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I once lived, for three years off and on, in a reasonable facsimile of the “Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.” If you saw the movie (2011) or, even better, read the novel by Deborah Moggach (2004), you know that both talk about a group of elderly and relatively poor British expatriates who move to an “idyllic” but run-down hotel in Jaipur, India, to live out their declining years.

My “Marigold” was named the “Welcome Hotel,” and it was located, as it is today, in the French fishing village of Villefranche sur Mer, a few miles east of Nice on the Cote d’Azur (Blue Coast), and just west of the principality of Monaco. The hotel, once elegant, was then in bad shape. It had been occupied by the Germans during the war, and they left it in ruins.

Although the village had long been the refuge of various kings and celebrities (King Leopold of Belgium had a summer home there, as did the black American jazz singer, Josephine  Baker, and the famous writer, Somerset Maugham), it had yet to be discovered by the “jet set” in the early 1960s. Isadora Duncan, the famous American dancer, lived in Villefranche when her silk neck scarf became tangled in the wheels of her boyfriend’s open automobile, breaking her neck (1927). Supposedly, her last words to a friend were: “Adieu, mes amis. Je vais a la glorie!” (“Goodbye, my friends, I’m off to glory!”)

Possessing perhaps the best protected deep harbor in the Mediterranean, Villefranche had also long been the homeport for the flagship of the United States Sixth Fleet, which is how I got there. The ship sailed from one end of the Med to the other, from Gibraltar to Istanbul, from Alexandria to Barcelona, showing the flag and harassing the Russian fleet which was impressively large at the time, and we were “home” about one week out of every month. I was very lucky to spend that week ashore. The Fates smiled on my friend and me, both Second Class Petty Officers familiar with electronics, and we were assigned the ashore job as “Beach Guard,” running the radio maintaining communication with the ship, which was at anchor, coordinating the liberty boats, keeping up with mail and supplies, and generally maintaining good order and discipline on the pier (breaking up fights).

Beach Guard being a 24-hour operation, the two of us ran port and starboard (12 hours on and 12 hours off), and the ship permitted us to draw per diem and live on the beach. Since the Welcome Hotel was in sight of fleet landing, that’s where we shared a room, which also came with meals (the “American Plan”).  We soon learned that we were the youngest inhabitants of the hotel. Other than an occasional tourist, it was packed with aged World War II-era British retirees, many infirm or wheelchair bound, living off limited savings or military pensions. My shipmate and I were promptly “adopted” by the permanent guests and became, for many, their surrogate grandchildren.

I have fond memories of how they would always save the one of us who was off duty a seat for dinner. While the French cook occasionally slipped in one of her specialties such as bouillabaisse (fish soup), ratatouille (baked vegetables), coq au vin (chicken cooked in wine), or perhaps a Salade Nicoise, the food was basic British pub fare: fish and chips, bangers and mash (sausage and potatoes), bread and butter pudding, kidney pie, or “bubble and squeak” (the day’s leftovers all cooked together). You could always count on roast beef for Sunday lunch. The Welcome was also my first encounter with a bidet.

 I was back in the village or the “Ville,” as we referred to Villefranche, a few years ago, and I was disappointed but not surprised to see that the whole place has gone “upscale,” including the Welcome Hotel, like most of the Riviera between Cannes and the Italian border. The Welcome has turned into a boutique hotel, and one night’s rates are more than I paid for a month in 1961.

I wrote this column last weekend, while sitting on the balcony of an 11th floor beachside rental condo in Orange Beach, looking out at the Gulf of Mexico. My wife says it’s my “happy place,” and I wonder sometimes why I just don’t go ahead and buy myself one. If I cashed in all my chips, exhausted all my credit, and hit up all my friends and relatives, I could probably swing it. I do have some history here. My last duty station was just up the beach at Naval Air Station, Pensacola. Just for fun, I wrote a weekly column for the base newspaper, and I remember the Commanding Officer calling me on the carpet for referring to this area as the “Redneck Riviera.”  He was from New Jersey and didn’t speak “Southern.” Anyway, sitting up here among the wind and the seagulls, I got to thinking about the Welcome Hotel and some of the stranger places I stayed in during those many years living out of a sea bag. Here’s just a few more. 

Early in my career, the Navy sent me to a six-month radar operator’s school in Norfolk, Virginia. Then, as now, Norfolk was our largest Navy base on the east coast, if not the entire United States, and had a bad reputation with sailors. Supposedly, there were signs posted about town saying, “Sailors and dogs, keep off the grass” (I never saw one), and among officers I later learned, Norfolk was known as the duty station where “Careers go to die.” It was required that students live in the school barracks, but almost everyone got a place off base to relax on weekends, study, and keep their civilian clothes. I rented a “room” at the downtown Norfolk YMCA. I use the word, “room” loosely, because it was a wire mesh enclosure, about ten by ten, containing only a bed and a bureau. The bath, shared by about 100 sailors, was in the basement. What stands out in my mind is the Y’s location – next to a burlesque theater. It was almost impossible to sleep at night because of the “boom da boom da boom” music wafting through the window past midnight all weekend.

This reminds me of a “hotel” I checked into late one night in Tokyo. I was worn out from flying straight from San Francisco and hadn’t paid much attention to where the taxi had dropped me. When I checked in, I noticed that the desk clerk gave me a strange glance and kept looking to see if I was accompanied by anyone. It wasn’t until morning, and I got the bill that I realized I had spent the night in a so-called “Love Hotel,” where most occupants rent rooms by the hour. In fact, I later learned, any occupancy up to three hours is called a “rest,” and anything over that is called a “stay.” By the way, did you know that most high-rise hotels do not have a room numbered 420? It’s because that number is a “stoner” trophy and keeps getting stolen. Supposedly on April 20 (420) in the 1970s, a group of cannabis smokers met by a statue of Louis Pasteur in San Francisco to get high, and the date is commemorated throughout the drug culture.

My children like to talk about the time we spent the night in a hospice in New York City, run by a group of Roman Catholic nuns. The kids wanted to see a Broadway show (“Cats”), so we caught the train down from Providence, Rhode Island, and stayed at the neat place (so I thought) that my boss, a Catholic priest, had hooked me up with. The price was right; the location on 45th street was great; but the austere rooms with crucifixes over the single iron bedsteads, bare floors, minimal furniture, and no televisions, were too much for my teenagers.  To make it up to my daughter, a few months later we went on down to Atlantic City and stayed in one of the Trump properties so she could see the Miss America contest in person.

Probably the weirdest hotel I ever stayed in was a tree house in the Tsalvo National Game Reserve in Kenya. The ship I was on at the time was on the back end of an around the world cruise, and we stopped for a few days in Mombasa, Kenya, the major seaport of the country. At the time, the city led the world in AIDS infections, although I understand it’s now one of the healthiest in all of Africa. Having a few days off, a couple of friends and I rented a small French car, a Peugeot, and took off on a photo safari. We headed for Tsalvo, on the way to Nairobi, because I had read that there were more free roaming animals to see “in situ” than almost anywhere else in Africa. We were not disappointed. You name it; we saw it. Lions, tigers, elephants, hippos, rhinos, etc.

  Tsalvo is extremely remote, but we had made reservations at the only hotel listed in the literature we could find, and it turned out to be a large house built in the branches of a huge tree overlooking an animal watering hole. At dark, they pulled up the steps, turned out the lights, powered by generators, and the guests observed the wild animals coming to drink. What I especially remember about this experience was the breakfast we were served the following morning. During the night, I had lain in my bed, which was very clean and comfortable, watching the gigantic roaches, as big as the ones you see in Madagascar, crawl across the ceiling. I tucked my sheets in very tightly and prayed that none would fall into my bed. When breakfast was finally announced, we went to the dining room, and it was very impressive: white tablecloths, silverware, crystal glasses, etc. The waiters, although barefoot, were very competent and impressively dressed with napkins draped over their arms. We placed our orders, except for beverages, and we all opted for orange juice which was in a large glass bowl at the center of each table. Upon hearing our request, our waiter took the ladle from the bowl, and filled our glasses, carefully maneuvering around the one-inch-thick layer of black beetles that covered the top of the orange juice. We all looked at each other, shrugged, and drank our juice, careful to spit out the legs, antennae, and other bug parts that filled our mouths.

My Beach Guard partner and shipmate got discharged from the Navy after four years; went home to Birmingham; majored in business at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa; opened a commercial printing company and became a millionaire. If you read a colored sales brochure or circular from a big name or major chain store in the 1970’s and 80’s, his company probably printed and distributed it. The last I heard, he had retired and was living in two luxury condos in Perdido Key, Florida. I guess he alternates between the two, sleeping in a different one each night. He always was a little off center, but the dude could make money.

Me, I stayed in uniform for thirty more years and never really amounted to much. I did travel many a mile, going ashore in over 100 countries, and seeing a lot of strange things. I managed to hit all the hot spots: Vietnam, Panama, Grenada, Lebanon, and early Iraq, but to say I was a success at anything would be like putting lipstick on a pig. I’m not the first to have such thoughts. Shakespeare said in “Henry VIII” (iii,15), “Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues we write in water.” I guess that’s where someone got the idea for the epitaph of the Romantic poet, John Keats (1795-1821), when they wrote:  “Here lies someone whose name was writ in water.”

Light a candle for me.

Benny Hornsby of Oak Grove is a retired U.S. Navy captain. Visit his website, bennyhornsby.com, or email him: villefranche60@yahoo.com.

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