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Help support our writers and keep our site ad-free. It must be admitted—no matter how down-to-earth, no matter how sensitive and caring and cuddly he is—every man has at one time or another dreamed of being James Bond. These dreams can take many forms, depending on your favorite scenes, but the phenomenon is probably universal. As for myself, Mr. Bond is at his coolest and most Bondish when he is in a casino, his bow tie either impeccably circling his neck or perhaps, later in the evening, hanging in two weird-looking squiggly black lines down his dickey.
Often, I can be seen at formal events, just before they end, with a vodka martini in hand and my bow tie hanging down my shirt nor do I wear a dickey. I have yet to be approached by Ursula Andress. But, then, what was missing, you see, was the casino. It is also boasts, by far, the highest per-capita rate of millionaires of any country in the world.
Monaco used to be just a geopolitical oddity in 19th-century Europe, a crumb left behind after the festivities of the Napoleonic Wars. After futzing around with some less-than-spectacular buildings in the old town, he decided to use an empty hilltop. Empty hilltops are rare in countries that measure roughly one square mile, but he found one.
Even the entry hall is overwhelming, with its towering volume and its intricately carved walls and ceiling. Luckily, he is not. You are then allowed to proceed into the main hall, which is a hymn in wood and velvet. A number of roulette and baccarat tables dot the roomscape, where well-dressed rich people circulate discreetly.