My Luv Letter to the Côte d'Azur

Isabella Drenthen
Sep 13
8 min read

Dear Côte d'Azur,

We didn’t just tumble into the Côte d’Azur this summer; we staged a whole three-day road trip down the spine of France, each stop a little adventure on its own. With two cars full of boxes and luggage, we were off!

The Road South

First up: Nancy. Not the place you usually circle on a map when you’re plotting a glamorous Riviera holiday, but let me tell you, this castle stay was a 10/10. The kind of bed-and-breakfast run by someone who’s clearly in it for love, not money. The owner welcomed us like we were long-lost cousins and fussed over us in the way only true passion-project hosts can. The kind of hospitality that makes you feel guilty for ever booking a soulless chain hotel.

That evening, Nancy pulled out her trump card: a light show. The whole town square turned into a canvas of colour, history, and music. Magical... until the world’s loudest dog decided to contribute a one-bark-per-second soundtrack from the seat right behind us. If dogs could audition for EDM festivals, this one would headline. Still, even a canine DJ couldn’t ruin the spell entirely.

From Nancy, we drifted further south to Bagnols, where we stayed in a medieval château that dates all the way back to 1217. Eight centuries of history seeped out of the stone walls; kings, crusades, and now, us. My room was kitted out with both a throne and a throne toilet. I can confirm that the medievals were many things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. Standing in a fortress that had withstood wars and sieges while trying to log into the Wi-Fi was a surreal kind of comedy.

And then, Provence. Our last stop before home. The hotel was draped in ivy, its walls shaded by ancient trees, a place that looked like it had been painted rather than built. By the pool, dads splashed around with their toddlers while moms finally grabbed a moment of sun-soaked peace on their loungers. Watching them, my ovaries practically threw a rave. This (I thought) is the future I’d like one day. For now, I settled for finishing my book (finally!) with a glass of rosé in hand.

And then, finally, after three days of castles, ivy, and questionable canine soundtracks, we reached the Côte d’Azur.

Back to the Yellow House in the Côte d'Azur

The yellow house in Théoule-sur-Mer has become our anchor. We’ve been coming here on and off for years now, and this is our third time back to this exact house. By the time we pull into the driveway, it doesn’t feel like a holiday rental anymore. It feels like sliding into a favourite sweater.

Maybe it’s because we’ve been coming here with the same chosen family for over a decade now. Our adventures together have ranged from sailing a gulet in Turkey to wild game drives in Botswana to hopping between different villas in Provence. But somehow, we always end up circling back here, to this patch of coast that feels like ours.

Routines set in instantly. I wake up, help with breakfast, and then sneak off to the little terrace with my coffee. The view is so ridiculous that it should be illegal. The kind that makes even a to-do list feel poetic. I read a few pages of my book until the pool starts calling. Around noon, I’ll head down for a swim or a chat with whoever’s already sunning. Grocery runs with the dads. Lazy lunches. Cosy dinners out. It’s summer’s choreography, and we’ve rehearsed it so many times that it runs without effort.

Of course, no family tradition comes without chaos.

The Taco Twist

The chaos this year peaked on taco night.

It had been raining all day, so the dads gallantly declared that they’d cook dinner for the women—a sweet idea… in theory. Except, somewhere between their announcement and the first chopped onion, I reminded Len that he had once, years ago, promised us birria tacos. A promise still unfulfilled.

Cue the plot twist: instead of the dads cooking, Len and I suddenly found ourselves co-cheffing in the kitchen. We chopped, we simmered, we stirred, and we emerged victorious. The tacos were a hit, the dads applauded (relieved they’d been let off the hook), and we strutted to the dinner table like conquering heroes.

The evening, of course, didn’t end there. After tacos came Hitster, the Dutch game where you guess the release year of songs. Sounds harmless, right? Wrong. Nothing says “family bonding” like full-volume shouting across the table: “It’s Kiss of Fire! KISS OF FIRE!!!” I’m convinced the neighbours thought we were holding either a quiz show or an exorcism.

Edith Piaf at Sea

Then came the boat day. The boat itself was… let’s say, well-loved. But what it lacked in sparkle it made up for in spirit.

We anchored off Île Saint-Honorât for a swim in waters so impossibly clear I had to double-check they weren’t digitally enhanced. Then we cruised on to Reserva de Mala, a restaurant you can only reach by boat. And what a reward it was: stunning views, friendly staff, and the best fish I’ve ever tasted on the Côte d’Azur.

But the real star of the day wasn’t the fish, it was the restaurant’s self-styled “captain.” He picked us up in his tender like he was running a nightclub, blasting Edith Piaf’s Non, je ne regrette rien at ear-splitting volume. Singing along was mandatory. Picture it: a boat full of tipsy Dutchies, arms full of bags, belting French classics over the roar of an outboard motor. It was chaos, and it was glorious.

Of course, the ride back was less glamorous. The waves turned on me, and I spent most of it lying flat, trying to convince myself that seasickness was just another “authentic Mediterranean experience.” Thankfully, Cannes fireworks saved the evening. From our terrace, we watched the finale burst across the sky, and just like that, the rocky ride was forgotten.

St. Tropez: From Hermès to Neon

If you want proof that the Côte d’Azur is equal parts glamour and comedy, look no further than our St. Tropez day.

It rained. Not a drizzle, but full-on biblical floods. Mama decided it was still a good idea to go. Two hours of traffic later, we finally rolled into a submerged parking lot. My linen dress clung to me, my Hermès slippers were ruined, and Papa had already marched off with the one umbrella, leaving me to trail behind like a soggy extra in Les Misérables.

Within five minutes, my slippers gave up entirely, and I went barefoot through the puddles. I will never know what my feet endured in those streets, and frankly, I don’t want to. Still, I drew the line at walking into a café barefoot, so when we passed a shop selling brightly colored flip-flops, I surrendered. Out I walked with the loudest, most extravagant pair of neon-orange, flower-covered slippers you’ve ever seen.

And where did we end up? Having coffee at African Queen. Me, barefoot chic turned neon disaster, sipping cappuccino in a place that reminded me of my time in Africa.

But then, just as quickly as the skies had opened, the sun decided to play nice again. We made our way to Gigi Ramatuelle for lunch, and suddenly the day flipped from tragicomedy to postcard. The beach stretched out golden, the music was spot on, and the staff hit that rare sweet spot of funny and professional. The food? Absolutely amazing! The kind of plates that make you wish you had a second stomach.

Of course, there’s always a catch. Places like Gigi are influencer magnets, and the “vibe” sometimes shifts from enjoyment to performance. Around us, people spent more time arranging their plates and pouting into cameras than actually tasting what was in front of them. One table of girls seemed to be in a never-ending photo shoot, 500 selfies later and still unsatisfied. At another table, a young girl had literally fallen asleep, head on the table, while her family carried on filming themselves.

Back Where It All Began

One of the most nostalgic days came when Tessa, Laura, and I drove to Royal Mougins. For Tessa and me, it was back where it all began: our old internship stomping grounds in the south of France. Three years had passed since we’d last set foot there, and walking back in felt weirdly familiar, like stepping into a paused movie. Nothing had changed, yet everything had.

We didn’t bump into any of our old colleagues or favourite guests, which was a little disappointing, but I did spot golf coach David Berry from a distance. Still thriving, still doing his thing. That glimpse alone reassured me that some things in life really do stay consistent.

Afterwards, we went to the little bakery we used to haunt during our internship: same flaky pastries, same overstuffed sandwiches. We sat there with Laura, demolishing mega sandwiches and reminiscing about those months: the long shifts, the funny guest stories, the little victories that meant everything back then. For Laura, who hadn’t been with us during that chapter, it was storytime. For us, it was a reminder of how far we’ve come.

And then there was the last Friday night. Dinner at LouLou Pirate in Roquebrune, my soon-to-be home for the next ten months. Just me, my parents, and Laura. The food was simple but perfect, the kind of flavours that feel both familiar and elevated. We laughed until our sides hurt, the type of laughter that makes you forget to check your phone or notice the time. For a few hours, I wasn’t thinking about packing bags or looming goodbyes. I was just… there. Present. Happy. And for the first time, I'm excited about what comes next.

Never leaving (literally)

I will always feel at home in the Côte d’Azur. I’ve been coming here since I was a baby, and honestly, the number of embarrassing-but-cute photos of me taken on these beaches is off the charts. People always say the French are rude, but I’ve never once experienced that in all these years. Maybe I’ve been lucky, or perhaps the South has its own kind of magic. Of course, not everyone here is sunshine and smiles, but that’s true everywhere, even back home.

These holidays with our chosen family are always a highlight of my year. I love that the kids still come, even if only for a few days; it makes me appreciate that we’re all still showing up for each other. We really are one big family. And even though we didn’t go out as much this year, it only made the house feel more like home. The times we did go out felt extra special, not like in the past when we’d stumble into Michelin-level restaurants still hungover and barely able to enjoy them. This time, we noticed the details: the hospitality at LouLou, the effortless vibe at GiGi. Having worked in hospitality myself, I think I appreciate it even more now, knowing just how much work goes on behind the scenes to create those effortless moments.

Saying goodbye this time felt different. I know I’ll keep seeing everyone (I’m already flying home for a weekend at the end of the month), but moving to France felt like a more final chapter turn. Not knowing when I’ll move back home (if ever) gave the farewell more weight. Maybe it will be France for a while, or maybe Africa, the UK, or Italy will be next. We’ll see what this Master’s brings.

I was nervous to start this new chapter: a new Master’s, a new city, a new life; the French life, the luxury management life. And yet, it feels like the most natural step. For years, the Côte d’Azur has been my second home. But this year, for the very first time, it became my first home.

So thank you, Côte d’Azur, for always making me feel welcome. I’m excited to spend a whole year with you, and I have no doubt there will be many more Luv Letters to come.

Spread the Luv,

Isabella

P.S. Here are some of the best places we ate, drank, and sunbathed <3

Best Restaurants