CASINO ROYALE
Casino Royale - Luxury Travel Magazine
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Casino Royale | |||||
| By: John Arlidge, Issue 15 – Winter 2003 | |||||
| (Monaco) | |||||
| SUPERYACHTS, SUPERMODELS, SUPER EVERYTHING. THE TINY PRINCIPALITY OF MONACO – ON THE FRENCH RIVIERA – IS EUROPE’S GLITTERING PLAYGROUND. | |||||
| Even by the rarefied standards of Europe’s capital of luxury and wealth, the view from the terrace of the Hotel Hermitage (pictured previous page) is gloriously hedonistic. King Fahd of Saudi Arabia’s $60 million cruiser, Lady Moura, glides silently into the harbour and moors next to Ivana Trump’s yacht, called – what else? – Ivana. Formula 1’s David Coulthard drives his $900,000 Mercedes past the Hotel de Paris, around the famous Casino and down the hill to the hotel he owns on the sea front. Out across the Mediterranean, 20 red and white Air Monaco helicopters hover in a line, waiting to deliver high-rollers to their Rollers. Welcome to Monte-Carlo. Here, a holiday is a not about getting away from it all – it is a performance where you are the star. From the way you arrive to what you wear and where you go, you’re a player in the French Riviera’s daily pageant of guilt-free indulgence. Take my hotel, the Hermitage. My belle epoque suite would pass for a comfortable family home in Paris .A collection of staff, dressed in Chanel suits, wafts around ensuring not so much as a teaspoon is out of place. Outside on the driveway sit a Maserati coupé and a Ferrari convertible. It’s the kind of combination that would be run out of Nevada for being over-the-top but here, in ‘razzle-dazzle’ Monaco, it’s right on the money. It is only a few hours since my flight touched down in Nice and my long weekend of luxury began but I’m already loving the giant Gallic raspberry Monaco blows at the modern convention for ‘less is more’ chic. As Bernard Lambert, head of the Society des Bains de Mer – the company that ‘runs’ Monaco – puts it: “Monaco is the plus of the plus, the luxury of luxury.” Heading out for dinner at Le Grill at the Hotel de Paris that night, it’s hard not to agree. The walk only takes five minutes but in that time I pass Louis Vuitton, Hermes, Chanel, Yves Saint Laurent and Cartier stores, I am almost run over by a Rolls-Royce (number plate ‘A1 One’), and I practically trip over Prince Rainier as he arrives at the Casino. At the Hotel de Paris, dinner is not a meal, it is an event and you are expected to play your part as stylishly as the retinue of waiters and sommeliers. In today’s casual world, most restaurateurs let their customers wear anything – a sarong, a day-glo thong, a napkin – as long as they have a valid credit card. Not so with three Michelin-star chef Alain Ducasse at the helm. For him, a fine dining experience deserves a clientele that shows some sartorial respect. Booted and suited – cravate obligatoire – I order a glass of Laurent Perrier and ponder tonight’s degustation menu. At first, asparagus, red mullet, sole, veal with foie gras, cheese, soufflé and chocolate look de tropbut Ducasse’s chefs cooks so lightly it never feels that way. And, with the windows and roof open to the balmy Mediterranean breeze, it is the perfect place to enjoy a Montecristo cigar and a digestif before heading across the Place du Casino for a spin at the roulette table. You don’t go to win, of course; you go to order a gin Martini with a twist and marvel at the gold-leaf rococo opulence that made the Monte-Carlo Casino, the Casino Royale. As I wake the next morning and gaze down at more dazzling superyachts and helicopters arriving in the harbour – U2’s Bono, supermodel Naomi Campbell and actor Wesley Snipes are in town this weekend – it’s hard to believe that this capital of capitalism began life as a simple spa. When the Italian Prince Charles III arrived on the Riviera more than a century ago, he set about establishing a spa town, along the same lines as Bath in England. The Society des Bains de Mer (Sea Bathing Society) takes its name from those days. Spas have come a long way since Charles (the ‘Carlo’ in Monte-Carlo) first dipped his toe in the water. Today, the Society des Bains de Mer has its own spa, Les Thermes Marins, on the sea front and, like everything else in Monaco, the emphasis is on giving you the best. “We want to give clients a unique Monaco experience,” explains Frederic Vidal, the manager. “We are working on a Monaco Massage with hot and cold oil and a scrub with real powdered jewels. The only problem is we can’t work out what to charge for the scrub. What do you think?” Fearing that a jewel scrub may cost more than my house, I say I’d have to try one first. Downstairs, a stream of therapists in white shorts and T-shirts rub sea-salt into my body, before covering me with mud, wrapping me in cellophane and heating me until the mud begins to set solid and I feel – and look – like I’m baked in a pie. After a blast with a fire hose to get rid of the mud, it’s time for a warm oil massage and a swim in the saltwater pool. A window table in the spa restaurant offers the best view of the Royal Palace perched on the rock across the harbour and the chance to eat healthily before heading off to do what all self-respecting Monegasques do on a sunny afternoon – head for the beach (hotels offer free shuttles). At the Monte-Carlo Beach Club, the principality’s biggest private beach, you can prowl the Olympic-size sea front pool in your Gucci sandals before strolling along the jetty and jumping into the Mediterranean. Lying on your back watching helicopters jostle to be the first to land their beau monde cargo on the most expensive piece of ground in Europe is unforgettable. There is only one way to end along weekend in Monaco. I head down to the harbour and walk among the floating gin palaces at their million-dollar moorings and try not to look transfixed by so much ostentation. Cream awnings with sprinklers spritz clouds of mist onto the decks to protect the beautiful people’s beautiful faces from the sun. Models prance and preen on the decks with sexy nonchalance, while golden- tanned men ponder whether to take the jet-ski or helicopter for a spin. The scene is so beguiling, so infectious, I find myself writing ‘this summer carefree extravagance, so French, so truly, madly chi-chi’. Help! I’m having a Monaco moment. One day earlier, I would never have written anything so flamboyant. But the French do have a way with glamour and this is the Cote d’Azur, where money breeds glamour and it is oh-so-easy to get carried away in the slipstream of the jetset. | |||||
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