I had heard stories about the nonchalant frittering of millions of dollars
in Monaco for years, so I was very excited and a little intimidated by the
thought of being in this lavish environment. Our Monaco visit started out
on a giddying high note. The first thing we saw after exiting the lavish,
marble festooned train station was a Ferrari that looked like it was about
five minutes old. The guy undoubtedly saw us staring because he dramatically
laid rubber when the light turned green and gunned the thing for a rip-roaring
block to the next stop light. In the next five minutes we saw two more Ferraris,
three Aston Martins and a sea of Mercedes and Porsches. It was flabbergasting
and exhilarating. Sadly, Monaco’s allure wilted from there on out, sinking
to tedious and then plummeting to categorically hateful in a startling quickness
As we were quickly losing sunlight, we hurried to the top of
the 60 meter high crag overlooking the two main harbors to take pictures of
Monaco’s not-so-remarkable castle and laughably recent and charmless
19th century cathedral which, if it weren’t the final resting place
of Grace Kelly, probably wouldn’t even earn an honorable mention in
any reputable guidebooks. Anything that is less than 200 years old in Europe
might as well have been built yesterday. After you’ve seen countless
breathtaking, 800 to 1,000 year old structures in multiple European cities,
seeing a 200 year old dull dud of a cathedral is about as extraordinary as
seeing a four hour old bagel. This “medieval” part of Monaco was
very anti-climactic, but the panoramic views of the harbors and million dollar
yachts from the top of the hill at dusk momentarily redeemed Monaco’s
repute.
Having exhausted the “sights” around the castle
in seven minutes flat, we limped across town to Monaco’s famous Monte
Carlo casino. Rumor had it that the casino had a dress code that could even
make an aristocrat insecure. After a long, punishing day of touring the French
Riviera, my companions and I looked fractionally better than total doo doo.
Dressed like backpackers and in desperate need of a county jail-like hose
down, compounded with being hungover, dehydrated and sleep deprived, we were
probably the scariest looking people in town. I was in my usual shorts and
a t-shirt that hadn’t been washed in two weeks and had spent four hours
earlier in the day completely saturated in sweat while we impulsively climbed
a spirit-crushing mountain rather than patiently wait 45 minutes for a bus
to take us up. My appearance was drawing constant stares on the streets, which
isn’t that unusual cause I got me an ass that don’t quit, but
these stares had an unfamiliar, repellent edge to them. Rather than the longing
“May I please fondle your buttocks?” implication that I am accustomed
to, these looks were more akin to “The Prince’s illegitimate child
escaped from the dungeon again.” My cohorts weren’t looking much
better. Needless to say, the Monte Carlo management and security goons saw
us coming from halfway across the harbor and started to mount a joint contingency
effort to keep us off the premises. The first hurdle was the dress-code. We
skirted this easily as they had forgotten to cover a sign saying that the
attire requisites didn’t actually go into effect until after 9:00PM.
Then they demanded that we hand over our bags and our passports to
the baggage-check people for some bizarre reason. The bags were no problem,
but I was not in possession of my passport at the time, so I was kicked to
the curb. The others coughed up their passports and were allowed to move to
the next security ring within the casino by the reluctant and desperate guards.
About 30 seconds later, they returned. Apparently, in a final, panicked fit
of discouragement, the guards insisted that everyone pay 10 euros (US$12.50)
each to simply enter the casino. For the typical budget backpacker, 10 euros
can fuel about four grocery store meals and none of the others were going
to part with that kind of dough just to take a momentary look inside a mostly
empty casino. They begged and pleaded and one audacious individual actually
tried to jump into the doorway to just get a peek, but the guard was ready
for her and dove in front of her like a Secret Service agent taking a bullet
for the president to keep her from even getting a glimpse.
On the way out there was a small altercation at the baggage-check
desk when the three women manning the counter first refused to speak English
as we collected our bags, though we had just conversed with them in English
a few minutes earlier, and then started to conspicuously deride the hiking
boots worn by the female member of our group. Even though it was all done
in French which none in our group understood, their pretentiousness clearly
showed through their looks and gestures. Picture three women who are, let’s
not forget, doing a job normally occupied by a single, teenaged, half-wit,
coated in thick layers of makeup, emitting a near visible cloud of perfume
stench, dressed as if they were heading out to a royal wedding reception and
clearly feeling very majestic in their illustrious and self-important positions
as bag check girls in the richest city in Europe. They were Cinderella’s
three evil sisters come to life, except with more eyeliner and probably no
agreeable people anywhere in their lineage. We were of course lower than regurgitated
worms in their eyes. I couldn’t help but notice that while these women
were visibly gripped with a passionate fixation over things like foot apparel,
they were obviously less concerned about other customarily essential details
in life, like oral hygiene. One of the women had quite obviously not seen
a dentist since her permanent teeth came in and she had a smile that could
a puppy wet itself. Their insolent comments and behavior set off our companion
with the offending hiking boots into a two hour rage of rightful babbling
out loud to no one in particular about wanting to see the “bag ladies”
walk up a mountain in their high heels and how she was probably spending more
money on her trip through Europe than they made in a year.
After being brusquely shooed out of the Monte Carlo we happened
by a small exhibit of classic race cars that appeared to be on display in
the street for no reason other than bragging rights. Perhaps Prince Rainier
had once crashed them. Two guys in our group happened to be zealous car enthusiasts
and they examined the cars closely. The entire time that this was going on
a street cop hovered almost preposterously close to us, with one hand alertly
poised on his weapon in event that one of us were to dare breath on the vehicles
in an unacceptable manner. Feeling increasingly put out, we decided to move
on, now muttering caustic remarks at conspicuous volume levels.
Rumor had it that Monaco’s Musée Océanographique
had 90 seawater tanks and was the first and last word in European aquariums,
but our escalating cynical attitude compounded with the brash 11 euro entry
fee precluded our desire to drop additional money into the ballooning Monégasques
economy.
In the space of less than two hours (closer to one hour if you
subtract the walking time between the castle to the casino), we had exhausted
all that supposed, mighty Monaco had to offer. With absolutely nothing else
to keep us occupied, our unwillingness to drop five euros on a hotdog at the
harbor fun park and the general unwelcome vibes we were being subjected to,
we opted to make a prudent run for the train station. We retreated back to
Nice feeling defensively ornery and spent the rest of the night drinking $3
wine and trash-talking the soulless people and contrived atmosphere of rude,
overpriced, contemptuous, materialistic, boring, pointless Monaco.
Don’t go to Monaco.