GAMBLING, CLUBBING, AND WALKING THE CIRCUIT AT MONACO
The station at Monaco was cool, in the literal sense of the word, and for once I was exceedingly thankful. As the train from Nice pulled away with an electronic whirring and a screeching of wheels it took the heat of the sun with it and left the station to itself. Partially buried into the hillside with a high vaulted roof which spread out gracefully over both tracks, the space was so immense as to be sound dulling, one almost felt you had to speak quietly. Behind me my friends were gathering their things and heading for the escalators at the far end of the platform. We weren't the only people alighting here but we made up the majority and I wasn't overly surprised, after all we were two weeks too late for the Grand Prix and the city was still recovering.
I have rarely, if ever, felt as out of place as I did two years ago today when I visited Monaco for the first time. It is the definition of a city not geared up towards the student backpacker. Instead the streets of Monaco fill themselves with wealthy tourists and the super rich, drawn like moths to a flame to stand out on the famous harbour, visit the casinos, and to walk in the tyre tracks of some of the greatest F1 drivers who ever lived. I was there to do all those things, to try and get a sense of what it might be like to live in the wealthiest city in the world, and maybe, I hoped, to get some of the success to rub off on me.
I know of no better way to start in Monaco than by visiting the Monte Carlo Casino, one of the best known and wealthiest casinos in the world, a place where just walking through the car-park is a lesson in how rich Monaco really is. In order I passed an Aston Martin, Lamborghini, Rolls Royce, Aston Martin, Aston Martin, Land Rover, Porshe, Ferrari, Aston Martin, Porshe, Porshe, Aston Martin, and another Ferrari. They were the only cars in the car park. All of a sudden it was easy to see why there had been so few people at the train station. Walking around Monaco was clearly not the done thing.
But if the car park wasn't enough to set the money light traveller on edge, then the complete silence in a foyer dominated by a giant golden statue of an eagle with eyes carved from diamonds ought to do it. It is a statue that says "You are here to lose money. If you don't have the money to lose, we will eat you."
"Very well." Say I. "Give me twenty of your lowest value chips." followed quickly by, "How much?" and then by "Ok, give me ten." and then by quick pocketing of five chips not under any circumstances to be spent.
The croupier did his level best to ignore me as completely as possible. All his attention was taken at any rate by the elderly gentleman across from me, smart suited but wild haired, who was casually throwing 100 Euro chips onto the table at an alarming rate. Ten at a time in a carefully worked out pattern designed to have little to no effect on the outcome whatsoever. I fiddled a little nervously with the 10 euro chips in my hand feeling that I was probably going to be forced to make a bet at some point soon. I'd already been flirting with the table for a good ten minutes, trying my best to show a nonchalant, casual interest, and to blend into the floor as much as possible. I wouldn't say it was that I was reluctant to bet my hard earned cash, more that I was outright against the idea. But one does not come to Europe's most famous casino to not bet, and so, sooner or later, the inevitable would have to happen.
I made another of my half steps towards the table and the croupier shot me an irritated glance, this was it, no backing out now. A whole ten Euro on Red. I tried my best to return the croupiers glance but he'd already turned away to the other gentleman, helpfully opening the nozzle a little more on his spray of 100 Euro chips. A spin, a roll, a tumble, 11 Black. Curses. Nothing to me. 3,200 Euro to the other gentleman. He looks delighted.
On the next spin we all bet the same again, the gentleman presumably because he felt his system was working, me because I felt the laws of probability now owed me a red. Both flawed strategies I'm sure but it's no good telling me that now. Much chip shuffling later the ball bobbled, danced, jumped, teetered agonisingly and finally came to rest on 21 red. Hurrah! 20 Euro to me and I'd made my way back to break even. Perhaps now I could go on to win something. Meanwhile another 3,200 Euro had made its way hastily across the table and into the money magnet's waiting hands. Irritating. But call it a draw.
As the sun dips below the hills, darkness falls extremely quickly in Monaco. I remember standing on an antiqued, arched wooden bridge, leaning on the rail and looking out over a sleepy lagoon, disappearing quietly into the night. As the sunlight failed, gas lanterns sprang into life lighting my back with a dull orange warmth and casting long shadows out onto the water lilies and reeds. Frogs croaked noisily somewhere in the darkness, and beneath them, and beyond the trees at the back of the lagoon, I could just make out the slow regular breathing of the sea on the rocks. I sipped on a bottled coke and felt the slight breeze off the ocean, and the heat, searing, underneath it. I had to push to the rail briefly as a group of five moved past me, dressed to the nines, young and rich, enjoying themselves on the way to the dance floor. Jimmy'z, it turns out, is quite a nice club.
My pockets were considerably lighter after my time at the casino and so, along with my friends, I'd spent most of the remainder of the day walking the streets, slowly making our way to the far eastern edge of the city. By some hook or crook we'd manage to secure a table at Jimmy'z for later in the night, and so we'd idly wandered our way out of the crowded centre and into the back-streets, where finally we were able to see a different side to Monaco, more functional, residential even. We stumbled upon a highway that leapt up and over parts of the city. Towards the coast, huge apartment blocks crammed together and, trapped between mountain and sea, soared upwards into the only space available, washing lines hanging from every balcony. The Ferraris thinned out and Minis became the order of the day, squeezed into every available gap, lining the streets. Not knowing what to expect from the bar, prices wise, we decided it would be prudent to stock up a little before we got there. A little 'chavy' drinking out on the streets? Yes, almost certainly, but I assure you, never was a better decision made.
"How much?" Somehow the music on the dance floor didn't drown out any conversation, but for a minute I was sure I'd misheard Mark as he returned from buying his 3 shots of tequila. "120 Euro!?" Rather unbelievably I hadn't misheard anything. "That's over £100!" Marks face was a little whiter than when last I'd seen him. I picked up a bottle of the complementary coke that had come with the table. Right then, I thought, rule one is clearly 'do not go to the bar'. Over on the other side of the club I spotted another of my friends leaving the bar similarly ashen faced, clutching a bottle of Heineken with more than natural protectiveness. I wondered how long he was going to have to make it last before he got his value for money.
My attention was distracted momentarily as a pebble whizzed over my head and struck the seat behind me. One of the bouncers nearby scanned the crowd and spotted the guy about the same time I did, waving impatiently, bare chested, expensive jewellery, exuding an arrogance that suggested one of the boats in the harbour most definitely belonged to him. He signalled that he wanted the attention of the girls on the bridge, and somewhat to my surprise the bouncer obliged. Maybe he was used to having pebbles thrown at him, maybe the man was rich enough that it didn't matter. In any case the girls turned and the man on the dance floor beckoned to them with one long outstretched finger and an almost visible licking of the lips. I have to admit it was not an approach I have tried before or since to start a conversation with a girl in a club, but I was very curious to see if it would work. I turned to look behind me. The girls shook their heads. Thank God for that. I swear I caught the bouncer hiding a smile, but when I looked again he was stone faced as ever. Money, it seems, can't buy you everything.
In the early morning half-light Monaco felt like an entirely different city. All the opulence, all the one-up-man-ship and all the arrogance dissolved away, leaving behind a sleepy town in the south of France. The tide lapped with a lazy indifference on the pebble beach, the same tide and the same pebbles that I'd unthinkingly bathed my feet in the previous morning, 30 miles away along the coast.
Walking through the famous tunnel the sun warmed our backs. At the exit a solitary street cleaner with leathered skin and wrinkled hands shovelled a dry-cast broom along the tarmac, sweeping away the dust of the day before. Here were the real people of Monaco who in the daytime disappeared amongst the throngs of wealthy tourists, and lived in the shadow of the super rich.
No cars roared down on the harbour front. All the Aston Martins and Ferraris had been safely locked up for the night, only the white vans and old decrepit hatchbacks slept out on the street. In the harbour itself the giants gently rocked, some still with their night-lights on. Overnight they'd been the centre of the city, the heartbeat, but now as their coloured banners fluttered in the morning breeze, they were perfect pictures of a night that was no longer there. Aftermaths of a party that had long since been put to bed by the rising of the sun.
Monaco was much more my scene at 5:00 AM. Walking the famous street circuit in the cool, white sun with the local wildlife to keep me company. After a night of drinks, clubbing and noise, the peace of the morning came as a welcome relief. Most of my friends had lost themselves somewhere in the city in a drunken stupor leaving myself and Ewan to idle our way back to the train station by way of some of Monaco's more famous corners. The air felt fresh on my skin, not yet full of exhaust fumes. The sun felt welcoming, the open arms of a new day, not yet the angry wave of heat beating down on the roads most travelled. All tiredness was wiped away in an instant by the breeze off the sea. This, in the end, would be the image of Monaco I would take home with me. The peaceful, beautiful, less flashy side of the great city. The quiet of the roads. The shops yet to open. The city still asleep, cleaning itself, preparing itself for another frenetic day at the high end of society. A city I could never feel truly at home in, but one that, never-the-less, I would happily come back to time and again. Preferably by Aston Martin. Probably by train.
