By Alexe Mericle

For winter break, my girlfriend Mallory hopped the pond to come visit me during the middle of the school year. Feeling as though we couldn't exactly Carpe Diem it in Central France, we decided we would get away for the weekend and visit the French Riviera. We embraced our American heritage and bought deli meat, Kraft singles, and sliced bread for snacks on the train ride. This was Mallory's first time ever on a TGV bullet train, so along the way, I pointed out to her on the map that we had covered 2/3 of France in less than two hours, which is half the time it takes to go from Paris to my town (roughly half the distance) by regular train. Such is the fickleness of the French railway system, they've deemed that the surrounding highlands make it non feasible to construct a TGV in my region. They may have a point however as the French WWII stronghold of Vichy is located about 30 minutes away. The German blitzkreieg was able to cross neutral countries, the greatest defense line ever built, and invade most of Western Europe in less than a week, but they couldn't get past a couple of humps in the ground.

Nice, which is situated on the Mediterranean, receives 300+ days of sunshine per year. Naturally we arrived during a deluge, and I was forced to buy an umbrella. This is something I had sworn I would never purchase, due to the fact that I turn into Newman every time it starts to rain. I boycott life, lounge around, and look out the window alternatively sulking about the weather and mocking the poor souls who are running about, coats over their heads, hopscotching around the puddles. After a couple of choice words for Mother Nature, an awkward walk ensued to the hostel (it's very difficult to walk two people under an umbrella you know.) We wandered around Nice, frolicked on the beach, and enjoyed a beer before the incessant rain forced us to retire.

We spent the evening in Monoco which is the second smallest and most densely populated country in the world, as well as a playground for the European elite. The ladder is evident as soon as you step off the train and into the marbled halls of the central station. The former is obvious when you've walked five minutes and covered half the country. The super yachts moored in the harbor are bigger than Monaco and they come from London, Dubai, Nassau, Grand Cayman. We agreed that the whole diversified portfolio concept wasn't half bad, and that we should immediately start contributing to it, so we decided we would try our luck at the casino. Designed by Charlie Garnier (who also did the Paris opera house) the casino of Monte Carlo sits on a rock overlooking the city-state. Walking down the multi-tiered gardens, past the glittering fountains, and towards the ornate structure, I couldn't help but feel that even though I was donning my best North Face fleece, I wasn't looking the part of a high roller. The accusatory looks from casino security didn't bother me so much as walking into the the lobby which was like walking into the Bellagio or the Wynn, only even more elegant and refined. Even the bathroom floor was a mosaic. A wayward dribble would be like defacing a work of art. We walked around the splendid structure for a while, but eventually, Mal and I had to face the grim fact that there was a 10 Euro cover just to walk onto the casino floor. Well, neither of us is a huge gambler, and we still had to eat dinner, so we decided to swallow our pride and leave the bouncers shaking their heads in our wake.

The Italian restaurant which we ate at was a little bit like lunch on the first day of middle school. That day, I exited the lunch line, tray in hand, completely feeling out of place and wondering who on earth would enjoy a meal with me. I ended up sitting next to a kid who I knew from football. He was wearing a bandana. Pirate style. This time the sense of, "Where do we sit?" was still with me, but the choice was made for us by our host who found us the equivalent of my bandana wearing friend. A nice couple that was eating peacefully at a 4-top which was comprised of two smaller tables. Without a word, our host swooped in, moved "our" half of the table three inches, and plopped us down right as they were finishing up their appetizers. Throughout the restaurant, men were wearing suits and ties, and being glad-handed by the owner. We were essentially on a double date with a couple from Germany. It should be noted that Mallory looked absolutely stunning in her black dress and heels. Had she been with any other man in the joint (save my Bavarian counterpart) the owner would have given her caviar, bubbly and roses just for being there. But then, she wouldn't have experienced a rather bizarre nightcap.

We were walking back towards the hostel, rehashing the weekend and Mallory was saying how she loved the live music at a bar we had frequented yesterday. Just then, what sounded like live music wafted towards our ears. It was an omen. We had to go in for a drink. It was a normal bar, with a group of friends going to town on the karaoke machine. Seemed interesting so we decided to stay. On our way to the bathroom I noticed a normal clientele. People wearing jeans, suits, skirts. People drinking cocktails, wine, beer. But then I did a double take. They were women. All of them. Young, old, long hair, short hair, more masculine types, very feminine types. I didn't think it was possible to feel any more out of place than I did when I was the poorest person in the entire country of Monaco. But when it rains, it pours. Being the only guy in a bar full of drunk lesbians who are screaming French pop songs took my all ready sizable feelings of awkwardness and inadequacy, and vaulted them into the stratosphere. After finally getting the bartenders to stop making out for long enough to make us beverages, I had to keep from choking on my lime when we were told the price. Twenty Euros. Fifteen bucks a pop for what amounted to a dixie cup sized glass of diluted vodka! Mallory, the next time we go to a place where you have a chance with not just half the patrons, but ALL of them, I think you should be the one to order the drinks.

Ahh, La Cote d'Azure. In a land of palm trees and topless beaches, I bought an umbrella - which was neither pink nor within the confines of an exotic cocktail, and found the secret hideout of the "She-Woman, Man-Haters" Club. Somewhere Clark Griswold is having a field day.