St.-Tropez, for centuries a little-known fishing village, then the exclusive playground of Paris' bohemian set, is now a world-renowned resort for celebrities (Bardot, Rubirosa, Soraya, et al.), celebrity seekers and just plain celebrants. Perched midway between Marseilles and Menton on a small promontory jutting out from France's sandy, sun-steeped Côte d'Azur, St.-Tropez slumbers tranquilly during the off season, but awakens with esprit in June when vacationers begin trickling in. By July, the ripple becomes a rumble, as sports cars and power boats deliver a cosmopolitan mélange of revelers, most of whose identities are blurred in a mass of bare feet, barer midriffs and barely covered bosoms and bottoms. The onset of August signals the end of the international season: Les Français descend en masse and restore to the town its Gallic flavor, without diminishing its spice and vitality.
Playboy's itinerant impressionist, LeRoy Neiman, spent a fortnight in "St.-Trop," managing to observe and record the scene, even while being swept up in the spa's frenetic pace. "It was mostly sleepless-nightsville," he reports, "--a vain attempt to indulge in pleasant idleness that was really more active than idle." The merry-go-round begins, according to Neiman, at a place called L'Escale. "It's a smart bar-restaurant on the Quai, and most of the regulars check in about 8:30 in the evening. After several drinks, the crowd breaks up, some staying on to dine at L'Escale, others going to Le Café des Arts, or other fashionable spots. The dolce vita set digests a leisurely repast and then moves on to one of several select clubs privés--right now the 'in' group prefers a pair known as Chez Chyslaine and L'Esquinade. These boites are tiny--especially Chyslaine--and packed. They're wild, they're boisterous, and they hit their stride about three A.M. Then they go and go. Daytime, except for early-bird schoolteachers from the corn belt, doesn't begin until noon, when the coterie gathers in the harbor café adjacent to the yachts before wheeling or boating out to Tahiti Beach or Epi Plage. It doesn't matter whether you sun-bathe, skindive, water-ski, swim, ogle or disappear with one of the chicks to a secluded cove, the afternoon moves. Before you know it, the sun is setting and you go back to dress. Then," concludes Neiman, "la ronde begins again at L'Escale."
