Meet VANBRUUN

The sandy road dust of ecru-colored powder. It stains the sole of your espadrilles as you walk towards the mansion. It’s hot, as it should be in the french countryside, just a mile or two outside of Antibes. The tall Italian cypress trees shield every other or so of the intense sun rays, leading to a cool shadow hitting your face in the odd step or two. Past the trees rests fields of lavender and mountains that meet the searing sun. The scent of wildflowers and blooming lavender is escorted by the firm yet distant ocean gusts.

When arriving at the gate, you instantly notice an antiquated, nearly rusty detailing that adds both charm and patina to the old entrance. The wrought iron forms a distinct crest that spells VB.

A towering mansion or almost chateau-like building greets the end of your sight when pushing the creaky and intimidating gate open. The surroundings, let's call it a garden, are well kept but not entirely flawless. The person who lives here enjoys life too much to be a maniac and would rather have a drink with the gardener than have a golf club as a home. You knock on the lion head door knocker. It is heavy. You knock three times, not four; you’re not a savage. No one opens; you knock again, more forceful than previously. Still nothing, but in the far, you hear music. You decide to follow it. You walk towards the melody with one hand stroking the smooth stone facade. The surface is hot and, with its climbing vines, occasionally tingly. As the music gets louder, you instantly recognize the tunes. La paradis perdu by Lucienne Delyle is chanting from a vintage gramophone, but the most distinctive sound is the accompanying tone of a man.

In a light linen suit, loyal tan, and tassel loafers, the man carries a bon vivant allure. With a look similar to the one of Cary Grant, the tall vieux riche man approaches you. As he leans towards you spot an embroidered “VB” on his sleeve, identical to the crest on the gate. He hands you a drink, specifically a sidecar. The tangy citrus taste provokes your taste buds and chills the warm touch of your palms.

“Let me show you the mansion.”

He takes big steps but keeps a safe calm. Then, with a waving gesture toward the roman shaped pool, the gentleman says, “for leisure,” with an adventurous smirk on his lips. What you see is not the typical plastic basin. Instead, marble, probably Calcutta, covers the ground pool with a centerpiece of a small Parisian fountain. Surrounding the pool are several parasols, dressed in white and racer green stripes along with sunbeds. In the middle of two beds, on a small table, is a board of Backgammon, stranded in the middle of an intriguing game.

“Please, have a taste.”

The man picks a low-hanging pear from a blossoming tree and softly tosses it over.

“They are as ripe as they get this time of year.”

And he is correct. The sweet bite is nothing but pure pleasure. With a step or two behind the gentleman, you add a spring in your pace to catch up with his confident stride.

“Care for another drink?”

The enchanting tour has now led you back to the gazing terrace, and the music is still filling the riviera air. But, as stunned and amused you are by the last couple of minutes, you suddenly realize you don’t know his name.

“Uhm, sorry, Sir. I didn’t quite catch your name.”

Well, they call me Vanbruun…