I just spent months feeling like a VIP. In Asia, those in the tourist industry know how to fluff you up, make you feel like a celebrity, and treat you as if you don’t smell like someone who has been carrying her life around in a moldy, airless pack. I never looked at the prices in restaurants. I tipped as if I were Mr. Drummond. I haggled as if I had experience buying yachts.
And now those days are over.
Catalina and I arrived in Monaco and at the same time departed from everything we’d ever known. There’s an invisible curtain you pass through when you debark the train. No signs. No warnings. Just a feeling as if you’ve stepped into somewhere else.
And that it is– a place like no other. Monaco is one of the three smallest countries in the world. It’s 2km squared and takes 56 minutes to walk from end to end. The capital is the only city, which is also called Monaco (so uncreative). They still have a royal family, but I sort of wonder if they can take themselves seriously. “Get off my 2-kilometer kingdom!” Since it’s a tax haven (read: no income tax), 84% of the population is wealthy foreigners. But I’m not talkin’ wealthy as in I-make-six-figures-and-drive-a-Beamer wealthy. I’m talkin’ I-have-a-bathroom-attendant-at-home wealthy.
Before we figured this out, we skipped in awe past the yachts to a boutique hotel with a splendid view of the turquoise waves slapping the rocks below. Sweat matting our uncoiffed manes to our necks, we decided to get a cold beverage and enjoy the view.
Minute one: “This is a perfect table! What a view!”
Minute ten: Waiter emerges. “Excuse me ladies, would you mind sitting over here? Those tables are reserved for our guests.”
Minute ten: “How did he know we’re not guests?”
Minute twelve: “Is that a misprint or is it really $20 for a Coke?”
Minute thirteen: “Cokes are really twenty dollars. Holy mackerel.”
Minutes fifteen: We slink silently out of the place.
And so, fifteen minutes after arrival in Monaco, the VIP status incurred in Asia jumped into the sea, never to be seen again. At first we made ourselves feel better. “Well, one day we’ll be sailing to Monaco on our yachts.” “Yeah, one day that waiter is going to work at my mansion.” “One day, I’m gonna poo money.” “Yeah, me too.”
But then we realized we would never ever have a yacht. One, the upkeep is horrible. Seems like you not only have to buy a whole yacht when you live in Moncaco, but you also have to buy a matching welcome mat to go along. And that’s just too much trouble. Plus, you have to staff the entire thing so that you can get the hot tub bubbling and an omelette brewing on the count of un-deux-trois. It would be quite a debacle interviewing all those applicants.
But the main reason I would never own a yacht would be my conscience. How could you have so many lavish accoutrement when you know there are Indians covered in flies on the floors of train stations? I’d much rather give loans to poor people who could then start businesses. Or figure out how to use it to make the most people happy.
And then, you know, just rent a yacht when I need one.
Not only do you have to get a matching mat, you have to wear penny loafers.
Even the bathroom signs in Monaco are more fashionable than I am. And wear berets! 
These gelatos were $1200.