Let me start where all great French Riviera stories begin: Canada.

Yes, Canada. Bear with me.

I was born and raised Canadian, which means I have an unshakeable tolerance for cold weather, an almost religious relationship with poutine, and the kind of bilingualism that turns out to be surprisingly useful when you move to France at 40 with your French partner, one very opinionated dog, and absolutely no plan.

Meeting Ludovic in Canada was the first plot twist. Following him back to France was the second. We landed in La Baule — lovely, charming, thoroughly Atlantic, and for approximately nine months of the year, aggressively grey. I don't want to be unkind about La Baule. It's beautiful. In summer. The rest of the time, it competes with Dieppe for the title of "most convincing argument for relocating."

We relocated.

The decision was made the way all great decisions are made: impulsively, with luggage, and with a dog who had absolutely no opinion on the matter but managed to take up most of the back seat regardless. We packed the car, pointed it south, and told ourselves we'd let destiny decide. Destiny, as it turned out, had excellent taste.

We sent CVs to every address on the Côte d'Azur we could find, with a simple rule: whoever gets a job offer first, that's where we land. It sounds romantic. It was also mildly terrifying. And it worked. The call came from Cannes.

Of course it came from Cannes.

Being bilingual in Cannes is essentially a superpower. Add a fifteen-year background in Human Resources, and doors don't just open — they fling themselves wide with a small round of applause. I walked straight into luxury hotels, and from there into the world of the Cannes Film Festival, which is exactly as glamorous and completely as chaotic as you're imagining. I have stories. I am keeping most of them.

For five years, life felt like a movie — fitting, really. Then we moved to the arrière-pays, the villages tucked into the hills above the coast. Quieter. Olive trees. Longer commute. I found my way into real estate, started as a commercial secretary, and then something unexpected happened: I discovered I could sell. Actually sell. The office saw less and less of me, in the best possible way. I was out meeting people — buyers, sellers, characters from every corner of the world — and building the kind of friendships that only happen when you're slightly lost in a foreign country and someone hands you a glass of rosé at the right moment. I have friends from everywhere now. An absolutely magnificent collection of humans.

Then came COVID. The world stopped. Rentals stopped. And I, in a move that surprised exactly no one who knows me, started cooking.

Not just cooking. American cooking. From scratch. Smoked ribs with a proper rub and actual patience. Burgers that would make a diner in New Jersey weep with pride. And — because some things you simply cannot leave behind — homemade poutine. Real poutine. With cheese curds. In France. If that's not commitment to cultural identity, I don't know what is.

The rentals came back. The cooking stayed. And here I am: a Canadian who followed her heart to France, let a dog and a pile of CVs decide her future, and somehow ended up knowing this coastline better than most people who were born here.

That's why I built this site. Not because I read about the Côte d'Azur in a guidebook, but because I've lived it — the luxury hotels, the village markets, the Film Festival madness, the slow golden afternoons in the hills, and yes, the occasional plate of poutine in the middle of Provence.

You're in good hands. And probably hungry now. Sorry about that.