Monaco--Soiree Blanc

August 12th, 2006

I would have never imagined that my day trip to the local village of Mougin last Sunday would have proven to be so fortuitous. I spent Saturday evening at the penthouse apartment of the billionaire I met at lunch. It was his annual "Soiree Blanc Avec les Etoiles” (White Party Under the Stars) thrown for a hundred of his closest friends and business associates. Having just met him and his lovely Australian companion once, receiving such an invitation two days later was a very pleasant surprise. Needless to say, three shopping trips to Cannes and Nice produced the only suitable white frock. I donned a French designed classic dress with a tight bodice, scoop neck and a full circle skirt reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn’s vestments in Sabrina. At 40 Euros, the designer dress was a steal after the four-inch white Valentino sandals I purchased to complete the look. The invitation said to dress conservatively so I paired the ensemble with a very sweet black Agnes B bolero cardigan I found at the Nice shopping mall. I topped the ensemble off with an up do and a black vintage cocktail hat I found on Melrose Blvd.

Having my party clothes prepared ready gave me a little solace. As the day of the party neared I wondered what was an American Afro-Latina to do in such a setting. I had no idea what to expect. I was to be surrounded by the Rivera's richest residents with not a clue on how to conduct myself so I trolled the Internet for helpful etiquette tips. 

For one thing, planning was key! Monaco is at most an hour's drive from my doorstep, but I have myself a two-hour head start. It was a good instinct because I left just in time to sit in traffic for two hours. I stopped en route to change at a gas station just off the expressway. The station attendant was amused to see me go into the bathroom workout attire and exit in full black tie vestments. This also turned out to be a good instinct because I not only avoided wrinkling my party dress, but I avoided expiring from suffocation due to a tight bodice, while sitting in two-hour traffic. A successful twenty minutes in the loo produced me fresh for the party. However, my back felt tight after such a long drive so I popped a painkiller to keep my back from complaining about being jacked up in four-inch heels.

It seemed like every expensive luxury and sports car in Monaco were parked in front of my host’s building. I smiled to myself as I maneuvered the convertible into a tight spot, remarking on my luck at obtaining a space directly in front of the very swank residence. My host calls home to one of the most exclusive apartment buildings in Monaco. Just seeing it's golden encrusted façade was enough to make me nervous. As I walked onto the elevator I steadied my nerves by reminding myself that money isn't everything. Values like moral character, honor and family were one’s true wealth. However, the opulence took some getting used to. Europeans display wealth in a much different fashion. Beverly Hills, Bel Aire and Park Avenue did nothing to prepare me for an evening on a Monaco rooftop but by the end of the evening I found myself comfortably sipping Dom Perignon from a flute in one hand and the other hand on the arm of a handsome Italian. But, I am getting ahead of myself.

Nearing my destination, I took comfort at the ease with which it took to spot my fellow partygoers. A Bentley full of elegant fifty-somethings decked out in their finest designer, and in once case couture, white summer attire pulled up in front of me. The passengers noticed my white dress and assumed we were headed in the same direction. The four older Frenchmen were complete gentlemen and took it upon themselves to escort me to the party. Being the only American and the only guest to arrive at the party alone, I found solace in their chivalry. I clutched the arm of a lovely fifty-something-vineyard-heir as we stepped from the gilded elevator onto the penthouse floor. A sign posted on the elegant double door in three languages asked all guests to please enter and join the soiree on the third floor balcony. In comparison, the downstairs lobby was modest to say the least. Stepping into the reception area of the penthouse I felt a rush of adrenaline from the exquisite ambiance of the home. Antiques were delicately paired with a careful blend of Southern French and Parisian décor. It was the kind of apartment that Robyn Leach guides you through on "The Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous". Growing up in Los Angeles desensitizes, displays of wealth are common among wealthy circles in my hometown, which made it easy to not be impressed by wealth. However, seeing it first hand was quite a surreal feeling. As I stood face to face with a privately owned Renoir, I was sobered knowing that it was possible that my life’s earnings would never equate to its' monetary value. In that moment my personal values were strengthen. The image of  success upheld by the Western mainstream media places an individual’s value on their monetary holdings, rather than the quality of person they are. However, I am enjoying taking a peak into “The Lifestyles of the Rich & French”.

 The lovely host greeted each of us at the door with a flute of Dom Perignon in one hand and a welcoming outstretched hand. I was guided up two flights of stairs to the balcony. My brand new four-inch Valentinos still needed to be broken in, so I was grateful for the steadying elbow of my very kind escort. Out in the patio garden the party was in full swing. Knowing only one other person at the party, I asked quickly where the young lady could be found and headed over to that general location. The sun was beginning to set as I made my rounds, gaily chatting and drinking my way through the party. Nerves automated my movements as I unconsciously sipped the champagne. Donned in white tuxedos, the very capable wait staff magically replaced each empty flute I produced. I caught myself, but possibly too late. I put down the champagne flute and continued enjoying the party by making light conversation, taking photos and employing deep breaths. In a moment of pure happiness I remarked at seeing Monaco alight like a starry night sky. The fascinating, worldly company made me ponder if this would be the last time I get to enjoy such surroundings as a guest.

 At about nine o'clock, I started feeling a little light headed and excused myself and retired to one of the guest bathrooms for ten minutes to get my bearings. At the precise moment I was reapplying my lipstick I remembered that I had taken a painkiller at 3:30pm. Needless to say, it was a magical evening until I realized that I mixed prescription pain medicine with champagne. The painkillers in my bloodstream mixed quickly with the Dom Perignon and  I carefully headed back to the balcony for some fresh air. As I inhaled the fresh sea breeze a beautiful Italian voice bid me “Buonasera”. I look over and see two handsome Italian men smiling welcomingly. The host appeared out of nowhere and kindly introduced me the gentlemen as "the American". The tall, gorgeous gentleman paid me a compliment, saying, "I looked very much like Sophia Loren this evening”. Blushing, I tried desperately to conceal my intoxication and asked if the three of us could move our conversation to one of the garden benches. They obliged and with much refinement, one gentleman extended his arm to escort me and the other took my champagne flute from my hand. I couldn't tell you the length of time I conversed with my new Italian friends, but I believe it was a span of an hour. The extent of my intoxication was becoming slightly evident. The host and the two gentlemen accompanied me to the lower living room to rest for a moment.  As we descended the staircase, my heel caught on the fabric of the silk jacquard curtains adorning the entrance of the balcony patio. Luckily my escort held me steadily or I would have tripped and fallen down a flight of stairs and smashed headfirst into the wall below. I supposed it wouldn't have been so painful because I was anesthetized almost completely, only kidding. But I digress; I was fortunate enough to reach the chaise under the Renoir safely. It was then that one of the lovely Italian men realized how truly ill I was becoming. I sat in the living room terrified by the fact that it was becoming apparent that I was unable to make it back to the villa.

I would have normally never done something as naive as to accept an invitation to stay in a stranger's flat. Upon the host’s recommendation and assurance that  this friend of his, like every single person invited to the party was at one time either in business with or a friend of the host. He assured me that he, as a businessman trusted everyone in the room; I was the only new face. Since there are no Holiday Inns or Best Westerns in Monaco, I allowed myself to be driven to the very first destination in my drive to Italy two weeks before, Bordighera. There I slept peacefully in a suite of my own for six hours, long enough to rest for my return to Cannes. Like all my travel adventures, focusing on the lessons learned are the true jewels along the journey. Lesson one: remember what medications are consumed before imbibing large quantities of expensive champagne. Lesson two: whenever possible enjoy the company of wealthy individuals because when an emergency presents itself an exciting and luxurious solution is quickly discovered. Most importantly, when merriment is in full swing, meet as many rich men as possible!

When in France, Sunbathe Topless

August 9, 2006



August 9, 2006

So, the children are gone. They left with Madame this morning. She is driving them to Brittany to stay with relatives for two weeks. Thus my summer holiday begins. The master of the house slept in while I took my daily hike in the woods behind the villa and swam laps in the pool. Monsieur commented over lunch that I am becoming quite the French woman. I have conquered French traffic, become a lover of fine French wine, and you will be happy to know that I finally tried le stinky cheese. It was what I expected, very, very strong. No wonder the French enjoy wine with pungent cheese, it dulls your senses and makes you jolly no matter what you consume

While Monsieur was taking his daily after lunch siesta (something as French as sunbathing topless), I decided to take another dip in the pool. Yes, I know, tough job. After a few laps I decided the sun was perfect to even out my farmer’s tan, so I nervously slathered on some suntan oil, turn on my iPod and grabbed a glass of chilled vin rose for courage. Ten minutes later my boss was off for the day and so was my bikini top. Allow me to preface, if you don’t know me well enough, I am very bashful. I don’t change my clothes in front of girlfriends, share dressing rooms, or feel comfortable in revealing clothing. I have sisters that would have whipped off their tops their first day in France, but I blush if someone sees too deeply down my top. I can only imagine what my mother is thinking as she reads this, but going topless while sunning oneself is one's God given right in France. Just the other day I took the kids to the beach and most women were basking in the sun without tops in full sight of an audience of all ages. In France little girls swim in only bikini bottoms until they are 6, then, as I have noted from observation, they resume this dress in their adult years as they see fit. So in actuality, I am not all that brave, sunbathing topless in the total privacy of the villa's sun deck makes me a bit of a prude by French standards. The villa is secured on all sides by seven feet tall hedges, so there was no danger of peeping toms. French women of all sizes are proud of every inch of their bodies, no matter the shape. A bit of that is beginning to rub off on me because feeling comfortable enough in my own skin to sunbathe topless gives a sense of accomplishment. I didn’t have to wait until I was a size 4 again to feel at ease in my own skin. I inhale and exclaim aloud, “the boss is right, I am becoming more and more a French woman every day”.

As the warm summer sun and Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" gently lulls me to sleep. Suddenly I am awoken by a man standing over me, telling me in French that he is the plumber and asking where my employers were. I don't know how long he stood over me, but I quickly noticed that he was gentlemanly enough to cover me up before waking me. I can hear my mother giving me a good old-fashioned "I told you so" and "what would your great grandmother think" but I wasn’t as embarrassed as I thought I would have been and neither was the plumber. The older gentleman was so matter-of-fact about the whole experience that I suspected he only covered me as not to frighten the unliberated American. After he fixed the sink he bade me "bonjour", I resumed my topless sunbathing, reminding myself to be sure to lock the main gate and turn on the intercom before whipping off my top. 

A Sunday in Mougin

August 6th, 2006 

I find myself enjoying the sunshine and old world charm on a quaint restaurant terrace in Mougin one beautiful Sunday. This charming village was once the home of Cubist painter Pablo Picasso. The view from the town square is breathtaking; it’s no mystery why Picasso was drawn to this town. A look around the old village is enough to fill anyone with artistic inspiration. The thing is, I don't really know how I ended up here. I got in the car this morning with every intention of seeing the beautiful beaches of St. Tropez. But something drew me first to the old village of Mougin.  Miraculously I found parking right in front of the bustling Sunday antique flea market. As I got out of the car a beautiful old wardrobe caught my eye. I walked over to the lovely old Frenchman standing guard over his prized antiques. As I drew closer and saw the 1200 Euro price tag, I turned sadly on my heels.

All the dealers, mostly older men, were enjoying an elegant five-course meal, complete with real silverware and crystal wine glasses amid the bustling chaos of the flea market stalls. One case in particular caught my eye because it held a beautifully delicate piece of jewelry. My eye first gazed upon this gorgeous antique ring. An elegant silver ring with 19 pinhead-sized amethyst encrusted in a sinewy facade. The lovely dealer, Chantal, at once said that the ring was a hard sell due to it being "trop petite," or too small. I asked her politely to allow me to try it on, and wouldn't you know it, the ring slipped right onto my finger. I bought it right away for 30 Euros, a steal considering it is a sixty-year-old ring. Chantal explained that in France a piece is considered an antique only after it is at least a century old. So I got quite a buy! 

As I wandered through the village, I felt a distinct sense of culture shock. The sound of heavy freeway traffic and the hum of busy Melrose shoppers would be out of place in this centuries old village. The culinary world I grew up in was the LA restaurant scene, equipped with polite, attentive service and elegantly uniform dishes. Angeleno waiters are quick to stand at attention in their black slacks and starched white shirts, but they would be out of place in this relaxed French country setting. There is no place for a uniform in this quaint village in the South of France. Here the waiters serve in casual slacks, hugging ever so sexily to their hips. White is the last color seen here. Tables are dressed in every color of the rainbow, delicately coordinated to the theme of each sidewalk cafe. The rustic old fountain in the courtyard subdues the buzz of French families discussing their day’s excursions, providing a backdrop of tranquility.  Once I get settled at my table, it finally hits me, "we aren't in Los Angeles anymore."

I never imagined I would long to hear the flat American accent chopping up the beautiful flow of the French language.  After three weeks of sign language, I would love nothing more than to chat in my native tongue.  And in response to my homesickness, I suddenly hear the sweet droll of a southern American accent.  I presumptuously introduce myself.  Brian is in France on business, but is lucky enough to have an old French college buddy to show him the hidden jewels of the French Rivera.  I realize we are being watched and look over to see other diners sneer at our audacity at speaking English so freely. I take little notice of their superiority because my excitement at meeting another American will not sway me into embarrassment.  His kind companion Emerique quickly encourages my homesickness by informing me that his wife is American. He very neighborly asks for my card in order to pass along to his wife and their group of American expatriates. I am suddenly comforted with the possibility of making American friends.  Yes, that was no typo...I was excited about the possibility of making AMERICAN friends. As they depart, Emerique tells me to make sure to take their phone calls because his wife, Danielle, would love to show me around Mougin. I adore the French but the language barrier makes me slow to make local friends. 

I enjoyed the most fabulous omelet lunch. As a vegetarian, I find it refreshing to have another culinary choice at any meal. I felt so inspired by my surroundings that as soon as the handsome waiter cleared away my meal, I pulled out my laptop and began blogging about my day trip to Italy. I was deep into the article when a lovely Australian accent inquires if I am a professional writer. I blush with embarrassment and inform her that those are my aspirations. Her companion, a silvered-haired gentleman of great refinement, interjects to introduce them both. He is a wealthy businessman visiting from Monaco, and she is his guest from out of town. He explains that he has held an annual White Party for all his friends and business associates for over twenty years.  As he mentions the party I find myself fantasizing about attending it.  He must have sensed my desire and asked for my contact information in order to send along an invitation. Shortly after our meeting the billionaire and his beautiful Australian companion departed for their return to Monaco. As I walked back to the car I remarked at the auspiciousness of the day!  I wonder when my invitation will arrive?

I drove home grateful that I was able to enjoy an afternoon not dominated by the language barrier. My employers greeted me at the door with a glass of red wine and stories of their adventures as expatriates. I discovered that they were once in my shoes. The family lived in America for eight years in the 1990s and their support has been valuable in helping me acclimate into the French culture.

I drove home grateful that I was able to enjoy an afternoon not dominated by the language barrier. My employers greeted me at the door with a glass of red wine and stories of their adventures as expatriates. I discovered that they were once in my shoes. The family lived in America for eight years in the 1990s and their support has been valuable in helping me acclimate into the French culture.

Daytrip to Italia

July 30, 2006

Yesterday, Sunday, was my weekly day off. I have been feeling more confidence as a driver, so the family gave me full use of one of the cars, a convertible. So, what does one do when Italia is only an hour's drive away??? Take a day trip of course!

Ah, how can I express the beauty of the drive? With a handsome Frenchman as my guide and the local French band blaring their audes of love, I cruised down the Cote d’Azur at 100km/hr with the top down, heading towards a wonderful adventure.

It wasn't until noon that we hit THE spectacular sight of Nice's plage (beach), I have NEVER seen a bluer or more beautiful ocean. Nice tops Cannes in a second! The winding road hugs the French Rivera all the way to Italia. Monaco was the first stop. The Palais de Monaco is breathtaking.

     It is built on the remnants of a medieval castle that once stood hundreds of years ago. There is a jardin (garden) with beautiful ponds and flowers so abundant that the air about the palace is thick with perfume. Just as mass was in session, I popped my head into the cathedral where Princess Grace was married. Just beyond the chapel, there is a spectacular view that overlooks the coastline where one can see all the way to Italy. The marina below show the only signs of life, aside from us tourists, the wait staff on board the sleek yachts docked in Monaco’s marina busily clearing up lunch the remnants of their employers’ lunch. It seemed all of Monaco was enjoying their daily siesta.

After a leisurely stroll through the deserted town we were off once again. Next stop Bordighera, Italia. Weeks after the World Cup the festivities were still in full swing. There were hundreds of beautiful Italians running down the beach waving their patriotic flags, some even bathed in the nude! A huge crowd of partiers stopped traffic at one point to play in the ancient fountains along the route through the city.

Traffic being backed up we decided to take a dip in the Italian Rivera's crystal blue ocean. I found myself a charming bluff to dip my toes in the water and contemplate the beauty of the sea. It was a scene of movie or travel specials. The coast wound around for miles, speckled with naked bodies as far as the eye could see. The only structures visible were gleaming white villas gently nestled into the jagged cliffs. The view was so clear, one could see clear past San Remo, the final stop.

I had heard about the quaint and charming Italian boarder town of San Remo from Film Noir filmsettings and travel references, but being there live was an enriching experience. We found ourselves trolling along the charming cobblestone streets as a symphony of mouth-watering aromas aroused the appetite. As I stopped for my first REAL European meal I contemplated my dilemma. My strict vegetarian diet prevented me from really enjoying the potency of French cheese or the richness of French sauces or deserts. After a few weeks in France, my diet was confined to nothing more than a raw food diet of fresh salads and freshly baked bread, so you can imagine my hunger. Tucking in, as my fellow British travelers say, to authentic spaghetti with clams and a glass of local Chianti was a meal to remember. I have refrained saying too much about my French companion until now because dinner was the first time we could actually make conversation. It is amazing how much one can communicate by employing a translation dictionary, body language and universal hand gestures. I enjoyed so much of the Italian wine and the sangria that only a strong Espresso and a brisk walk along the Italian coast could cure my haze and prepare me for the return drive back to France.

After a nice stroll, we found our way back to the car through the old city square. The blood was pumping in my ears as we drove with the top down at 130km/hr. This was the perfect ending to such a long and exciting day. With a full moon to light the highway, I felt myself feel more at ease behind the wheel along the long winding road back to France. Midnight greeted us as we pulled into the villa's main gate, thus ending one of the most beautiful and exciting days of my life. It isn’t every day that a California girl like me can enjoy two European countries in one day. The Mediterranean Rivera is one of the most beautiful places in the world.

I wish all of you could see how beautiful the view from the villa is; I still can’t believe how with such a humble beginning ended up in such lush surroundings. I often ask myself, "What has this French Adventure taught me so far?" My heart responds, "Take as many calculated risks in life as possible, work hard and above all remain true to one’s heart and your path will always converge on the desires of your heart."

Living here is wonderful, but it is also the most challenging experience of my life. I just want to thank you all my friends and family back home. I would not be sitting in such blessing if it were not for every single person reading this. I hope that these experiences are not conveyed in a boastful tone, but in awe ad gratitude with all I have been blessed with. I have come to realize that these blessings did not begin 10 days ago, but weeks, years, and in some cases decades ago. These blessings began with sharing a special moment with every one of you.  It is my hope that you are encouraged through the conveyance of the blessings I now enjoy.

Love from France,

Monique

"Bonjour" from The South of France

July 25th, 2006

Sunday will mark my one-week anniversary in the South of France. Not a day goes by that I do not think of all of my friends and family back in the States and miss you all dearly. 

Life in the French countryside continues to amaze me. I drove today for the first time in ten days. It was quite interesting. The French have a reputation for being risky drivers, but the roads are akin to a well-choreographed waltz. The steep twist and turns on every road ruined my hopes of a refreshing country drive. I was besieged by frequent heart palpitations and near misses. I finally made it home in one piece, but just barely. It seems I still need to get my LA tango in sync with their French waltz. (CAUTION: Foreign automobile passengers should be sure to employ an eye mask when riding in a vehicle in any part of France.) 

The following day I decided that using my legs might be the best way to enjoy my adventure at this stage. So, I went for my first walk in the French countryside. I explored the trail behind the villa, following the beautiful melody of a guitar and mandolin playing deep in the woods. I timidly drew closer to a charmingly aged villa where two old men sat in a beautiful, flower-filled garden playing to chickens enjoying an evening meal at their feet. The purple and red sunset behind them illuminated their wrinkled, but happy faces. Suddenly a light rain began, refreshing the warm summer ground. The rain woke me out of the trance that the music had put on me. I sprang to life and took cover under an ancient oak tree. I realized that if I stayed any longer I would risk walking back to the villa in the dark. I arrived back home just in time to see darkness cover the hillside like a blanket. 

The next day I ventured to Cannes with the family, thankful I did not have to drive the way there. It was like a dream. The city and seascape are beautiful, more breath taking than the photos or films. I could almost see Cary Grant and Grace Kelly lounging on the floating platform with the other swimmers, as in “To Catch a Thief”. 

The language seems to be my biggest challenge living in paradise. It is quite a challenge thriving in a country where one can’t be understood and not be understood in turn. Thankfully, French class begins on Tuesday. The youngest in my care continues to complain to her Maman that she can’t do what I ask because she doesn't know what I am saying. The best way to learn a language is, under threat of being ignored.