“Nowhere Have I Felt Such a Fragrance of Flowers…”

I pulled the car over at the first opportunity, beside a beautiful stone wall. I stepped out with sweeping gestures and bold excitement, throwing myself into the full embrace of the scents drifting through the air of the breathtaking Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. A deep and composed silence reigned, broken only by the diverse song of birds echoing paradise.
“This is heaven on earth,” I said aloud, wide-eyed, in awe.

I found myself slipping into a dimension where time no longer existed, descending a winding lane with an open view of the azure sea. All around, an abundance of green painted the landscape, occasionally interrupted by patches of white, pink, or yellow roses. Tall palm trees and dense, small shrubs breathed life into the gardens on either side. It was a total diversity—yet in perfect harmony. All my senses danced in vibrant rhythm with this poetic setting, leaving room only for admiration and reverence.

With quiet steps, so as not to disturb nature’s spectacle, I descended, at random, along a lane flanked by stunning private gardens belonging to estates of enchanting elegance. A gardener had just finished trimming the grass in one of the generous yards, where thick vegetation veiled, like a curtain, a Mediterranean villa with wide, bright white windows. The scent of fresh-cut grass in the middle of May added a vivid rustic note, weaving an exquisite and paradoxical feeling—lavish in its refined taste, yet familiar through the universal language of nature, whispering constantly in my ear: “Keep going…”

I floated in the womb of nature down to a crossroads at the bottom of the road, where the view opened wide onto the vast blue gulf. With my eyes bathed in the sea’s brilliance, I glimpsed over the fence of the famous Grand-Hôtel du Cap-Ferrat—a cheerful, colorful parrot engrossed in the ripe, orange fruits of a Japanese loquat tree.

Here, at “Heaven’s Gate”, a wide, straight alley led from the splendid Grand Hotel, dividing a carefully manicured lawn. Splendid flowers to the left and right, proud trees, and birdsong celebrated life in its purest form. Life shimmered. A fountain added its own violin notes to the symphony of which I stood witness, breathless with delight. And I said, certain: “Here, God is pleased.”

After a few hours and a peaceful lunch, watching the sunbeams pour through the large window of La Veranda restaurant, I said it was the perfect moment for a new escape—now, while time stands still.

In an instant, I arrived at Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild, climbing a gentle, narrow slope surrounded by a Mediterranean calm as still as a glacial lake.

From this high perch, I cast glances and thoughts into the endless blue of this extraordinary day, bursting with unending splendor. It surged forth, majestically embroidered, swirling in a wild and free dance, then softened into a spiral of eternity.

There were no more minutes or hours, no more day or night—only a boundless now.

I looked up and down, from the lofty pines to the neatly trimmed hedges. That same intoxicating floral perfume followed me, softening my knees. A powerful cocktail of light and fragrance swept through me, energizing and awakening me to myself. I shed my skin with a smile, awakening like a butterfly whose moment had come. I was now, I was here, and I would always be.

In the clarity of that moment, the earth called me back like a gentle parent. Its scent, and the distant sound of a lawnmower, wove a silver thread over a world without end. I was home, here, at the top of the world, like a bud cupped in the hands of an old man. I basked in the sun, bare-shouldered, my hair fluttering—like a mischievous child, freshly baptized by the mystery of a memory.

I felt like a guest within the villa’s 1912 walls, frolicking through its diverse rooms and among its precious porcelain. My eyes sparkled as I looked, like a little girl forbidden to touch. Beatrice’s porcelain collection (daughter of Baron Alphonse de Rothschild) is renowned—perhaps the richest in France. And you don’t need to be an expert to know it. Her bedroom with a view over the open sea, the dresses and shoes preserved there—these delighted me and awakened that inner fantasy, that longing of a heart for times it never lived but only imagined.

With the same ease, I found myself caught in the spell of the villa’s nine themed gardens, beneath wispy, ethereal clouds. The dancing fountains charmed us all. And I leapt through storybook scenes, delighted—while the monument looked on from above, smiling. Watching all these wide-eyed wanderers, from the Belle Époque… until now.

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