stairs are so narrow you have to bend and slide sideways to get through. For anyone who’s seen Les Visiteurs with Jean Reno, every time I go down those narrow spiral stairs I feel like I’m entering “dans les couloirs du temps.” Or like stepping into a troglodyte dwelling in Derinkuyu. I was just there two years ago. 😁

Since my family is already shaken by this whole saga of disastrous accommodations, I heroically held myself back from filing yet another complaint with Booking. I’m surviving through sheer willpower every minute I spend here. But it’s only until tomorrow… and then we’re off to Switzerland.

Now, about Saint‑Tropez. I can’t say I’m a fan of former fishing villages turned into “glamour” destinations. The port is basically a French Portofino: two‑ to three‑hundred‑year‑old buildings, untouched by any serious renovation, turned into showcases for expensive boutiques, while millionaires park their yachts a few steps away to make sure everyone sees them.

The port area is essentially the town center, full of luxury shops and flashy boutiques, where wealthy visitors buy gifts for their partners — sometimes visibly younger — whom they parade along the promenade each evening. It’s a unique fauna here, hard to describe: Russians, Italians, Ukrainians, most of them well past their youth, but with yachts anchored just meters away.

The beach is beautiful and well maintained, but the sand doesn’t have the softness of the Caribbean, and the shells poke your feet with every step. The sea, however, is lovely — perhaps the only thing that truly justifies being here.

Maybe back when Louis de Funès filmed The Gendarme and the Gendarmettes, the place had a genuine charm; today, the atmosphere is dominated by opulent yachts and a colorful parade of wealthy older gentlemen eager to show off their fortunes and the company of women whose intentions are… at the very least questionable.

As for me, I won’t be coming back here anytime soon — unless I get seriously lost.