Lines this good rarely turn up in life, much less on a business trip. Or maybe I just don't work enough in the South of France with charming Italians in possession of good local knowledge and a car. In any case, that was the trigger for the most interesting, if slightly sleep-deprived, evening of my recent stint at Gartner ITxpo.
The famous principality of Monaco is about an hour down the coast from Cannes. We'd worked a full day and needed time to change into casual clothes before leaving, so it was well past 8 and very dark by the time we got on the road. Thus we only had elusive hints at what must be spectacular views along the way. Moonlight shimmering on bays far beneath the snaking highway, the lights of towns stretching along the coast, white cliff faces glimmering above the highway lamps. The road is of excellent quality, but clearly a challenging drive with lots of curves, climbs and tunnels. I was very happy, especially given the rain the hit us on the return journey, that I wasn't driving.
Upon entering the outskirts of Monaco's capital city, you immediately notice the prosperity. If Cannes in a flashy, slightly tawdry and very overdressed girl, Monte Carlo is an elegant, tasteful woman who's mature yet still sexy. In fact, think Princess Grace as architecture and you get the idea. Every piece of trim is freshly painted, every building in perfect repair, every sign bright and fresh. I didn't see a piece of litter, a pile of junk or a badly parked vehicle. The whole scene had the eerie feel of a stage set, freshly constructed by the Disney team and waiting for Julie Andrews to waltz through. Of course, it might have just been the cover of darkness. But I doubt it. This place gives new meaning to the concept of "tidy".
The road, bounded by precise stone walls and trim little villas, snakes downward toward the coast. Approaching 10 o'clock on a Wednesday night, traffic was non-existent; evidently in addition to keeping their country in fine condition, the Monegasques go to bed early. While the boys in the front seat got increasingly excited that the twisting roads were exactly the same as those in the Monaco grand prix computer game, the hungry girls in the back were starting to worry tha
t this elusive pizza place would be closed.We circled the bottom of the citadel of the princes of Monaco, catching glimpses of their fortress palace high above. We drove along the sea front, where a cheerful carnival was illuminated, but clearly closed for the season, and palm trees swayed. Our grand prix drivers showed us where the start and finish line of the famous race was, and, thanks to their virtual experience, explained which hairpins we were cornering were particularly treacherous as we started to climb up another hill. Impressive yachts filled the harbour now falling below us, while the world's most recognisable brand names filled pristine buildings on every side. Flower beds and road verges were landscaped with such artistry they hardly looked real. I never saw a weed or a dead leaf. And through all of this, we saw not another soul. Could any place still be open to serve food in this exquisite ghost town?
But Enrico, bless him, had honed in on the authentic Italian pizzeria like a homing pigeon returning to its nest. Il Triangolo was not only open, but well populated with staff and customers watching football and consuming the delights coming out of the wood fired oven. Simple and unpretentious, I felt more like I was in the local hang out of some unassuming Southern Italian town than in the heart of one of the most elegant resorts in the world. Everything we'd seen thus far suggested pretension, caviar and champagne. Thus it seemed not only a bit odd, but faintly rebellious, to be here consuming a perfect pizza capricciosa and an ice cold beer. And, compared to Cannes, the 25 euros each we paid for the meal was reasonable. Should you ever find yourself in Monte Carlo in need of a common touch, do check the place out. (With your back to the casino, walk into the public gardens and then exit to the right. The road along the side of the gardens will twist to the right. Il Triangolo is in the curve, on your left as you walk up hill.)
After dinner, and now approaching midnight, we took a stroll through the heart of this
playground of the rich and famous. The public gardens were well lit and, despite it being November, still lush and green beneath their serried rows of palms. Impressive fountains continued to play in the otherwise-silent night. Below the downward-sloping gardens sits the casino, a grand Belle Epoque building designed by the same man responsible for the Paris Opera. The apple didn't fall far from the architectural tree: it's classical yet bombastic; elegant yet wildly over the top; forbiddingly opulent yet, at the same time, beckoning. No matter how tempted, none of us were dressed for or had the energy to go wandering about such a place, so we had a look through the glistening plate glass doors and let the Russian babes who pulled up in the black four wheel drive head inside to play at being in a James Bond film. Instead we had a wander through the slightly less opulent, and free to enter, smaller casino on the main complex's right flank. Past the lovely architecture and the interiors looked pretty much exactly like the casino on a cruise ship. I suppose one slot machine is much the same as another, no matter how good the architecture surrounding it.We continued our wander around town, heading to the terrace behind the main casino where we had a view of the yacht basin and, across it, the palace of the princes. Below me sat the boat I would surely buy if had obscene amounts of money; 70 feet at least with a towering mast, gleaming wood and old fashioned lines, she's exactly the kind of sailboat that you expect the rich and famous to dock in these places. I wonder, do they know how lucky they are?
Probably not. But I'm well aware of how fortunate we were to carve such a great night out of what might have been a deeply unexceptional evening in the hotel bar, drinking overpriced wine and wondering what company claimed the guy who just did a deal with the hotel prostitute. Grazie Mille, Enrico, for a far better class of evening.
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