A Birthday Worth Remembering: Chasing Beauty Along the French Riviera and Italy

There is something quietly magical about turning fifty-six.

Every new year of life seems to bring a surprise we never saw coming, and perhaps that is the real gift of birthdays—not simply celebrating another year, but watching the next chapter unfold and discovering the unexpected joys waiting inside it.

Not because life suddenly changes on your birthday, but because by this point you finally know yourself well enough to live differently… and to travel differently.

You no longer spend much time worrying about what other people think. Oh, of course we’re all human, and on some level we probably always will. But by this stage of life, those thoughts have become little more than a faint whisper instead of the voice guiding your decisions.

You no longer feel the need to rush from attraction to attraction, collecting photographs as proof that you were there.

Instead, you collect moments.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I do enjoy having photographs of myself in the beautiful places I visit. After all, anyone can look up photographs of the Eiffel Tower or the Amalfi Coast online. But having a few beautiful photographs of yourself standing there, smiling because you remember exactly how the sea smelled or how warm the sun felt that afternoon—that is something entirely different.

Lovelier still is sharing those photographs with someone who was standing beside you.

For me, though, it takes a very special person—someone who makes me feel completely comfortable being my authentic self—for me to want to share that kind of adventure.

As we grow older, we begin to appreciate different things.

Lingering over breakfast a little longer, noticing the way sunlight warms the café table and listening to the gentle hum of morning conversations around us. Perhaps even inventing little stories about the people whose voices drift across the room. That’s part of the fun for me.

You wander streets without a destination, guided more by curiosity than a map.

You sit on a weathered bench simply because the view deserves your full attention—the scent of salt in the air, the distant rhythm of waves against the shore, the rustle of leaves overhead.

Perhaps that is the greatest luxury of all.

And perhaps, just perhaps, there is a little unseen magic hidden inside those quiet moments—the kind that only reveals itself when you slow down enough to notice.

I’ve always believed that if you’re willing to get a little lost in a new city, you’ll discover things that never appear in a guidebook. A tucked-away courtyard. A tiny bakery. A conversation you’ll remember for years. Those unexpected moments often become the memories that stay with us longest.

This October I already have a wonderful trip to Belgium planned.

But the more I research the French Riviera and the Italian coastline, the more I find myself falling in love with another possibility. Belgium isn’t going anywhere, and I have a feeling its time will come. Yet something about this stretch of the Mediterranean keeps quietly calling my name.

If I were designing the perfect fifty-sixth birthday journey, I think it might look something like this…

Days 1–4: Saint-Tropez

Fly into Nice, then take a private transfer along the coast.

The journey begins with a beautiful drive from Nice Airport to Saint-Tropez, where the pace of life immediately seems to soften.

The air is said to feel warmer somehow, carrying hints of sea salt and sun-warmed stone.

Rather than staying at one of the glamorous beach clubs, I think I’d choose a charming boutique hotel tucked into the old town, just steps from the harbor, where mornings begin before most visitors have even finished breakfast.

This is the Saint-Tropez that seems to have held onto its soul.

The colorful waterfront.

Flower-filled alleyways.

Tiny bakeries filling narrow streets with the scent of warm bread.

Local markets humming with quiet conversation.

Fishermen preparing their boats as the Mediterranean gently laps against the docks.

I’d begin each morning with a cappuccino and a buttery croissant, though I know once I cross into Italy I’ll happily trade it for a maritozzo con panna—the pillowy sweet bun filled with fresh whipped cream that I’ve somehow come to love even more.

Afternoons might be spent exploring the Citadel overlooking the sea or wandering streets draped in bougainvillea, where petals drift through the air like tiny pieces of confetti.

One day simply has to be reserved for Pampelonne Beach, where the water is said to be so clear it almost disappears beneath you.

Saint-Tropez is famous for the Tarte Tropézienne—a delicate brioche filled with silky vanilla cream.

One slice.

One perfect espresso.

No guilt.

Because birthdays aren’t measured in calories.

They’re measured in memories.

Days 5–6: Cannes

Travel by ferry across the sparkling Mediterranean or enjoy another beautiful coastal drive.

Most people think of Cannes as red carpets and movie stars.

But everyone I’ve spoken with says that once the film festival ends, the city becomes wonderfully relaxed.

I’d stay in Le Suquet, the old quarter perched above the harbor, where winding streets feel worlds away from the luxury boutiques below.

Morning walks along La Croisette promise elegant hotels, towering palms, and endless Mediterranean views shimmering like glass.

From Le Suquet, the scenery becomes even more beautiful.

Terracotta rooftops glowing beneath the afternoon sun.

Fishing boats gently rocking.

Church bells echoing softly.

Golden light lingering just a little longer than expected.

One afternoon I’d take the short boat ride to the peaceful Lérins Islands, where pine forests replace traffic and monks have quietly made wine for centuries.

Dinner?

Fresh Mediterranean seafood.

Provençal vegetables.

A chilled glass of alcohol-free sparkling wine.

And a sunset that slowly paints the harbor in shades of peach, rose, and lavender.

Days 7–9: Menton

Travel by train along the coast.

If there is one place I suspect may quietly steal my heart, it is Menton.

Nestled between France and Italy, everyone seems to describe it as feeling like both countries at once.

I’d stay in the colorful Old Town overlooking the sea, where pastel buildings climb steep hillsides and every staircase appears to end with another breathtaking view.

This is a place made for wandering.

No agenda.

No timeline.

Just curiosity.

Menton is famous for its extraordinary lemons.

Lemon tarts.

Fresh lemon sorbet.

Lemon olive oil.

Even lemon marmalade.

Everything somehow sounds brighter, fresher, more alive.

I’ve even read that on warm afternoons the air itself carries the faint fragrance of citrus.

October seems like the perfect time to visit.

The beaches quiet down.

The cafés belong to locals again.

And suddenly you begin to feel less like a tourist and more like a temporary neighbor.

In that slower rhythm, there’s room for unexpected things.

Perhaps a conversation that lingers.

A shared laugh with someone whose name you never expected to learn.

Because while I truly enjoy traveling on my own, there’s no rule that says every journey has to remain solitary.

If I happened to meet someone along the way—or perhaps before I ever boarded the plane—someone who felt easy, genuine, curious, and kind… I imagine it would simply become another beautiful layer of the experience.

A small, unexpected gift.

Monaco Whenever You Wish | Just fifteen minutes away by train.

One of the greatest pleasures of staying in Menton is that Monaco becomes an effortless day trip.

No unpacking.

No changing hotels.

Simply hop aboard the train.

I’d arrive early enough to watch the harbor slowly wake up before wandering Monaco-Ville’s medieval streets.

I have a feeling the gardens surrounding the Prince’s Palace would quickly become one of my favorite places simply to sit, listening to the breeze moving through flowers while the Mediterranean sparkled below.

Then perhaps the Oceanographic Museum.

And, of course, Casino Square.

Not necessarily to gamble.

Simply to watch people.

Luxury has always fascinated me.

But elegance has very little to do with money.

Which brings me to someone I’ve thought about often while planning this journey.

Grace Kelly.

The world remembers the princess.

The gowns.

The jewels.

The fairy tale.

But I wonder if Grace herself sometimes longed to simply be Grace.

The young woman from Philadelphia.

The girl who laughed easily.

Who loved books.

Who enjoyed ordinary conversations.

Who could quietly disappear into a café without cameras following her.

Perhaps she would have enjoyed lingering over lunch in Menton even more than another royal engagement.

Perhaps she would have preferred wandering flower markets unnoticed.

Beauty often appears glamorous from the outside.

Freedom is usually much quieter.

Days 10–13: Cinque Terre

Travel into Italy via Ventimiglia.

Crossing into Italy almost feels like changing the soundtrack of the vacation.

Everything somehow becomes just a little more colorful.

The conversations become louder.

Lunch stretches effortlessly into late afternoon.

I’d stay in Vernazza, which many people describe as the jewel of the five villages.

Its tiny harbor becomes the center of daily life.

Fishing boats bob gently.

Church bells drift across the hills.

Children leap into the sea.

Laundry dances between centuries-old buildings.

Nothing feels overly polished.

And perhaps that’s exactly what makes it so beautiful.

I’d spend my days hiking portions of the coastal trails, the scent of wild herbs rising beneath my feet, taking the local train between villages, lingering over seafood pasta, and ending each evening watching the sunset from the harbor walls.

The region is famous for pesto, handmade focaccia, fresh anchovies, and seafood caught that very morning.

And then there’s the gelato.

One scoop.

Every evening.

Perhaps two on my birthday.

And every morning I’d happily seek out a maritozzo con panna whenever I could.

I have absolutely no doubt it would become my breakfast of choice.

One Last Night in Nice

Before flying home, I’d spend one final night in Nice.

Just long enough for one last walk along the Promenade des Anglais, where the sea stretches endlessly beside you.

One last cappuccino.

One last stroll through the flower market in Old Nice.

One last glimpse of that remarkable Mediterranean light that has inspired artists for generations.

Perhaps I’d order a traditional salade niçoise.

Fresh socca, still warm from the oven.

And finish with a quiet dinner overlooking the sea.

Not because vacations have to end.

But because beautiful journeys deserve beautiful endings.

Why October?

The beaches belong to walkers again.

Restaurant reservations become easy.

The Mediterranean still holds the warmth of summer.

The afternoons glow golden.

The crowds have gone home.

October doesn’t ask you to race from one destination to another.

It invites you to experience these places instead of simply seeing them.

To slow down.

To notice.

To savor.

To remember.

Maybe that is what birthdays are really for.

Not counting the years behind us.

But choosing, with intention, how we want to spend the years ahead.

Because the older I get, the more I realize that the destination matters far less than the way we choose to experience it.

Wonder has a remarkable way of finding us when we’re willing to slow down long enough to notice.

And if I happen to celebrate my fifty-sixth birthday wandering between French cafés, Italian fishing villages, lemon groves, seaside promenades, and places where Grace Kelly may have quietly searched for ordinary moments inside an extraordinary life…

Whether I’m savoring it all on my own or sharing a sunset with someone who feels just right…

I think that would be a birthday worth remembering.

🐝 Until next time… may you always leave room in your itinerary for the unexpected, because sometimes the most beautiful moments are the ones you never planned.

— Honey