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Date: 970919
Time: 22:44:41
I was 16 visiting a friend from prepschool whose family had recently moved to Monaco. His father was Parisian and like many french families the fact that the father kept a mistress was politely ignored. The father had been seeing the mistress for many years and had even purchased a house for her in the hills outside of St. Tropez. My friend and I drove down from Monaco one weekend in July before the high vacation season of August to use the mistress house for the weekend. It was night and as we approched St. Tropez we could see a feignt glow which we thought was simply the lights of the town made hazy by a setting fog. But as we approached we realized that the fog was in fact smoke and that the lights were the trees that were on fire in the hills. It had been a dry summer and the mistrals were blowing hard and hot that year which had caused an apparently small brush fire to begin to rage out of control. There was a roadblock and the gendarme warned us not to climb into the hills. The fire could climb he said. But we were young and the danger seemed unreal and enticing. We climbed the tarmac to the little house on the top of one of the hills. The house had been empty for most of the summer and we spent a few minutes opening up the house for the season. The power went out about 20 minutes after our arrival. My friend went to sleep around midnite seemingly unfased by the approaching fires. I watched the graceful canadaire swoop from the hills and scratch the reflection of the burning trees in the harbor then carry their wet load back to the hills to try to quench the fire. Suddenly the danger seemed real. People are dying out there I said. So she said come to bed. And I did as the winds all the way from North Africa carrying tunisian sand that licked at the windows of the mistress small threatened her mountain home.