From Our Archive
This story was published before Summer 2021, when we launched our new digital experience.

Making the Most of Monte Carlo

Tonga Room, San Francisco.

Wine and Spirits

The Sweet Escape

On the enduring allure of the tiki bar.

The Write Stuff


The Write Stuff

A dip into the world of luxurious fountain pens.

David Lynch Transcendental Meditation Interview


The Deep Dive

A light conversation with David Lynch on Transcendental Meditation, the unified...

The eastern Riviera is one thing. Monaco is another, providing the requisite pinch of bling for a total French Riviera experience. The principality definitely knows how to treat people. Spend a single night in a partner hotel there—I chose to decompress at the Hôtel Métropole Monte-Carlo (rooms, from $480; 4 Av. de la Madone; 377/93-15-15-15; before moving into the house I rented in Roquebrune-Cap-Martin—and you can arrive in style in a helicopter from Nice Airport (and get lots of other freebies and discounts) by joining the city-state’s Le Club Diamant Rouge for a mere $85 (212-286-3330;

After dinner at Le Bouchon (11 Av. Princesse Grace; 377/97-77-08-80), a classic French bistro, I spent my first morning at the Métropole’s outdoor rooftop swimming pool, newly redesigned in graphic black-and-white by the great fashion designer Karl Lagerfeld (a longtime habitué of the outré Riviera), followed by a poolside lunch at Odyssey (4 Av. de la Madone; 377/93-15-15-56;, Joël Robuchon’s new restaurant there. The food was as refined as Lagerfeld’s looming mural of toga-clad models is vaguely ridiculous.

Monaco is full of such contrasts: The Monte Carlo Beach Club (Av. Princesse Grace, Roquebrune-Cap-Martin; is a diverting place to spend a day, with its Olympic-sized saltwater pool, ladders into the Mediterranean, chic Le Deck restaurant for lunch and the Sea Lounge for chilling over cocktails and world-class people-watching. During my visit, burly Russians juggled sylphlike young women and multiple cell phones in the cabana next to mine; an Italian fellow in scuffed monk-strap shoes, who sat near me at lunch, briefly stopped ignoring his companion, a Russian blonde in Prada and Ferragamo, to tell her she didn’t know how to eat spaghetti; and I overheard one American child boast to another, “My driver is putting my scooter together.”


Let’s Keep in Touch

Subscribe to our newsletter

You’re no longer on our newsletter list, but you can resubscribe anytime.

Come On In

U.S. issued American Express Platinum Card® and Centurion® Members, enter the first six digits of your card number to access your complimentary subscription.

Learn about membership.