A mere two square kilometers of luxury crammed into the Mediterranean coastline, Monaco is the ultimate playground for the ultra-rich and socially ambitious. But what does a night among the elite look like? Let’s grab a glass of Champagne (not prosecco, darling) and dive in.

The evening begins at the Hôtel de Paris Monte-Carlo, where the polished terrazzo floors reflect not only the glimmer of Baccarat chandeliers but also the collective wealth of the patrons. At Le Bar Américain, cocktails are served with a side of condescension, which is included in the price. The drink of choice? Likely a Negroni that costs more than a student loan repayment.

Here, you’ll overhear whispered debates about yacht lengths and crypto portfolios while socialites eye each other over the rims of crystal tumblers, silently competing for the title of Best Dressed Person in the Room. Spoiler: it’s probably the one in vintage Dior.

Dinner in Monaco isn’t just a meal; it’s a theatrical performance starring plates that look too pretty to eat and prices that could bring a hedge fund manager to tears. At Louis XV, the three-Michelin-starred crown jewel of Monaco dining, the dishes are masterpieces of modern French cuisine. Truffles? Everywhere. Foie gras? Obviously. Wagyu beef? Only if it’s massaged daily and flown in by private jet.

The conversation at the table is almost as rich as the food: “Did you hear about Pierre’s art acquisition?” “Oh, darling, everyone knows Picasso’s so last season.” A sommelier swings by to recommend a wine pairing, which costs more than the GDP of a small nation. But it’s worth it, because here, no one orders a bottle without first name-dropping the vineyard’s owner.

No trip to Monaco is complete without a stop at the Casino de Monte-Carlo, where James Bond vibes are free, but the stakes are not. The roulette wheels spin as fast as the rumors about whose fortunes are rising or falling. Here, the poker tables are lined with oligarchs, tech bros, and royals who gamble like they’re trying to win back their annual yacht fuel expenses.

Outside, the valet lot gleams with Bugattis and Lamborghinis that sparkle under the Riviera moonlight. And inside? A tuxedoed gentleman just bet €10,000 on red, because in Monaco, that’s just what you do. He loses, of course. But no one flinches. Losing money here is as routine as ordering dessert.

As the casino winds down, the real party begins. The harbor—lit up like a Christmas tree for billionaires—is buzzing with activity. Monaco’s elite retreat to their floating mansions, where champagne flows like water, and water is something no one actually drinks.

Each yacht’s deck tells a different story. On one, a pop star serenades a tech billionaire who’s “taking a break” from launching his space tourism startup. On another, an Italian heiress is teaching a Saudi prince how to sabrage a bottle of Dom Pérignon. Occasionally, a drone flies by to capture the magic—or perhaps to gather blackmail material for next week’s gossip columns. Either way, it’s all in good fun.

For those who refuse to let the night end, an afterparty beckons at one of the villa-lined cliffs overlooking the sea. Think laser-lit infinity pools, trays of caviar, and a DJ flown in from Berlin because “he’s simply divine, darling.” People dance in designer shoes that were never meant for such indignities, and when the sun begins to rise over the horizon, someone inevitably suggests another toast to “the good life.”

And there you have it. A night in Monaco isn’t so much an evening as it is an art form. It’s opulence for the sake of opulence, indulgence without apology, and a reminder that for some, excess is simply the baseline. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to book my economy flight back to reality.