Peter Thompson: View From The Top
Peter Thompson is a renowned high-culture journalist based in Europe. Peter's brand new
periodic column, View From The Top, will be brought to you right here, exclusively on Luxist.
I'm writing to you from the Principality of Monaco, the Cote D'Azur's neckless of excess. "The Playground of the Rich", I've heard people call it, and there's certainly plenty to play with inside this glittering metropolis. Paying the road toll on the way into Europe's second smallest country is like buying a ticket to paradise; everything here seems to be just about perfect. It even feels different from the nearby French coastal towns; the sun seems to have a perfect glow, like an American shampoo advertisement. And when you drive in, you had better make sure it's a nice car. If it isn't prohibitively expensive or roaringly noisy, it isn't likely to attract the swarms of tourists who crowd round every luxury car to take hopeless photos, in the vain chance that there may be someone remotely famous getting out of it.
One (admittedly great) thing about Monaco that isn’t the case outside the borders is the pleasurable absence of French cars. Oh yes, this is Monaco, and you ride needs to be German, Italian or British. There’s nothing to worry about, however, for you won’t get your tyres dirty. The roads, pavements and alleys are spotlessly clean, constantly swept by the country’s army of street cleaners who at times appear to outnumber the residents.
So I’ve only been here a few days, but, being merely a golden thorn in the side of France, have navigated my way through most of it. Now the fun begins; I’m here to work, but I would be lying if I didn’t half-heartedly believe I was here for pleasure as well. There’s plenty to see, lots of money to lose, and a sufficient number of wealthy people to meet. No doubt I’ll be publicly humiliated when the next issue of VFTT comes out, in which I will include pictures of my adventures.
Don’t be thinking, however, that the Principality is reserved only for A-list celebs, ex-tennis
champions and luxury lifestyle journalists. You too can live it up in Monaco until your wallet bleeds dry (that
shouldn’t take too long over here). So come on over, and don’t forget to tell me which yacht is yours. Now, if you’ll
excuse me, I have to make the painful pilgrimage out of this plastic Shangri-La and into the clay-clad wastelands of a
French tennis tournament into which I have entered. My helicopter awaits…
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