A few hours after arriving at Hôtel Belles Rives in the south of France this summer, I’m sitting at dinner when a flash of green light dances across the sparkling water. It feels almost too perfect.

I came here to explore the places that inspired F. Scott Fitzgerald during his travels through France with his wife and daughter in the 1920s. Instead, I find myself in a scene straight out of his most famous novel. In The Great Gatsby, the green light at the end of Daisy Buchanan’s dock captivates Gatsby. Here, I’m mesmerized by the tiny glow of a lighthouse in the Mediterranean, my glass of vermentino sweating on the table in front of me.

Fitzgerald must have felt the same way about this place. Years ago, he rented the house that later became this hotel—then called Villa St. Louis. In a letter to Ernest Hemingway, he wrote that returning to such a beautiful home made him happier than he’d been in years. Now, traces of him linger throughout the elegant hotel that replaced the villa after the Fitzgeralds left in 1927. Near the reception, a bar bears his name, and black-and-white portraits of him and Zelda hang by the Art Deco elevator.

There’s also the Prix Fitzgerald, an annual literary award honoring writers who explore themes that fascinated Fitzgerald. During my stay, the prize goes to the esteemed Richard Ford, drawing a crowd of well-dressed locals and Fitzgerald fans sipping prosecco and nibbling on empanadas and arancini.

The hotel sits just above the sea in Juan-les-Pins, Antibes’ charming little sister. With around 40 rooms and five stars, it’s a world untouched by trends—no one here has heard of Alo Yoga. Older women wear linen sets to breakfast, younger ones stroll to the beach in gauzy sarongs and layers of gold necklaces, and men wear loafers on the sand. The cocktails are artfully crafted, the croissants warm. I never want to leave. No wonder Fitzgerald, with his fascination for wealth, didn’t either.

The French Riviera is a paradise for status seekers. Yachts gleam on the water, and one guest’s diamond earrings are so large I can spot them from the third-floor terrace—like icebergs on a lounge chair.

Marianne Estène-Chauvin, the hotel’s current owner, tells me her grandparents fell in love with the villa while the Fitzgeralds still lived there. They met by chance at a bus stop—an encounter that changed everything. Her grandfather, Boma, had fled pogroms in Russia and planned to work just long enough to afford passage to New York. Her grandmother, Simone, offered him a place to stay when he missed the last bus. He never made it to Marseille—or America.

After the Fitzgeralds moved on, her grandparents tracked down the villa’s owner and struck an unusual deal: they could rent and renovate it, with the option to buy later. But in 1941, when the villa should have been theirs, war intervened. Boma, Jewish and not a French citizen, went into hiding. It took decades to reclaim the property—a struggle Estène-Chauvin only learned about as an adult. Now, her son helps run the family business.

“Belles Rives is a place for beautiful memories, not sad ones,” she insists. And she’s proud of that.Her grandparents’ persistence is admirable, but what’s even more striking is how their struggles—their trials and frustrations—are completely hidden at the hotel. The villa celebrates only the brightest, most joyful moments. Any darkness, including the Fitzgeralds’ own, belongs to the real world, not this sunlit stretch of the French Riviera.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, Zelda, and their daughter Scottie in Antibes, 1926.
(Photo: Getty Images)

The Fitzgeralds came to the south of France to write, though they didn’t spend all their time cooped up in a villa. In their honor—and despite my own looming deadline—I venture out. One of the places most linked to them is the legendary Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, which they frequented during their stays. In Tender Is the Night, it appears as the Hôtel des Étrangers. Even in real life, it feels like something out of a novel—gardens this immaculate and views this dazzling seem too perfect to be real. Rooms start in the four figures, but lunch is more affordable, offering a taste of its glamour.

Personally, I prefer the simple, cash-only Bistrot du Coin in Antibes, where on certain afternoons, tables groan under platters of boiled vegetables, fish, and aioli so rich I once saw a diner eat it by the spoonful—bold, given the amount of garlic whipped into it. Fitzgerald wrote about “breathing dreams like air,” but after that meal, I didn’t dare exhale in public until I’d brushed my teeth hours later. A perfect, fragrant feast.

Back at Belles Rives, one of the best meals in town is just steps from Bar Fitzgerald at the hotel’s Michelin-starred La Passagère, where French cuisine meets breathtaking Mediterranean views. During dinner, a waiter points to a distant island—Saint-Honorat, home to a small group of Cistercian monks who produce rare, spiritually infused wine. He pours me a glass. Not quite a religious experience, but transcendent all the same.

The next morning, I visit the Picasso Museum in Antibes. While smaller than its Barcelona counterpart, seeing Joie de Vivre in person makes the trip worthwhile. Later, I wander through Old Antibes, where the Marché Provençal brims with cheese, olive oil, fresh produce, and straw goods. Fitzgerald wouldn’t have known what to make of the iced matcha latte sold nearby, but a group of teenage girls happily sip theirs before stocking up on French soap.

At dinner in Antibes’ Jeanne, I’m so engrossed in conversation that I leave behind a hat I rather liked. As Fitzgerald’s characters often learn, there can indeed be too much joie de vivre. The hat, sadly, is never returned.

Antibes has plenty to offer, but other spots call. A quick 30-minute drive brings me to Saint-Paul-de-Vence, a postcard-perfect town that feels like an Epcot pavilion. Friends and I stop at La Colombe d’Or, the art-filled hotel where Fitzgerald once flirted so shamelessly with dancer Isadora Duncan that Zelda famously threw herself down a staircase in protest. The restaurant—now part of a larger hotel—displays works by Picasso, Braque, Matisse, and Miró, collected by its late founder, Paul Roux, from the artists themselves, all regular guests.Diners enjoy their meals while Danièle Roux, who co-owns La Colombe d’Or with her husband François (grandson of Paul), shares amusing stories of their escapades beside a massive Calder sculpture near the hotel pool. She often recommends visiting the Fondation Maeght to see more masterpieces. Just a 15-minute walk from “the Colombe,” as regulars call it, I become so absorbed in the outdoor Miró sculpture garden that staff have to usher me out at closing time. (From there, it’s a quick 10-minute taxi ride to the Matisse Chapel—definitely worth seeing.)

Before I depart, I catch a taste of the luxurious waterfront life. A boat collects me from the port, and the captain points out the grand mansions along Cannes’ famous Croisette. The water sparkles, clear and refreshing under the summer sun. Forget “almost”—this is absolute perfection.