I brought a few souvenirs home from my recent trip to Italy and France. In addition to a few well-earned (no regrets) pounds, it included a selection of grandkid-friendly and U.S. border-approved foodstuffs, a couple of bottles of wine, a coveted bottle of Barolo wine from the Piedmont region of Italy and a rosé from the Saint-Tropez region of France.
Saint-Tropez was my next-to-last stop, and I arrived anticipating a certain kind of idyllic postcard setting. In my mind, it was always a sun-drenched harbor dotted with oversized yachts, where champagne and rosé flowed as freely as cheek-to-cheek greetings among friends. And yes — during the season, Saint-Tropez is absolutely all of that.
But I didn’t arrive in season. I arrived a day before the opening night of the Christmas market, in time to witness the transformation of Saint-Tropez.
Instead of couture and caviar, I stepped into something sweet and magical. The quintessential cobblestone streets led me to a square twinkling with garlands of lights, and a towering village tree swathed in ribbons of gold and red. Families filled the square — young mothers balancing babies on their hips, grandparents bundled in traditional wool, cute flirty teens and more adorable dogs than I could count. Dozens of waggy-tailed and well-loved pups running loose, confined to strollers or attached to bejeweled leashes could have been a Hallmark canine Christmas movie in the making!
I had been invited to experience the lovely Hotel La Ponche, a jewel tucked into the old fishing quarter, and it was an unforgettable experience. But it was the village itself that captured my heart in the way that only pinch-me travel experiences can — the feeling that reminds you you’re somewhere entirely new, yet somehow it pulls in strands of long-ago memories, like waiting in great anticipation for Christmas.
The market chalets were wrapped around the yacht-filled harbor, offering handknit crafts, candles, local cheeses, charcuterie, champagne, rosé, caviar, hot chocolate and decadent-looking desserts.
I don’t speak French, and I didn’t need to, because long ago I learned that the art of hand and heart gestures can usually convey my thoughts while traveling on foreign soil.
Everyone waited together for the magical moment: the lighting of the tree. Strangers stood shoulder to shoulder, smiling at each other and even to the strangers in their midst (me). When the lights finally burst alive, the crowd let out collective ooohhhs and ahhhs. A moment of unity, tiny but real and satisfying. The people of Saint-Tropez are devoted to their patron saint, and the lighting of the tree was followed by singing and a traditional parade of beret-capped drum and bugle corps.
The air was filled with music and laughter, as well as wonderful aromas from the market chalets and sidewalk cafes: sweet crepes and cocoa, and pots of melting cheese. Both raclette and fondue are popular in Saint-Tropez. Traditionally, raclette is served from the chalets, but the fondue is meant to be shared around a table of lively and loving friends. Watching tables of animated friends, waving their forks, stabbing bread or new potatoes, and dipping them into the pots of gooey, fragrant cheese reminded me that I need this.
I couldn’t help but think of our hometown, remembering when Sandpoint felt more village-like, when we did a better job of showing up for one another and were not afraid to embrace the person next to us.
We spend a lot of time talking about being better and doing better. We aren’t the same community I remember and long for. But maybe we could try again, with small gestures, where a smile or nod of affirmation is exchanged on the parade route or a sidewalk event gathering — the moment when the lights come on, and everyone forgets themselves long enough to gasp together or offer a cup of something warm to a chilled stranger or share a pot of cheese placed at the center of a communal table.
Travel has a way of reminding us of the things we already know but sometimes forget: that community isn’t a place, but something we create. Maybe we need more practice.
And maybe the smallest, coziest way to begin cultivating that practice at home is around a pot of melted cheese. Because if there’s one thing I learned on that night in Saint-Tropez, it’s that cheese (and a little wine) has the power to unite literally anyone.
So, in the spirit of warmth, welcome and village-making, here’s a recipe to help you gather your own circle of family, friends, neighbors or even newcomers you simply wish to draw into your fold. This cheese fondue recipe is tried and true at our house, and used to be a tradition for our Christmas Eve crew. As soon as I get home, I’m gathering my forks and dusting off my fondue pot. I hope you’ve got one, too!
Classic cheese fondue
Serves 6-8 as an appetizer, or 2-4 as dinner with a salad and your favorite wine. For fondue, French bread works better than a chewy sourdough.
Ingredients:
• 1 clove garlic, halved • 1 cup dry white wine • 1 tablespoon lemon juice 8 oz. grated Gruyère cheese • 8 oz. grated Emmental cheese • 2 teaspoons cornstarch • 2 tablespoons kirsch (optional but traditional) • Freshly ground black pepper • A pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
For dipping: • Cubed crusty bread is traditional too: apple slices, small steamed potatoes, blanched vegetables or anything your inner Saint-Tropez holiday spirit desires.
Directions:
Rub the inside of a heavy pot or fondue pot with the cut sides of the garlic, then discard the cloves.
Add the wine and lemon juice and warm gently over medium heat until just steaming. Toss the grated cheeses with the cornstarch. Add the cheese mixture to the pot a handful at a time, stirring constantly in a steady stirring motion until completely melted and smooth.
Stir in the kirsch and season with pepper and nutmeg.
Keep warm over low heat and serve immediately with plenty of bread and plenty of friends.
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