My Kind of Show
Watch or parade: open your eyes or become an actor
I’m sitting where people who pay sit, but I’m not paying, I’m just watching — a special kind of show, taking place in the Hotel de Paris’ lobby in Monte-Carlo. Where the wealthy who stay there come and go, the social media queens make their lives seem more interesting, and the money seekers parade. Without forgetting about the ones who come to marvel at the gold-sprayed columns, the dyed blue orchids, the large ornate mirrors, the arches and sculptures, and the heavy crystal chandelier hooked to the ceiling.
The owners of the hotel chose the decor carefully to draw all these types of people in, and they created the perfect stage; many bright lights, and a smooth clear floor with enough space to fit about sixty people. They catered for spectators too; there are about thirty seats with matching tables, where people sit while they drink and eat to the sound of classical music on the left and right sides of the room. A clever setting that makes me feel like I’m at a cafe, and invites me to watch the passersby or sit down to get seen without feeling self-conscious.
Only, I didn’t get first-row tickets to the show; I took precautions. I’m sitting next to the reception in the right-hand corner near the wide stairs that lead to the bedrooms. Twenty meters straight ahead are the main entrance’s revolving doors.
Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who had the idea; an older man dressed in salmon also watches every detail of people’s bodies during their performance. Maybe another writer. Or a pervert — one of the two.
I’m jealous of his seat; he’s closer to the revolving doors so he gets to take a better look. Maybe we’re writing the same piece or perhaps he’s just working his appetite. When I first arrived here, he checked me out, and not just a little bit, quite a lot. He looked at me as if I was the goddess he had been waiting for. It felt great; I don’t blame the women who parade for that reason. You feel like you’re the stuff that everybody wants, that you’re something, not nothing. Some need to feel it every day and that’s why they come here.
After sitting for a few seconds, I’m generously gifted more than one show, with a catwalk of creatures. An Eastern European girl with bulbous red lips wearing a white Chanel suit paired with an old-fashioned headband comes down the stairs like a royal, next to a short Kingpin in a dark coat, holding her firmly by the arm. She stares at him like Bambi; he says something in her ear, she takes it all in, then giggles in a controlled way. He laughs at his joke, then kisses her hand carelessly, looking away, as they march towards the exit.
Next, a great pair of legs with long open-toe boots belonging to a model in a tiny dress and a fur coat escaping her shoulders heat the hotel’s floor. But something’s not right as my eyes travel further north; her long blonde hair is too straight and too thick — it’s a wig. Who is she and what is she hiding? She moves in circles in the hall, checking her phone constantly, then suddenly leaves fast and furious.
A man carrying a small briefcase in a stiff arm with a ponytail and determined eyes walks through the hall like a proud bird. It’s no coincidence that he’s wearing a blazer featuring a peacock. He’s soon raided by two women dressed as flight attendants. He makes his way to the hotel’s reception, while they talk to him. On his way, I hear one of the hostesses tell him in a low voice:
“We’ve checked for microphones under all tables, everything is in order.”
He nods as a thank you, then turns around and walks out of the hotel. Danger’s near just when you think it isn’t.
But I don’t have time to assess; a kid no older than seven years old in a Dior jumpsuit driving a McLaren stroller like a sports car blasts my ears, as he enters the reception hall. His mother, a vamp with wavy blonde hair, lots of makeup, and overexposed breasts leaving little to the imagination, enters the space right after him with dreams in her eyes as she ogles her surroundings. She’s wearing white pants with red hearts placed strategically on her buttocks, and her jacket’s the same shade of blue as the hotel’s orchids. She asks her son to take a picture of her from behind as she poses near the flowers. Click Click!
As I’m about to take a picture of the flowers myself, an Asian version of Andy Warhol walks in indecisively, vaguely interested, looking nowhere in particular before dropping into the hotel’s cafe, Le Bar Américain. In between one scribble and another, the hotel staff comes out of all types of holes — behind me, beside me, in front of me; I can’t keep track. They must be aware of everything that goes on. We’re all watched, some with different binoculars.
Those at reception behind the desks serve proudly and defend the reputation of the establishment using grand words, seeming at times even more snobby than the clientele. I prefer the staff that works at the back, who serve dutifully, not beautifully. I catch a whiff of a conversation between a senior porter and a junior one. The senior one is a tall tree in his forties, and the junior is a minion with orange hair pulled back tight in a ponytail.
The senior guy asks her where she worked before. Unfortunately, I can’t hear her response; her voice is too soft. He frowns at her words, then says. “Ok. Here it’s much more superior though.” Then he complains about his workload.
“It’s not an easy job… with everything we need to bear. All that cinema…”
I smile. I’m no longer jealous of the older observer’s seat. I’m exactly where I need to be. But sadly, new work comes along, and because of it, the junior and the senior porter split.
Since the staff’s gone and there’s no one on stage, I check the other spectators out. On my left are two men speaking in Spanish who don’t seem to be here to watch. One’s in green cargo pants, military boots, and a black rock and roll t-shirt, looking more relaxed than ever, as he’s sipping a beer and making big gestures with his hands while he talks, and the other is squeezed in a black suit, leaning forward, carefully listening to him with enthusiasm. Maybe the green cargo pants is his boss.
Another business meeting seems to be happening over my shoulder. A young woman in a grey blazer matched to her pants with inflated lips and long hair plastered down with gel, is in conversation with an older man in a suit. He seems to be offering a service to her, but I don’t know which. I make an effort to focus on her voice to understand what they’re talking about. It gets juicy.
“Can we sell directly to Hong Kong?”
“Yes, it’s just a question of time”, the man responds.
I check her shoes; she’s got high heels with sparkling stones. Unusual for a businesswoman. Maybe she’s selling the rights to her porn movie. Next to them is a man in his fifties with earphones deep in his ears and shiny skin looking just as soft as a baby’s. My dry cheeks want to rub against his, but his small tinted glasses resting on the tip of his nose would probably get in the way.
He’s pulled a green zip collar sweater up his neck to hide his double chin, but now his paunch pops out on the other end — the fabric’s not large enough to cover both problems; got to get a longer jumper. He moves his fingers delicately towards his cup, as he sips his tea silently. His lip movements are slow and quiet, as they dip into the warm liquid. Most of the time, his stare is fixed on a dot near him; he’s focused on what he’s listening to — maybe someone’s conversation. For all I know he could be a secret agent since he makes no sounds.
Those ideas run away however when a beautiful young mom with long blonde hair, equally glowing skin, and a baby doll daughter looking for a seat, makes him reposition his squared glasses on his nose to zoom in. As she finds the chair she’s looking for and bends her knees to sit on it, all of his attention diverts to her peach. She turns around and smiles at him as if he’s the sun and she’s a lizard. Her arrival feels like a set-up to distract him. Is the daughter a rent and a scheme? The woman’s too happy, skinny, and pretty to be a mum.
But there’s no time to resolve this puzzle: I gape anxiously at a waiter carrying a platter of food almost as long as a kid’s surfboard with one steady hand. If it falls in front of everyone, it’s big and bad. He handles the job like an iron chief as he makes his way effortlessly to Le Bar Américain.
On the other side of the room, tartan tarts with short hair and a longer top are sitting side by side near the walls facing the entrance door to expose their elegance. Now and then, one of them gives herself little slaps. Who doesn’t like a good slap? It brings vitality.
Not too far from them sits a man with small eyes in his twenties. Clean face, neatly cut hair, all in blue — maybe one color is all he can handle. Better not get out of whack with black or grey, blue’s safe; it’s what he sees every day when he wakes up and goes to bed. The sky’s the limit, his limit. In his case, the expression doesn’t mean what it usually does.
A group of three women with pink skin, pockets of foundation, and no class but money land in the hall and wave at the waiters requesting champagne. Great tips alarm! Four of them with full cheeks immediately encircle the women like a pack of wolves. They exchange words between themselves to figure out who will be the lucky winner, then ensure the women know they will be served.
Kindness has a price here, and it’s expensive. If the main lady who ordered the drinks asked one of them, they might wiggle and trick them into a swizzle. I want to say: “Hop hop, dance for them, chop chop!” but I don’t.
The youngest of the women sits on a chair facing the public and the two older ones sit opposite her facing the wall. Their champagne glasses soon arrive — the waiter showers them with compliments. They laugh, and sip happily, one tiny drop after another. The one who’s on display holds her glass like a talking statue without drinking it. It’s probably all for show.
At last, I turn to the stage again when a woman wearing a school girl mini skirt without heels and no tights strides through the hall; my kind of student — she gets all of my attention, and everyone else’s too. As her skirt’s fabric moves around, we see bits of her behind, but no underwear. Some hands near me join in prayer mode, I’m guessing a few silent wishes to see up her skirt.
But not everyone’s a fan; an old man with his head stuck to one side barely notices her. Instead, he stops and stares at the blue flowers. He’s soon joined by his wife, an old institution with big round pearls on either side of her face wearing a fur coat worn inside out. She greets the hotel staff, thanks them for their hospitality in a beautiful French, and then leaves.
I look at my watch — time to go like she did. But I don’t thank anyone and I don’t bow to the public either. I’m rude and I’m not French. I get up and draw the curtains; the lights go off.
