I thought La Jolie Grandmere had the biggest house in France, at least in Cannes. As a child it was sprawling, vast and truly magnificent. I am delighted that I can still recall her house, Jardins des Arbres -- translated Garden of Trees -- so vividly and colorfully. I am so happy, that even from the eyes of a young child I could see and truly appreciate the magnificence that was this house. With all the elegance and glorious aspects of the architecture and decor, there was still plenty of whimsy to entertain a young girl like me.

My grandmother's bedroom and bathroom were all pink. Bubblegum pink. Well, pink and white, actually. Bright pink walls with a bed made out of white trellis. It tickled my young senses. It was whimsical and yet so elegant. It takes a strong man to live in a bedroom such as this. Her adjoining bathroom matched in color and detail. Certainly this was a bedroom suite for Princesses and Queens... and Fairies.

The living and dining room area were open. There were two walls. Both were painted black. One lined with books and bookshelves. The other stood plain, save a few pieces of art. The other two sides were exposed to the open air -- to the pool and olive trees and mountains and the Mediterranean beyond and to the atrium which would later on become a glass ceilinged dining area. The furniture was white and the floor was a crisp, cool, elegant white tile. The natural light from the outdoors changed the tone of the room as the time, days and seasons changed. The snow on the pool area beyond blanketed the outdoors. Glass doors were pulled together so that no matter what the weather, one would always feel at one with the outdoors. Of course, I never experienced Cannes in the winter. I only summered there. Her house was photographed so many times that I am privileged to own these acclaimed magazines.

On the other side of the atrium with the wonderful lion water fountain built into the ivy-lined, concrete wall that constantly trickled a steady stream of water, was the tiny, plain, one car garage. There was nothing at all fancy about this concrete square with a roof overhead. Nothing unless you are a young child fascinated with over-sized turn tables!

The small garage was atop a long, winding, and very steep driveway in the mountains overlooking the sea. Perhaps this long, never ending driveway is why I thought the property to be so vast. To my little legs and espadrille-clad feet, the driveway seemed endless. I learned recently that it was not. I learned recently that my grandmother actually had a fairly small piece of property in the mountains by the sea. And together my mother and I found it with a million thanks to Google Earth. There she was, as lovely as ever! But indeed smaller than she seemed in my youth. And that long driveway? Not that long at all! But still steep indeed. And the reason for the roundabout, or turn table. Or as I liked to call it, the Merry Go Round! One simply could not back down the driveway... at least not with ease. And there was no room whatsoever to turn the car around at the top.

Charles was my grandmother's right-hand man, and chauffeur. When she did not venture out with my grandfather, Charles was always by her side. He was a wonderful man about 20 years her junior who lived in the house in an apartment on the garden level with his wife Lilliane.


Charles and Lilliane had a small one bedroom apartment on a lower level. The apartment was small but well equipped. It was near where the gardens would eventually go. The climate in Cannes was perfect for growing strawberries, lettuces, cucumbers and other items for one's food requirements. La Jolie Grandmere had a self sustaining garden long before Alice Waters and others made this term trendy and en vogue. She also had a small vineyard. Funny how memorable that was to me, even as a child. Foretelling, perhaps, of my great love of wine?!

Even though my Nannies traveled with me to France I used to like to hang around with Charles. (Nannies were allotted time off here and there.) He was gentle and loving and treated me as he would his daughter or niece. It was not uncommon for me to end up in his apartment with him and Lillianne. Sometimes I would show up unannounced and Lillianne or Charles would welcome me in as though I was a much anticipated guest. They would offer me glasses of water or juice that they would pour into their glass tumblers. The same tumblers that they drank their wine from. Again, I am quite amused that even as young as 3 or 4 I would hone in on the fact that they drank wine not out of stemware but regular tumblers! (Quite common practice in Europe, actually.)

One afternoon I was hanging out with Charles and Lilliane in their apartment. They were enjoying a glass of wine and a cigarette. This was the early 70s and everyone smoked. My mother and grandmother both did. They smoked filterless Gauloise (strong French) cigarettes that were just nasty -- of course I had to try one at some point in my teen years! Whether one knew, in the 1970s, that smoking was terrible for you, was uncertain. I do remember thinking that people who wore deep tans and smoked were terribly glam! Anyhow, one afternoon Charles and Lilliane were enjoying an afternoon smoke with an afternoon glass of vin rouge. I must have been watching them carefully, closely, curiously, because suddenly Charles offered me a puff. I accepted.

I remember being up in the kitchen not too much after my first cigarette with Charles, my mother and my grandmother. He told them of our afternoon. Both women started to laugh. "What did she think of it?" my grandmother asked Charles. He replied, also in a tone of laughter, "Hopefully that was both her first and her last cigarette!" Yes, I took a drag and began to cough uncontrollably.  I remember being given a butterscotch candy to suck on to help the cough. The taste of the smoke and the butterscotch have left an indelible mark on my brain. I can't say it is a terribly good one! Nor did his lesson work. I smoked for some time once I hit my teen years. Perhaps my only true regret thus far in my life...

Charles and I used to play on the roundabout when my grandparents were out. The garage would stand empty. I would walk onto the large metal turntable that resembled more a record player than Merry Go Round. Sometimes my feet were clad in one of my many pairs of colorful espadrilles, other times they were barefoot. When I was barefoot I remembered feeling the pattern of the cool metal beneath me. I remember the smell of metal and leather and petrol in the garage.

Charles would ask me if I was ready. "Prete!" I would shout out to him. (He spoke no English so therefore we only spoke in French together.) And he would flip the light switch and ever so slowly the large metal disk would start to turn. And I would stand on it. Arms stretched out to my sides as far as they would go. My eyes were closed and a smile was on my face. You couldn't possibly imagine how fun this was! Charles had the patience of a saint and we would play on the Merry Go Round for what would seem like hours at a clip. Sometimes he would sing Sur le Pont D'Avignon, Alouette... sometimes I would sing Lundi Matin, Au Clair de la Lune .. sometimes we would sing together... Il etait un petit navire, Savez-Vous Plantez les Choux?

Oftentimes when my grandmother had returned home from a trip to town, Charles would look for me to see if I wanted to ride in the car as he turned it around in preparation for its next outing.

(Tomorrow photos and text from sales brochure for Jardins des Arbres!)