Barely out of a bivouac, Gaspard Koenig – novelist of Humus and an unwilling master of eco-anxiety – encountered Saint-Tropez, this mirage of smooth beach, chic bars, and bling-bling, without taking a plane, faithful to his lombrician religion. Very quickly, the “myth” crumbled: the waltz of euros, dollars, and roubles sculpted the village more surely than any explosion, while the early summer local fauna took up its quarters. Between fascination and shock, the “philosopher of the worm” saw his myth dissolve… and his early departure impose itself as an obvious choice.
Gaspard Koenig, novelist and essayist with a quiet irony, accepted a challenge he deemed absurd: to spend a few days in Saint-Tropez during the peak season, without a plane, carrying his “lombrician” credo and his eco-anxiety on radar mode. He found a myth that dissolves as soon as one approaches it, a sparkling setting where money has reshaped the sensitive map of the place, and an irresistible temptation: to leave before the end of the stay, to save a bit of air, time, and humor.
In the eyes of someone whom some call the “philosopher of the worm in the kingdom of bling-bling,” Saint-Tropez promised the exact opposite of his imagination: electric crowds, XXL boats, extended evenings, and credit cards swiped to the rhythm of a resident DJ. Out of love for paradox, he wanted to see. And out of fidelity to his principles, he vowed to go without a plane, convinced that another way to access the Mediterranean exists beyond kerosene.
From Humus to plastic palm trees: the tropézienne challenge
Author of Humus, a Balzacian novel that shook a generation obsessed with climate urgency, Gaspard Koenig found himself propelled as the master of ceremonies of eco-anxiety. He was offered to confront what he believes he hates: the postcard beach, the very chic bars, the shiny storefronts. He smiles, nods, promising to hold on after “ten days of bivouac” meant to toughen him up. At the start of summer, when “the local fauna” arrives, he sets sail towards the peninsula and its port myth.
Coming without a plane and looking without a filter
He chose the most sober route possible: train to Var, then a few kilometers by bicycle along the vineyards, and an arrival at dawn, when the streets still smell of fresh stone. On the coast, there are plenty of landmarks: for the curious, a useful overview of the codes and customs of the region can be found here knowing the Côte d’Azur. On the budget and trade-offs between sun and increasing bills, this guide is invaluable: summer, tourism, sun, and expenses. He travels light, of course, but heavy with expectations and apprehensions.
The fortified village under the reign of currencies
The first surprise struck him at the foot of the ramparts: this village, which resisted the cannonades of history, has not held up against the flow of currencies. It’s not bombs, but euros, dollars, and roubles that have patiently polished the social landscape, shifted the thresholds, and redrawn the priorities. The port shines, the citadel observes, the terraces align prices that transform smiles into mental calculations. The myth appears: it sparkles, it seduces, it escapes.
The first hours are an investigation. He wanders through the streets of a legendary city where the jet-set is visible, comparing the memory of a small fishing port to the current scenery, following the trail of the cheapest black coffee just twenty steps from the quay. The setting amuses him, the crowd astounds him. Everything reminds him of a thought experiment: at what point does a place cease to be inhabited and become a spectacle, and what remains for those who do not pay the entrance fee?
The kingdom of bling-bling and the challenge of observation
In the evening, the yachts light up their garlands. On the quay, a choreography of objects and gestures punctuates the night: shoes clattering, ice cream clinking, cameras flashing. He observes, takes notes, smiles: “The kingdom of bling-bling works in exact opposition to compost: it sparkles right away, and it nourishes nothing.” For those who collect shining addresses, one can explore luxury destinations in Europe where the art of appearance also serves as a passport. Here, he chooses distance, a sidestep, a bench in the shade.
Eco-anxiety in real conditions
He counts without counting: the carbon footprint of a bucket of champagne, the outdoor air conditioning, the tender trips between shuttle and vessel. His eco-anxiety is not a drama, it’s a measuring instrument. It tells him when the comedy of illusions becomes indigestible. He seeks humus in the stone and silence behind the music. Failing that, he finds amazing conversations with servers who hold the city as one manages a stage: with art, nerves, and smiles.
The myth that evaporates as soon as you touch it
On day two, he tries the market, attempts the beach early in the morning, climbs towards the citadel to see the sea breathe. The pop icon of Saint-Tropez – painter’s easel, scarf in the wind, eternal noon on the bell tower – turns out to be a better-framed image than a lived experience. The myth is like a fragrance on a handkerchief: it captures you, then it fades. The closer you get, the more it escapes. He thinks he should have started with a guide of essentials – one learns to look before judging – but time flies, and agitation takes over.
Encounters, paradoxes, and little revelations
He dines with a sailor who makes the round trip between Antibes and Saint-Tropez four times a week: “The sea belongs to everyone, but the quay does not,” jokes the man. He talks with a gallery owner who sells seascapes to clients who do not have time to look up. He listens to a couple who came to “check off” the place on a list. He talks to himself: “You wanted to see the theatre, here you are. Now you just need to decide if you like the play.”
Why leave before the end?
The decision is not a whim. It matures like an obvious truth: to stay would mean continuing to seek what, here, does not want to be given. To leave is to preserve curiosity for later, to maintain enthusiasm, to refuse weariness. “My myth is not dead, it moves too fast for me,” he writes before booking a seat on the first bus at dawn. Upon waking, the port yawns, the bell tower blushes, a boat-tent enters quietly. He crosses the still empty square and leaves.
The art of elegant evasiveness
Leaving Saint-Tropez early is also testing another fraternity: that of travelers who accept not to consume a place down to the bone. A philosopher sometimes knows how to bow: there are experiences that benefit from remaining unfinished. This departure does not condemn the city; it tells a relationship with the myth that prefers suspicion over overload, distance over saturation, a smile over a grimace.
A port of call remains possible
If one came otherwise, off-season, on foot from Salins beach, taking the time to learn the customs, perhaps the city would reveal its folds. Every place has multiple speeds. The mistake here was perhaps to chase after the image when one needed to let the image catch up with you. The shaded parks, discreet museums, second-tier cafés – all these shelters still exist, like echoes where the myth finally settles.
Useful references for those who stay
To prepare for a more settled and informed stay, these resources complement the picture: an overview of knowledge of the Côte d’Azur, a reminder on the summer-sun-expenses equation, ideas for luxury destinations in Europe to compare atmospheres, a stroll through the streets of a jet-set city, and of course the essential guide to Saint-Tropez to not miss the essentials.
What the experience says about us
The tropézienne account of Gaspard Koenig neither blames nor preaches: it stages a contemporary tension. We dream of iconic places, but we approach them saturated with images; we cherish the planet, but we love to party; we want authenticity, but we fear boredom. Between compost and confetti, he chose humor as a compass and evasiveness as elegance. His early departure is not a defeat: it’s a pirouette to keep curiosity intact.
