Lifestyles of the Riche and Célèbre as Discovered by the Sisterhood of the Traveling Hotpants (thanks Cindy Lou!)

 

This is the next set of adventures in my series on five American college girls, aka the Hot Hadassah Sisterhood, storming Europe in the summer of '69.

We begin this chapter by leaving Paris and heading for the French Rivera.

Join us in some sun and sex-drenched adventures as we meet fellow students, two queens and learn about some stars. We even shoot the moon.

 

The station sign read Juan-les-Pins. I said, "Pretty name. Let's get off here and look around. Maybe stay a while."

Big mistake. Or maybe not.  

We couldn't find Juan-les-Pins listed in Frommer. For good reason. It belongs in Europe on $5000 a Day. One of the most exclusive towns on the French Rivera. Like Cannes, like Monaco. But richer.

Think yachts. Think mansions. Think casinos. Think, well... I just looked up their web site. Even today, under the category Accommodations, it  says: "Palaces, Hotels..." Oookkkaaay.

What a picture we five must have made tumbling off the train in our "Hope-and-Arthurs," as we called the Frommer-approved wash 'n wear travel outfits, rumpled and sweaty, each lugging a big nylon suitcase. (Reminder, no wheels on suitcases back then, cheap nylon luggage was easiest to carry).

But that lovely sea breeze was blowing, flowers were blooming and we didn't yet know we'd entered an exclusive paradise we could in no way afford. Or, maybe we could. Briefly.

 

Juan-les-Pins

We wandered, staggered really, into the postcard-perfect town, collapsed onto chairs at a sidewalk cafe. I asked the waiter if he knew of a cheap place to stay. He looked at me as though I'd thrown up on his shoe.

Well. Excusez-moi! Quite a condescending snoot from somebody who works for tips. Okay, I guess he wasn't expecting a big one from us anyway.

Still, I was getting tired of being dissed by the arrogant French. We might have been traveling on the cheap, but we came from nice homes, were going to college, weren't accustomed to being treated like trash.

On the other hand, none of us could claim Titles. Palaces. Yachts. Oh, perspective, thy name is Juan-les-Pins.

Dutch Treat
There were three guys at the next table... and they spoke English! Dutch university students, they'd also taken a wrong turn, money-wise, but had found a large room in the least expensive pension in town and offered to share it with us.

 

Salvation. We'd stay the night, pool our francs and live like the upper crust. Right ... five giggling girls sneaking themselves and their big suitcases through the window of a garden room without detection. Incroyable! Obviously the manager took pity on us and looked the other way.

We showered (two at a time ... oh, get over yourself) and changed. Our merry group headed toward the sea and found an outdoor restaurant with a prix a fixé (fixed price per meal) menu. We could order three meals and share.

Two couples had already formed, Ginger and my sister had already become instant best friends (they're in touch to this day) and were deep in conversation. The third boy, while apparently the leader, seemed a bit shy.

He was really quite sweet and attractive in a bland blond way. I decided to draw him out. When he told me his name was Jap (the Dutch version of Jack), I cracked up. He looked crushed.

I quickly explained the term Jewish American Princess. It was his turn to laugh, with delight. "But my friends and I, we are also Jewish!"

Major score for the Hot Hadassahs! What're the odds? The rest of the evening was filled with bonding, drinking, clubbing and fun.

 

Back at the pension, the boys gallantly gave us the room's three beds and an extra cot that had mysteriously appeared during our outing. (Some Frenchmen are nice after all, especially pension managers).

There were sounds of mixing and matching in the dark, but I fell asleep peacefully next to my sister, Jap on the floor beside the bed, gently holding my hand. 

Sur La Plage
The next day we hit the beach. Gorgeous. Glorious. Spectacular. Deep azure water, soft white sand ... what we could see of it. Overpopulated with private umbrellas, cabanas and special lounge chairs reserved for the rich. Not to mention their minions bustling about, waiting on them hand and foot.

The cost to rent one towel would feed three of us lunch. So we shared towels too, enjoyed a day in the sun and surf, admitted defeat and checked out of the pension, I'm sure to the manager's relief.

Off to Nice en masse, where we'd reserved two rooms at a Frommer-approved pension in our price range. We got the boys a room there too.

Nice. Very Nice. Bring on the Queens
 

I'm not sure the Frommers knew who owned this particular pension in Nice. Their sexual orientation, I mean. Not that there's anything wrong with that. 

It was like walking onto the set of a Noel Coward play. You expected to see Cole Porter seated at the baby grand in the parlour, partially hidden by dozens of silver framed photos of American and English show biz legends from the 1920's to the 60's.

The walls were covered with posters of Broadway plays and more autographed photos. The very air seemed to smell of greasepaint. And salt. (We were two blocks from the sea, after all).

Show tunes were playing softly in the background. Or maybe just in my head. To me, the place was magical.

 

Our hosts were two retired costume and set designers and my dear, they were a total hoot. After more than 30 years in show biz together they'd realized their dream of owning a pension in the South of France and growing old together in peace. They looked so alike, as long married couples often do, it was hard to tell them apart.

(I've been told they were partly the inspiration for the characters in "La Cage au Foules" -- the movie version titled in English "The Bird Cage." It could be true. I hope it is).

 

As our group checked in, our hosts noticed some curious stares, and one of them announced with a perfectly executed flounce, "Yes, dears, we're queers, get over it or get out."

I extended my hand to John or Patrick, I can't remember which, and replied, "We're not queer but we'll be getting laid, so if you won't kick us out for that, we want to stay." Uproarious laughter, a big hug for me (oh the perfume!) and kinship was born.

Bonding Over Broadway and Bondage
I asked if they knew our parent's closest friend, a theatrical 'angel' and lawyer whose partner and client was the legendary Broadway producer David Merrick. "Hello Dolly," "Oliver," "Gypsy," "42nd Street," "I Can Get It for You Wholesale."

Don't know that last one? I'll help you. Merrick and Uncle Mort found and hired a little known girl for a small role in that show, which catapulted her to fame. Who? Oh, just Barbra Streisand.

 

It was official. I made the leap from Jewish American Princess to Honorary French Queen.

We were given a full tour of the historic pension they'd restored, even shown their private quarters. Quel Magnifique! Okay, a bit overdone. Though the velvet-covered handcuffs attached to the ornate wrought iron headboard were a nice touch. A few faces paled, eyes widened.

John or Patrick, I can't remember which, draped an arm around the shoulders of one of the open-mouthed boys and drawled in a perfect Southern accent dripping with honey and irony, "Just say the word, dear, and we'll let you try them on..."

That little Dutch boy scurried away. My fellow queens and I enjoyed it immensely.

Every encounter with our hosts included one or both making an entrance. Theatrical gestures in abundance, complete with studied head tosses and the ever-present acrid but oddly aromatic scent of Gauloises in long cigarette holders mixing with le parfum du jour.

What a find. They captured our hearts with their obvious love for each other. With their unabashed, unapologetic gayness. (Though gay only meant "happy" back then). Their flamboyant joie de vie qualified in both definitions.

Plus, of course, we loved them for The Dish.

They told us lurid behind-the-scenes stories about Broadway and Hollywood stars. Who was naughty, who was nice. And with whom. Some just incredible.

Remember,1969 was still a time of major movie stars whose feet of clay were never revealed to the public. John or Patrick, I can't remember which, swore us to secrecy, then announced, "Darlings, Rock Hudson is a raging queen. Everybody knows he loves l'enculer but no one dares tell."

(Enculer, you ask? I learned that naughty word from John or Patrick, I can't remember which. Even I have some standards. You'll have to look it up).

 

If you've of a certain age, you'll understand what a stunning revelation that was, though no one believed us back in America. Years later the news broke and that gifted, beautiful man died of AIDS. Which didn't exist when we were frolicking through Europe.

There were more stories, but most of the subjects are still alive, so discretion prevents me from spilling. Also fear of lawsuits.

But on to the beach and getting better acquainted with our Dutch traveling companions.

Nice Beach Not Nice
 

As lovely as the beach at Juan-les-Pins had been, we were unprepared for the one at Nice. Beach? To this part-time Jersey Girl "beach" means "sand."

Mais non. The Nice beach is all rocks and pebbles and sharp shells. One must rent a matelo, a kind of mattress, if you want to sit or lie down.

Still, the Mediterranean was just as spectacular. Oh, did I mention that on the Rivera people sunbathe nude, or at the least, topless? In Nice we went native.

It was remarkably liberating. Invigorating. Inviting. Jap, it turned out, was not as shy as first I'd thought. I have him to thank for my very first experience pour faire amour in the sea. (And I was not alone in that activity. Double heads were bobbing here, there, everywhere).

Jap was smitten. He wanted me to come to Amsterdam to meet his parents. Nice offer, nice Jewish boy, but not in my life plan. I said Maybe, since Amsterdam was in our travel plan. I wasn't being cruel, just honest. Plus, I said, you never know. We have time. Wrong.

Jap had to go home for a family wedding or something. And I met another nice Jewish boy. One of the most famous nice Jewish boys in the world. Okay, not a boy, a man. And man, do I mean man.

This piece is already long. Maybe I should stop here and tell you that story another day?

Okay, don't yell at me. Go get a drink or something. I'll wait. Keep the kids out for this one if you can.

The best one-night-stand in the history of the world.

 


L'étranger
Jap had gone, the seven of us were sitting in a cafe overlooking the sea. Something made me turn my head. A man, sitting alone, older, handsome, casually elegant (hey, I knew elegant), raised his glass to me and tilted his head. I smiled and turned to pick up my glass in reply.

When I turned back he was standing by my chair, hand on the back, almost possessively, about to pull it out so I could stand. "You will join me for dinner," he asked quietly in French, more statement than question. "Your friends will not miss you." His eyes were so confident, so compelling, I was on my feet without knowing I'd risen.

Note: It's important to remember that our conversation in this story was entirely in French. You'll see why that's relevant in good time.

In his deep, throaty voice he complimented me on my Français très idiomatique as we walked away from the table where the others sat speechless. (I was trying to look cool. But it was really hard not to skip with joy).

He asked where did my family live in America, what was I doing after my travels. Ah, l'Université de Pennsylvanie, une si bonne école! (I should have caught that one, he knew Penn, that it was a good school, but hey, I was dazzled... okay, I was downright ferklempt).

We seemed to be strolling aimlessly. But I'd discover nothing this man did was aimless. He asked was I hungry or would I like to take a drive. Oh, a drive, I said. I think I said. I was coming undone.

For sure I was no longer hungry. Not for food. The deep gazes into my eyes made my knees weak, every responsive smile or raised eyebrow at something I said had my heart pounding, each light touch on my arm, at the small of my back, made my breath catch.

I was being seduced by a master. And I could think of no good reason to stop him. We came to a stop behind the cafe.

Ah, not aimless at all, he'd been leading me to his car. A bright red Lotus Elan. Merde sainte! je t'aime! (Okay, I'll give you this one: holy shit, I'm in love!)

 

Also, I was beginning to wonder, who is this guy? (Hint: see below).

Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat
He drove with confidence, fast but sure, along the serpentine road climbing above the sea. The one you've seen in movies. Higher and higher. I wondered where we were headed but didn't care, was loving the wind in my hair, his tanned hand on the gear shift, my own gears beginning to shift, oh this was going to be so good....

Suddenly he turned into a hidden driveway, slowed as tall iron gates opened to let us pass, accelerated a bit up the steep incline, brought the car to a stop in front of, well, this...

 
Ephrussi de Rothschild Villa

And I saw it also at night, when it look more like this...

 

"Where are we," I whispered. "Are we allowed in here?"

"But of course," he said in a normal voice. "I live here. Well, I'm visiting my parents. They live here in summer. They're not home now, would you like to have a swim?"

"I have no bathing suit," I said, nervous, stalling.

He looked at me, raised an eyebrow. "Un jeu?" (Literally 'a game,' but in context, an idiom, 'are you teasing me?')

Okay, that was dumb. But surely he didn't really live here... he's a servant, maybe the pool boy, he steals one of the cars and uses it to get girls. We could get caught. Who knows what would happen.

As he opened the car door to help me out, he stroked my fingers firmly, intimately. Okay, I thought, let's see where this goes just a little longer.

His hand warm on my back, he led me around the side of the house (house? uh, palace) and into what I can only assume was a copy of the Garden of Eden... if not the original.

  

The sublime flowering path widened and a pool appeared, glistening with shaded underwater lights. Backed by a columned building with wide glass doors. Soft light was glowing inside. By then, so was I.

 

He led me into the building (oh the gorgeous antique furniture, like a movie set), picked up a phone, spoke quickly, ordering cheese, fruit and wine. This was no pool boy. (Au contraire, il était l'un des barons du famille).

The brusque authority in his voice made me quiver with anticipation. He knew. Stood directly behind me, stroked a finger down the back of my bare arm, turned me toward a door and said, "Go there. Remove your clothes and choose a robe. We'll nibble first."

Oh. My. God.

I couldn't move. I wasn't sure my legs would work. He turned me to face him, slid his fingers into my tangled hair, I was already leaning in, eyes closing. The lightest kiss, butterfly wings, whispered across my lips, moved to my cheek, down my neck, up the other cheek, then gently, randomly, over my face, my forehead, my eyelids.

"You wish my assistance?" he murmured into my ear, his breath a caress. "Or can you undress on your own?" A challenge. Or a command. I didn't know which. I was too inexperienced for this level of gamesmanship. A tear escaped, slid down my cheek.

"Help me, please." It was a quiet plea, with all the dignity I could summon. I wanted him, and the pleasure sure to follow, but I didn't know the rules. You understand, I wasn't asking him to take my off my clothes, but to tell me how I was meant to respond.

It was a risk, maybe he'd think me too childish, unsophisticated. Boring.

He thought me charming. He told me so as he neatly licked the few tears away. Honest, open, without guile, refreshing qualities in such a lovely, sensual young woman.

So. Okay. I was feeling better. But when would the real kissing start? And all the rest. Jeez, was I young and impatient. He knew.

He led me into the large ... well, I guess it was a dressing room. To one side was a gleaming marble bathroom, just outside of which was a gorgeous antique vanity with a matching bench. There were closet doors along one wall, a large chaise lounge against another. Tapestries on the walls. Dim light came from the bath. Just enough to see.

"Rest a few moments, compose yourself," he said gently. "Come to me when you're ready." Smart move. Very, very wise.

 

Alone, I got a grip. And a clue. This might be how the rich lived but sex is sex in any milieu. I stripped, washed, hung my clothes in the closet, put on a velvety soft terry robe. Didn't tie the belt.

When I stepped outside there was a small table covered in white linen, beautiful porcelain china filled with fruit, cheese, bread, two bottles of wine. Champagne in a silver cooler. Open. Two glasses there. One full. One empty. I drank. Slowly. Waiting.

His fingertips grazed my neck as he reached under my hair to grasp the back of the robe, slid it over my shoulders, let it drop to the ground as his hands followed it, stroking my arms, my shoulders, my back... I was purring with pleasure.

"Lovely, just as I imagined, lush, ripe, beautiful, here, here, here..." he was murmuring softly as his hands and lips traced the curve of my back, my hips, my thighs. Turn me around, I wanted to scream. I was on fire. He knew. And continued to take his time.

When finally, finally, he turned me to face him, pressed me against him, crushed my mouth with a demanding kiss, I was so far gone je suis venu where we stood.

The first of many, many, many petites décès. His triumphant laugh spurred my assertive juices. The game was on.

For hours we made sharp, sweet, hot love, drank wine, fed each other sharp cheese, sweet fruit and hot baguettes, swam in the pool, made love there too. And on lounges, chairs, the soft grass, against the glass doors, on the plush carpet inside.

We talked and laughed and sang each other's praises in time-honored love making cries. It was, in a word, sensationnel.

Which reminds me to remind you the whole encounter took place in French. At the time, I spoke it pretty fluently. And you do remember my reference to the French dedication to the langue maternelle, right? Ahem.

Eventually, after hours and hours of superb lovemaking my brain was fried, empty, finished. I could barely think in any language. I lay drained on the plush double chaise by the pool. And there he was, again, sliding down, parting my knees again, lowering his head, again.

I think perhaps that last time I experienced a Primal Scream.

So when he whispered a French sexual idiom I didn't quite know, "tu as suivie?" which means, basically, have you come enough? (Only the French would think of that) ... I answered without thought, in English.

"I don't know what you just asked," my voice was hoarse, exhausted, "but I'm sure I have."

He burst out laughing. Huh? What? "You speak English?" I was dumbfounded.

"Of course," he said, in English, accent-free, "I was born in New York."

"New York?? But... but... why did you make me speak French all night?"

"You are in my country and can speak the language. Why would I insult you  by offering you English? You'd expect me to speak English in New York, non?

Unassailable logic. All I could do was plead, "But now I can barely think in English, much less French. It's your fault, the least you could do is continue." He laughed again and agreed.

"Let's have a shower and get you back into town." If I'd had any strength I'd have been sorry. But frankly, I wanted a bed. Sleep. Solo. And holey moley, did I have a story to tell.

 

Vive La Lune!
As we drove toward Nice around 4 am we noticed something odd. Lights were on everywhere. Cafes and restaurants were open, filled with people, all focused on television screens.

We pulled up to the nearest cafe, made our way inside to a front table (of course he knew the owner) and as we were trying to imagine WTF was going on, the TV screen grew brighter, a fuzzy picture emerged and Neil Armstrong's voice intoned, "That's one small step for man. One giant leap for mankind."

 

I was speechless. Crying with patriotism and joy as everyone cried out, Vive L' Americans! Vive la lune! Wow. That special night I'd had two trips into space.

He turned me to face the crowd, kissed my hand in honour of my briefly adored nationality (not a typically French feeling about Americans).

If you're old enough, you remember the awe, the excitement of the first moon landing, but probably not exactly where you were or what you were doing.

I will never forget the night Americans stepped foot on the moon. Because so had I.

~~~~~~~~
Next, Italy. I fall for an Italian man child (and his family) while my sister takes a turn at being sick. Until we meet an American college football team. More sex in that one too, plus some historic sights, I promise.