Sebastian
By savia
- 437 reads
This morning is to be, hopefully, an exciting one. An old friend of
mine, Sebastian Hendrikson, is coming to stay for a week. I haven't
seen him since autumn, when I went to visit him in his new home, in
Monaco.
Monaco is a surprisingly small (and hilly) place. The whole 'country'
is probably smaller than London, most of its area being taken up with
high-rise offices, flats, hotels and brightly-lit tunnels with the
occasional screeched tyre mark adorning the grey tarmac. The latter is
due to the infamous Monaco Grand Prix; a race renowned for its
dangerous corners and sharp bends. Unsurprising really- Monaco isn't
big enough to have a race track- the Grand Prix cars are directed
through the winding roads and narrow alleys of the city itself.
My autumnal visit left me with a lasting impression of Monaco's
capital (and indeed only) city, Monte Carlo, as a place of money, fast
lifts, fast cars, money, good food and money. The whole place is
Formula One obsessed. On the penultimate day of my five-day stay, I
went out for a meal at a 'themed' cafe. There were racing gloves,
helmets and wheels as far as the eye could see. Seb and I ate from
replicas of Formula One driving seats, and very comfortable they were
too. The (delicious) food was served on plates with go-faster stripes,
and I soon felt myself being compelled to eat my cheeseburger and chips
quickly, before it escaped into the far distance. Luckily, language was
less of a problem, as both the menus and the waitresses spoke of rushed
sounding meals in French, English and Italian. Amazing. Yet not quite
as amazing as the twelve-pound bill for the two of us to eat the small
meals we chose. But, in this world of eight pound fifty pizzas the size
of small plates and rents in the thousands, Seb didn't bat an eyelid.
Monte Carlo residents are, after all, in pole position.
My main reason for being in Monte Carlo, of course, was not the food
or the scenery. I flew out to these desolate streets and wave-beaten
cafes to see Seb again. An old friend of mine from primary school, Seb
had 'persuaded' his father to pay for the two-way flight for me to
visit them by the devious and underhand method of asking him (Seb's
father owns several oil tankers). So it was that I braved inept flight
attendants, British Airways sandwiches and stale bags of peanuts to
land on the beautiful French coastline and was driven to the
Hendrikson's luxury flat. And what a flat! It came complete with stone
floors, artwork-splattered walls and soft, luxurious furniture. There
were four or five of these 'apartments' on each floor, each with a
seemingly infinite supply of small rooms that I'd never seen before; if
Seb's new home was anything to go by. I was told that a Dutch oil
company head, who was considered to be 'rich' (I dread to think of it),
had a 'big' apartment. Later I found out that that this consisted of
the whole of the top three floors of the building. Truly, this was a
place of gold, glory and oil.
The flat itself, as I have already mentioned, was made up of a
seemingly endless supply of small, dark rooms, all of which were
interconnected by a series of narrow passageways that somehow defied
the usual rules of space by being apparently larger than the flat that
contained them. I was sure that, somewhere in this mighty complex, a
small group of past visitors who had strayed from the beaten path
whilst trying to find the toilet still roamed to open plains of
brightly-coloured carpets and leather furniture. I can still picture
them now; wandering the back passages of darkest Monte Carlo and eating
whatever they could of the 'nouveau artismes' that adorned the dank
passages.
Whilst at this labyrinthine monstrosity of a flat, I was careful to
stick to entering the few rooms I knew the definite locations of in
relation to everything else. By doing this, I managed to retain my
person long enough to enjoy the scenery, food and conversations with
Seb about who has the nastiest character up their sleeve (Seb and I are
both avid wargamers, and I thoroughly enjoyed peppering his rather
stupid Lizardmen with Elven arrows). However, despite the distractions
of getting beaten up by giant lizards all weekend, I managed to have a
very enjoyable stay. The food was fantastic, and even the rare
occasions where we didn't eat out were not a problem, as Seb's mother
is a great cook of all things pasta. I gained new respect for the taste
of true Italian pizza, as on the first night of my stay I was whisked
across the street to a marvellous restaurant adjacent to the flat
building. We dined on traditional recipes, cooked by Italians in a
log-fired clay oven. Wondrous; yet still an expensive way to dine
(remember my mention of ?8.50 pizzas?).
All in all, my stay in Monte Carlo was a great experience. The only
reason that I could go out there in the first place was that the timing
coincided with an obscure French school holiday- a 'long weekend' style
five-day break). So I waved Seb goodbye on his way back to an
international boarding school in France and packed my bags, only just
resisting the urge to jump up and down on Seb's Lizardmen on my way
out. On the eleventh hour, I jetted out from Nice, leaving behind the
world of money, speed, good food and great weather to return to our
dreary, dank, damp and cold isle of Britain. Home sweet home.
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