Monaco in a nutshell, based on our two-hour observation of the place: Beautiful harbor filled with all those massive yachts; steep hillside with the luxury apartments and hotels, castle on the hill, grand casino. All that wealth packed into a tight spot- pretty impressive but one thing- if I were rich I’d have money/property in Switzerland and keep an apartment somewhere on the French coast, but probably not in the zoo of Monaco. Yes, you could rub elbows with other fellow rich, but you are also shoulder to shoulder here with the riff-raff (like me with my grubby backpack and Ocean Spray baseball cap I got at Value Village), and walking the promenade of Monaco feels about the same as a Saturday afternoon at the county fair.”Cotton candy! Candy apples! Get it here, folks!”
The high rollers arrive.
The Benz barely got in.
This guy was frog-marched out, and car sent to the crusher.
Mandatory tie and jacket a thing of the past. My card-playing days are pretty much over but I walked up anyway and asked the guy if they had poker. “Oh, yes.”
“Like, Texas hold’em?”
“We have Ultimate Hold’em.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s where you play against the casino, rather than other players at the table.”
Ha! That would have sent me running even if I was still hooked on cards.
The view of the harbor from the casino. 
Now away from all the glitz and down to the heart of town!
See what I mean? Coney-%#@*!-Island!
When we got back on the bus heading for Nice, our day pass cards wouldn’t work in the validation machine. We used them for the trip out but I wondered if we had gone beyond the zone. Keenan was worried the cops might bust us so he said, “You better go talk to the driver,” but this was impossible in the crowded bus so I let it slide. But on every bus and tram there is a sign that warns about the penalties for having an unvalidated ticket (big fine) or no ticket at all (Devil’s Island) so I decided we’d hop off the bus at the next stop that would appear to have a beach nearby. We hit paypebbles with this little bay about 25 minutes out of Monaco.
The afternoon swimming was nice and I didn’t feel out of place anymore: The French families that were on vacation here seemed easy-going and care-free, unlike the Bentley drivers at the casino.
The kids were care-free too!
Lord of the Flies!…at least until l’heure de souper.
We caught an evening bus back home and the card worked again. Keenan’s worry turned out reasonable, for after transferring to the tram that would take us back up the hill, we got our only visit from the transit cops. A guy with a neck tattoo sitting across from us was having a one-way conversation with his friend who half listened and nodded and half fiddled with his smart phone. The talkative guy had that way of speaking where he constantly looks all around and then back at his partner when he needs to see acknowledgement. He was the first to see the transit authority police. In a way that sounded more like he was putting a final stop on his last thought than a seperate expression of surprise, Pascal said, “….tss, merda, le contrôle.”
As the cops boarded the tram, the crowd shifted in their seats and fumbled for thier tickets. Pascal tapped on his leg and looked to the left, looked to the right, considering his next move, not overly concerned it seemed, but resigned and a bit irritated. This was all very exciting for Keenan, because it wasn’t a petite, 25 yr. old lady conductor back in Japan on the Shinkansen asking for your ticket with a polite nod, but a team of beefy tough guys dressed in jeans, boots and black T-shirts that said, “Transit Police”. The articulated trams had two long cars so you needed a whole gang of these guys to block the exits. The tram efficiently sped along while all this went on, but had to pause just slightly longer than normal at the next stop. This was no keystone cops operation- these guys had it down. A guy who could have doubled for Baretta in a fight scene checked our passes with his portable scanner. When we pulled away from the next tram stop, I saw him on the sidewalk grilling poor Pascal, who was still looking around, side to side, with that classic, palms out, French shoulder shrug and frown, seeming to say, “Come on you guys. Give me a break, will ya?”
Baretta was amused but didn’t seem likely to spare Pascal his date with Papillon.
After four swimming sessions, Monaco, and all the bus-riding, walking, and excitement, I figured we ought to eat out, so we found a little, outdoor pizzeria in our neighborhood with a local crowd that the waitress was fond of chatting with and hugging.
Next: Adieu, France…Ciao, Italia!
dwshumway 