With Luca to Formula 1 in Monte Carlo

The Formula 1 Grand Prix in Monte Carlo was in full swing. The city streets were no longer driven by cars but by artworks on wheels, each gear change sounding as if the devil himself were crouching inside the clutch.

I was there with my friend Luca – born in Italy, a DJ and womanizer in Berlin, and in Monte Carlo officially just a “tourist.” We stood near the harbor, hemmed in by people, engine noise, and security fences, behind which moved the world of the rich: film and football stars, models, and billionaires. All the beauty of the world seemed to belong to the VIP paddock club that day. We didn’t. The sky was deep blue, the sun burned down on us. It was clear: we had to find a better spot for ourselves soon.

“I think up there on the rooftop terrace you can get a good view of the race too,” Luca said, pointing at a posh building right by the track. He wore an unbuttoned white linen shirt that generously revealed his smooth-shaven chest and the beginning of a tattoo. He was lean, almost wiry, with the effortless elegance of a man who knew exactly the effect he had. An aquiline nose and narrow cheeks framed small emerald eyes that gleamed beneath heavy brows – sharp, restless, faintly arrogant. His lips were thin, his skin bronzed as if he had just stepped off his boat. Everything about him was a blend of Mediterranean ease and the overwrought self-staging of a bohemian who never truly belonged anywhere, and yet belonged everywhere at once.

“But there’s security everywhere,” I objected.
“We have accreditation.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Here!” he said, fishing his health insurance card from his wallet.
“You think your Techniker Krankenkasse card is going to serve as accreditation?”
“Of course—it’s about technology here, isn’t it? And we’re technically insured. Besides, don’t forget, Veso, the bald guys at the door may wear dark suits, but most of them barely graduated elementary school.”

Said and done.

With a self-assured smile and the conviction of men who look as if they’re expected, we flashed our health insurance cards at the doorman. He gave them a glance, furrowed his brow for a fraction of a second, then waved us through. The foyer gleamed with a marble floor; enormous mirrors in gilded frames shimmered along the walls.

The elevator carried us upward into a world where champagne flowed like tap water and delicate morsels drifted past on silver trays. The room was vast, its parquet floor gleaming. Large canvases of contemporary art blazed with color across the walls. The air was heavy with money, coconut suntan oil, and the smoky tang of seared tuna tartare.

The reception was opened by the CEO of easyJet. Sadly, his words were lost – not for lack of meaning, but because everyone had plugged their ears against the infernal roar of the race outside. So we did the same.

After a third glass of champagne, a hostess approached and offered us salmon with gold flakes. She wore a white miniskirt and a tight T-shirt that clung to her like tissue paper, tracing her curves as if the fabric itself no longer wished to stand between her and the world. Her legs were endless, smooth, bronzed, with that flawless sheen you only see on billboards. Her black, cropped hair accentuated her high cheekbones. Her large doe-brown eyes carried that mix of professional friendliness with a hint of indifference — though there was a sparkle that suggested she might be enjoying the game as much as we did.

“Thanks, but as an Italian-Bulgarian gang we do prefer something with mozzarella. Surely a woman with your sex appeal could make that happen?” Luca said, resting his hand briefly on her delicate shoulder.
“I’ll check,” she replied, her voice warm and dark like sweet cocoa.
“And if you’d like to be on the guest list for one of my DJ gigs in Berlin, I’d just need your phone number!” he added – half joking, half serious, with that smile of his that almost always worked.

She didn’t answer, but when she returned shortly after with a plate of burrata drizzled with truffle oil, she casually slipped a tiny folded note next to Luca’s glass – no bigger than a piece of chewing gum paper, so discreet that nobody but him noticed.

A few minutes later, we were sitting in the shade, eating mozzarella rimmed with gold, and Luca grinned as if he had just won his personal Formula 1 race.

We stayed for a while – long enough to drink a few glasses, eat our fill, and snap a couple of selfies with our backs to the racetrack. The room was filled with other people besides us. Men in white suits and women in shimmering floor-length gowns drifted through the scene like weightless figures. Normal conversation was impossible – the race noise was far too loud.

As the sun began to set, we decided to take a detour to the famous Casino of Monte Carlo. We had set a budget beforehand, to avoid ending up like the protagonist in Dostoevsky’s The Gambler: twenty euros. Combined.

The entrance to the Casino was like the threshold to another world: marble columns, gilded reliefs, heavy wooden doors, and beyond them a silence that, after the noise of Formula 1, felt precious. At the portal stood a doorman who looked less like security and more like a monument—over two meters tall, strapped into a flawless black jacket, his fleshless face set in an immobile mask. His eyes, hidden behind tinted glasses, scanned us with a mixture of indifference and politely suppressed doubt.

At the reception, an elderly man in tails greeted us with stiff nobility. His discreet yet unmistakable gaze made it clear that we were neither Saudi heirs nor Russian oligarch’s sons. Still, we were admitted—without having to flash our health insurance cards.

The casino hall was a baroque dream of mirrors, chandeliers, and waiters gliding silently in white gloves. The carpets were so thick they swallowed failure itself. At the roulette table, we lasted precisely two rounds. Our tower of chips evaporated faster than the foam on our complimentary prosecco.

“No happy ending,” I said to Luca.
“Wait my friend! Game over hasn’t appeared yet!” he shot back, pulling me out of the casino, across the forecourt, until we stopped before a crescent-shaped fountain. The moon looked down at us with its round, curious face. The water whispered softly, conspiratorially, as though it wanted to share a secret.

“Take a look,” he said.

Skeptically, I leaned forward. Coins in a fountain—until then, to me, it had always been child’s play. Wishful thinking and pocket money romance. But what I saw took my breath away:

No brown pennies, no rusted spare change. Only gleaming silver two-euro coins and fat, shining five-Swiss-franc pieces. A quiet little fortune sparkled beneath the water’s surface. This fountain was no place for wishes. It was the discreet petty cash of the rich—a place where even discarding had value.

“You know what I’m thinking?” Luca asked.
“Of course. That fate sometimes helps—but only those willing to get their pants wet.”

We exchanged a look. The place was deserted. Then we quickly pulled off our shoes and socks, rolled up our pants, and waded into the basin. Luca first, with the natural ease of someone who might have done this before. I followed, uneasy, with cold water up to my calves.

Quietly but with purpose, we scooped up the coins. Luca was fast, almost practiced, his arms gliding through the water like a man fishing in an aquarium. I did my best. In less than ten minutes, we had a new bankroll—far more than we had lost. Back inside the casino, we marched in like gentlemen—with slightly damp trousers, heads held high, and pockets full of silver coins. This time we joined a table where a Russian oligarch sat with two young women. Blonde hair, glittering evening gowns, overfilled lips—all lending the short, stocky man the illusion of being loved and adored, so long as his money lasted.

We stayed cool, tested our luck again and again, and lost everything once more.

But we laughed. Not because we had won, but because we knew it wasn’t about that. It was about pretending, for one evening, that we belonged. That we were part of this world of glamor, champagne, and gold-flaked salmon. And to enjoy it as only outsiders truly can.

With damp trousers, empty pockets, and hearts brimming with joy, we boarded the bus back to Nice. The ticket cost €1.50. Back in our stuffy youth hostel, Luca sent a message to the pretty waitress—and when a heart emoji came back, he said to me:

“Veso, tomorrow we’ll have to figure out how to get a suite in a proper five-star hotel. After all, the lady who brought us that divine mozzarella must not be disappointed!”

Afterwards he game me a sly grin and joined the group of snoring Australians we shared the room with.