Lifestyles of the Stupidly Rich

I was in Monaco the other week for work. I know, it’s a tough life. It was definitely a glimpse into how the other half live. When I say “other half”, I mean the astronomically rich section of the population. On my first day there, I had some time in the afternoon to myself so I took the opportunity to check the place out and enjoy the warm sunshine. I decided I wanted to get some lunch, so I went off in search of a place that had baguettes. I did find a lunch place, but it would have been much easier had I decided I wanted caviar for lunch instead. I didn’t walk around the whole Principality, but I would bet that there isn’t a McDonald’s outlet there. However, should your infant need new clothes, there is Baby Dior, and Baby Dolce & Gabbana. The Bentley dealership is on the same street as the Lamborghini and Rolls Royce dealerships. Something tells me they don’t take trade-ins on Renaults. Though you can’t fit a whole boat in a showroom, there was also what I assume to be a yacht store on the same strip. Later, I walked by a residence with both a Rolls and a Lamborghini in the driveway. Showoffs.

Monaco is built into a side of a hill, and there are public elevators that take you up from one street level to another. You walk in through a doorway cut into the hill, get in the elevator, and walk out on the next level. I guess that’s because rich people can’t walk uphill and risk getting sweat stains on their Prada, but I thought it was really cool.

Monaco has a very high proportion of good-looking people. Compared to Ireland, continental Europe is a total smorgasbord of yumminess in general, but people in Monaco really work on their tans and physiques – or pay a doctor to carve out the look for them. The porter at the hotel was a dead ringer for the guy from Nip/Tuck, which is a nice switch from the pasty-skinned, Guinness-bellied specimens I see on the DART every morning.

After quickly deciding that shopping would be no fun without my black Amex card, I went down to the beach to lie in the sun. I was dozing off when I heard an increasingly loud hum. I opened my eyes to see that a gleaming white yacht had drifted into my view. By yacht, I mean an Onassis-esque city block-sized yacht. The hum was coming from a helicopter that was about to land on the yacht. It too was gleaming white, and once it landed, you could tell that this chopper went with the boat – as a set.

The night of the event, we entertained our clients with a beach bbq. Afterwards, everyone piled into the hotel bar for some more drinks. I can’t wait until finance sees my expense report this month. One gin & tonic is 12 Euro at the hotel bar, and I bought a few rounds for the clients. While at least they’re not serving Cork Dry for that price, they’re not serving No.10 either.

Some of the group went next door to Jimmyz – a nightclub on the Kate Moss celebrity-league circuit. The people I was sitting with didn’t really want to head over. I had to start work at 8am the next day and it wasn’t exactly our scene. As 3am started to creep up on us, the topic came up again, but we decided that it was our last drink and after that we were heading to bed. 4.30am rolls around and we’re still in the hotel bar drinking – so much for being sensible and going to bed. The next day, the others who went to the nightclub were equally groggy. They didn’t get back until 5am – and they got to meet Bono. You know, if you’re going to be up all night drinking, it might as well be because you were in a Monégasque nightclub with Bono, because that’s how I would have phrased it in retelling the story. As it is, I only have a Bono near-miss story, which is really quite pathetic.

The next day, we left the twilight zone and I celebrated return to normality with a two-Euro glass of house red in Nice.