Monte Carlo, or the art of manifesting daydreams

It was easy to justify the cost of my travels in the summer of 2022. See, I’d spent six years saving for a post-grad adventure (it should have been four years, but COVID decided to give me extra time), and I was adamant that I would achieve the trip of my dreams on a budget. After all, I was sure that this trip would be the trip, the only real trip that I would embark on in my youth aside from trips to the coast with other single twenty-somethings and maybe, if I was lucky, a well timed trip to Cabo. So I couldn’t rationalize breaking the bank on fancy hotels or flights that took off after the sun rose— not when I remembered how the rent prices were acting or the fact that a couch could cost you half your sanity if you weren’t careful. 

I still dropped a hearty sum on that month of my life. The simple act of jumping the Atlantic was enough to drain my coffers and the blood from my young, rosy cheeks. But I had a comfort that stood above all my worries and what-if’s.

I would simply win in Monte Carlo.

It was a foolproof plan. I would walk into the casino, strangers heads turning as I passed, I would approach the poker table and lay my clean, white chips on the velvet with my dainty, manicured fingers. And then, with a delicate flick of my nail against the table I would raise my bet until the rich old men across from me balked at my girlish boldness, so full of grace and confidence and godliness that they would have no choice but to fold their hands. And they would faint at the cacophony of cards in my hand. “She was bluffing!” They’d say, as a woman less glamorous than I fainted to the expensive Persian carpet below. And I would laugh “Haha!” As I triumphantly gathered the chips from the table, too many to carry, spilling from my palm. I toss the extras to the crowd as they cheer. A thousand for you! And a thousand for you! They would clamor at my feet. At least three men would fall in love with me and offer me rings, and at least one woman would pledge me her sword in battle. I would refuse all their proposals, “Please no, I am no one special. Save your love and your sword for one more worthy than I.” Then I would flee the casino, chips turned to cash in a briefcase they handcuffed to my wrist— the only jewelry I would accept that night. Running across the plaza, I would be led to a lambo the color of caviar, a color I would instantly be familiar with once I’d won my millions. But alas! The crowd is too thick, and the silk of my dress is caught betwixt my waxed, toned legs. “Oh dear!” I’d exclaim, backing away from the crowd. I would dash around the building, to find a helicopter awaiting me, the tikatikas just beginning their tikatikaing. I would glide between the chopper and her charge, a man named Harvey with a very small cock, offering no apology as I escape the crowd with my chic new ride and my moneybags.

I start a Swiss bank account the next day. And buy a two bedroom in Hell’s Kitchen. Because even in my dreams I know I cannot afford the Village.

Foolproof plan.

Of course, it wasn’t until I arrived in Monte Carlo that I realized how expensive the poker buy in is. And that they would only accept cash for chips, not an IOU scribbled on a cocktail napkin with a phone number that was missing a digit or two. I tried to make up the difference in a game of blackjack, but I busted. Immediately. I had three chips left. The only thing I could play was roulette. 

I stood at the roulette table for two hours. My three chips going to four to two to three to one but never, never to zero. Two hours I stayed in the game. I did in fact, attract a crowd. “Look at the little American,” they said, “still in the game with just two chips. Ouhouhouh.” That’s how they laugh in French. 

Two hours, before I finally lost. I was congratulated, to my credit, by one or two of my table mates. And then I retreated, my dreams of home ownership gone down the drain.

It’s times like this a lady finds liquor. And find it I did, at a bar around the corner from the casino. The bartenders were kind, when I told them I was traveling alone, they refused to let me pay for a drop. They wouldn’t even take my IOU. 

And once I’d drowned my dashed dreams, I decided to cut my losses and return to my hotel. So I left, and as I left or in order to leave, I had to take a left into the courtyard, and then another left into the garden. And as I was lefting— I mean, leaving, I caught the eye of a handsome stranger. I had seen him across the roulette table. He had helped me put my chips on black, right next to his. We’d both lost, but I don’t think he had any real power over that, so I tried not to blame him. He’d seen me turning left to leave and I’d seen him seeing me and I felt the simple tickle of fate behind my right ear so I lifted my left hand and I waved to him. To say goodnight. And thank you for moving my chips. And for smiling at me. And having those twinkling eyes that are impossible to look away from. 

And then I lefted. I went into the garden. Toward my hotel. For the end of the night. 

A brief note on what I was wearing: I had bought, after the first wave of Covid, and before the second, a red dress. I got it second hand. Fleur de Mal, $120. Red silk that kissed my knees and fluttered around me when I walked. I refused to wear it for a year and a half because I knew that I could only wear it for the first time once, and I knew that that first time had to be in Monte Carlo. And then, I had a bag, a gold mesh bag from the 1930’s that I’d searched for for hours online, because it needed to be a good price but it also needed to fit my phone and my lipstick and a tampon just in case. And then the shoes— ugh, the shoes. The shoes were a pair of seven inch nude platform gladiator sandals that laced allllllllllll the way up. They were a nightmare and I loved them more than I loved my mother on laundry day. Because those shoes, those beautiful, ridiculous shoes that I’d worn nearly everyday since I broken my sensible shoes dancing at a night club in Sevilla on my second night in Europe, THOSE shoes came untied in the garden. So I had to stop and bend down to tie them again. And when I stood up, I felt a polite tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and there was the man from the roulette table. And he said the words I had never heard before and will never forget.

He said: “Hello, would you like champagne on my yacht?”

Suddenly, the helicopter sounded so unbelievably gauche. I said yes so quickly, I was afraid I’d scared the poor man. But he just laughed and started walking with me. We collected his friends along the way, which I was grateful for since getting me down the hill to the docks in those bullshit beautiful shoes was a two man job. 

They sat me on the boat, poured me a glass, and pulled off my shoes. I learned who spoke the best English, they learned that I spoke the worst Italian, but the more we drank— well, we might as well have been speaking Russian by the end of the night. 

His friends left and it was just us. And the boat. And we talked without the champagne. He was easier to understand for a million reasons. 

He didn’t protest when I told him I would find my own way home. I wanted to let him watch me walk away, just in case I could leave a lasting impression. I only regretted it at the top of the hill when I realized a woman in a red dress at 4AM in Monte Carlo is not necessarily seen as a lady you offer a cab to if you work for one of the fancy rich people hotels. But I managed to find a cab. I glided into it right ahead of her charge, a man named Harvey, and I sped into the last legs of the night.

When I got back to the hotel room, I ate a thing of Pringles that I would later discover were worth 24 whole, entire euros and I watched the sunrise, pleased at having won Monte Carlo.