Monaco: Paradise city

My arrival into Monaco this past November could not have been better designed. It was as if the planning and organisation teams had managed to convince the weather gods to ensure that the sun was exactly at the right place in the sky and the winds carrying just the right amount of waft as they welcomed me on my first visit to the French Riviera.

After taking off from Nice airport, the helicopter rose over the languid Mediterranean Sea, as the sun rolled out a golden carpet over its cerulean waters. The aircraft’s nose then tilted sharply downward as it dove straight ahead towards Monaco, the independent city-state that lies off the coast of France.

Nature’s magnificence quickly gave way to human imagination and ingenuity on the seven-minute ride as my whirly-bird banked to reveal what looked like a gorgeously built-up little coastal town. I had come to attend a musical event featuring the pairing of two world-renowned musicians: A Carnatic vocalist (and Bollywood singer) from India and a British jazz guitarist. But I had also come to experience a remarkably unique lifestyle, of a type of luxury that most people only get to dream about.


The world’s second smallest nation after The Vatican, Monaco’s total geographical area is contained within 2.02 sq km. That’s smaller than the neighbourhood of Bandra (West) in Mumbai, where I live. So is its population. At last count there were 38,400 residents in Monaco, of whom around 9,000 would be considered Monégasque—people either born or naturalised in the country. The rest are divided mainly between French and Italians, with a smattering of other nationalities. An additional floating population of 50,000 commuters come in to work every day.


The absence of any income tax, coupled with easy access to this nearly always balmy Mediterranean settlement, and an infallible commitment to its visitors’ privacy (long before the Las Vegas doctrine, ‘What happens in Vegas…’) ensured that the world’s wealthiest would frequently return to spend and to play. And there began the journey that transformed a minuscule agrarian colony into a nation that boasts the world’s lowest poverty rate as well as the largest number of billionaires per capita. Also, inevitably, some of the world’s most expensive real estate, where, not so long ago, a one-bedroom waterfront apartment in the Fontvieille neighbourhood was listed at $8 million.


My cab made its way down the Rue Grimaldi—the boulevard is named after the family that founded and tenaciously fought for the parcel of land they were to turn into a country—and up the Avenue d’Ostende, before halting in front of one of the country’s most historic buildings: The magnificent Hôtel de Paris Monte-Carlo. That was going to be my home for the next few days. I took in the splendour of its gorgeous façade, and then went up to my room to drink in the staggering views of the Côte d’Azur.

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The year 1863 was a watershed period for the then nearly bankrupt country. It was when Prince Charles III issued a royal decree founding the Société des

Bains de Mer (The Society of Sea Baths), or SBM, an association of entrepreneurs, bureaucrats and the monarchy. Under the guidance of Francois Blanc, the organisation’s first mission was to transform a little plot of olive and citrus trees into the world’s most luxurious resort destination. The SBM is still responsible for Monaco’s image, and owns and manages many of the country’s finest properties. The current prince, Albert II, is a shareholder.



The hotel also became home to one of the world’s finest restaurants. Almost 120 years after its opening, Prince Rainier III issued a challenge to Alain Ducasse, a 31-year-old rising star in the French culinary world, to run Le Louis XV, the hotel’s flagship restaurant, on the premise that he bring it three Michelin stars within four years. Ducasse achieved this feat in just under three, making it the first ever hotel-based restaurant to win the coveted imprimatur. It still has them. And it was the venue of my first dinner on the Riviera.

Helmed by Ducasse’s protégé Dominique Lory, the restaurant’s philosophy centres around the region: Fish and seafood from the Mediterranean, vegetables and herbs from neighbouring farms, meats, poultry, cheese and olive oil from local artisanal producers. Every morsel I bit into—from the amuse-bouche comprising tiny pieces of fresh, unmessed-with fish paired with the most delicate of herbs and condiments, through the main course featuring lamb with red squash and glasswort, to the expansive cheese platter bearing the region’s finest fromages, all the way down to the gâteau molleux au chocolat (a chocolate cake so divine it needs to be spelt in its original language)—were formidable, redoubtable and exquisite, bearing all the standards that a tri-starred restaurant is held up to.


Classical Indian modes and ragas interleaved adroitly with Western jazz voicings and rhythms as Mahadevan and McLaughlin revisited their past collaborative explorations with the band Remembering Shakti along with some of Mahadevan’s own work, as well as newer interpretations of material from McLaughlin’s pathbreaking ’70s jazz-rock outfit The Mahavishunu Orchestra. The guitarist’s touring band, The 4th Dimension, comprising Etienne Mbappé on bass, Gary Husband on keyboards (and drums for one song) and Mumbai’s own musical stalwart Ranjit Barot on drums, displayed a collective tightness and individual virtuosity that left the audience demanding encore after encore, to which the band graciously obliged. It was a truly memorable concert in an appropriately unforgettable setting.

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For the rest of my stay I made the most of the Riviera’s salubrious climes. While much of Europe chills over in winter, Monaco’s perennially temperate weather welcomes visitors all through the year—it rarely exceeds 24 degrees Celsius during its hottest months or drops below 10 degrees Celsius on its coldest days.


At the Casino de Monte-Carlo, I briefly channelled my inner spy—though there were no martinis in view or rogue governments to plot against—given that the James Bond classics Never Say Never Again and GoldenEye were filmed in these hallowed high-stakes rooms. Or was it my imagination stoked by those old-world rooms that once carried the fragrance of Cuban stogies and expensive French parfums? Maybe it was triggered by one of the many cars parked outside that could well have been Bond’s Aston Martin.

As I took in the chill evening air, I could see why anyone with a betting spirit and a bank balance that can handle the stakes would want to return to this haven of luxury, taste and privacy. You don’t even have to set your fortunes on the table. Those 2 sq km contain plenty of ways to slake your most rarefied desires.