St. Tropez, now the village port where people come to be noticed. The trouble is that when everybody is a somebody then nobody is an anybody, or at least everybody who thinks they are somebody just because they are in St. Tropez at the end of a sunny Saturday afternoon in summer. So everybody has to try really hard to be noticed. Never mind the arms race in cars, yachts or wearable bling, it's fascinating how the pedestrians front out potential collisions on the narrow pavements. A not-bad dance troupe doing back-flips gets no attention whatsoever... And of course it's one of those places where the gendarmes (remember the 1964 comedy film with Louis de Funès: “The Gendarmes of St. Tropez”?) enforce a dress code that is quaintly body-fascist: you are much more likely to get asked to cover up if you are a) old or b) fat, especially b).