Monte Carlo: What to Wear When You’re Manifesting Daydreams
I planned the fantasy before I booked the flight. And before I planned the fantasy, I built the outfit. That’s always the order. Dream, then dress, then go.
I had been saving for six years—four technically, but COVID bought me two more, a buy-one-get-one-free deal in global uncertainty. After all, I was sure that this trip would be the trip, the only real trip that I would embark on in my youth aside from trips to the coast with other single twenty-somethings and maybe, if I was lucky, a well timed trip to Cabo (which I did eventually get to take— pro tip: beg a friend whose parents have a timeshare).
So I couldn’t rationalize breaking the bank on fancy hotels or flights that took off after the sun rose— not when I remembered how the rent prices were acting or the fact that a couch could cost you half your sanity if you weren’t careful. But I still dropped a hearty sum on that month of my life. The simple act of jumping the Atlantic was enough to drain my coffers and the blood from my young, rosy cheeks. But I had a comfort that stood above all my worries and what-ifs.
I was going to win in Monte Carlo.
I would walk into the casino, strangers’ heads turning as my heel clicked on the marble floor. I would approach the poker table and lay my clean, white chips on the velvet with my dainty, manicured fingers. I'd lay my white chips on green felt with dainty, manicured fingers and bluff with such grace and godliness that old men would balk at my girlish boldness— so full of grace and confidence and godliness that they would have no choice but to fold their hands.
And then, they would faint— faint, at the cacophony of cards in my hand.
“She was bluffing!” They’d say, as a woman less glamorous than I fainted to the expensive Persian carpet below. And I would laugh “Haha!” So very richly.
There’d be gasps, champagne, a woman fainting onto a Persian rug. Someone would offer me a ring. Someone else, a yacht. Someone else, a kingdom. I’d accept nothing but applause. Then I’d vanish into the night, the silk of my dress is fluttering around my waxed, toned legs, the crowd parting. Maybe in a Lambo. Maybe in a helicopter piloted by a man named Harvey who was waiting for a Kardashian and settled for me. Maybe both. Briefcase of cash handcuffed to my wrist. You know—vacation.
Foolproof.
This is the art of manifestation—and it begins, always, with how you dress. It’s not vanity; it’s logistics. A costume signals the plot— it tells the world something’s about to happen.
Packing for a glamorous trip is not about logic. It’s about character design. What kind of woman are you here to be? You don’t need twenty outfits—you need two, as long as one of them makes you believe you could bluff your way into a private suite and leave with a deed to a vineyard.
And in Monte Carlo, that meant red silk.
I’d found the dress just after the first COVID wave and just before the second. Fleur du Mal, secondhand, $120. Red silk that whispered like a secret and demanded the kind of entrance you only get once in life. I didn’t wear it for over a year, because I knew its first outing demanded the kind of decadence you only get overseas. I paired it with a gold mesh bag from the 1930s, and a pair of seven-inch nude platform gladiators that laced all the way up, the kind of shoes that scream “bombshell” and “emergency room” in equal measure.
You don’t pack for Monte Carlo. You prepare. Your psyche, your silk, your stamina. And for the love of god: make sure your bag can fit your phone, lipstick, room key, and a tampon. No more, no less— leave no space to pack your shame.
That’s what you wear. As for where to go…
WHERE TO GO IN MONTE CARLO:
The Casino de Monte-Carlo – Oh no, you packed too much money! Boy, do I have a solution for you. The ultimate place to lose track of time, money, and inhibitions. You’ll either leave with a man, a million, or a bunch of memories. Roll the dice.
Buddha-Bar – Moody lighting, glamorous interiors, and enough staircases to descend for dramatic entrances and Instagram stories.
Le Grill – Elevated (literally and emotionally) dining with views as jaw-dropping as the prices—ideal for manifesting a ring.
Bar Américain – Live music, candlelight, and bar snacks so good they’ll make you cancel your dinner plans. Which is good because it’s right below Le Grill, and if you go there with an appetite, you’ll need to win big.
Port Hercule – Stroll the marina, count the yachts, and prep your small talk for when someone asks if you’d like to come aboard.
Fairmont Hairpin – A scenic turn in every sense— it’s giving Bond film. But it’s a bit of a hill, be warned.
The Old Town – Tour The Palace, Grace Kelly’s church, and the gardens—for when you need a break from champagne and decisions.
Pro tip: If you can’t hang, wear flat shoes. If you can, walk down the hills SLOWLY.
It’s a hell of a place to visit, but you won’t need more than a day or two to see it. Pick your top spots and see if you have time for the rest. But never— never skip the casino, or you might miss out on the chance of a lifetime. That’s what happened to me.
See, when I arrived at the casino, I discovered that poker had a buy-in price that outmatched my hotel bill. I offered an IOU on a cocktail napkin (tastefully signed, minus one digit in the phone number for mystery), but the house didn’t bite. I tried to claw my way up via blackjack. I busted. Instantly. Which left me with three chips and only one option: roulette.
I hovered at that table for two hours—three chips going to four to two to three to one, but never, never to zero. People watched. A small crowd formed. “Look at the little American,” they said. “Still in the game with just two chips. Ouhouhouh.” (That’s how they laugh in French.) I became a mascot of minor endurance. And then, as all grand runs must, it ended.
My dreams of real estate in Hell’s Kitchen—gone. My chip count—gone. But my dignity? Surprisingly intact. A few tablemates congratulated me. A man smiled at me across the felt.
It’s times like these a lady finds liquor. And find it I did, at a bar around the corner from the casino. The bartenders were kind. When I told them I was traveling alone, they refused to let me pay for a drop. Not even with my IOU napkin, which I’d begun to treat like a business card. They refilled my glass every time my fantasy ran dry.
And once I’d drowned my dashed dreams, I decided to cut my losses and return to my hotel. So I left, and as I left or in order to leave, I had to take a left into the courtyard, and then another left into the garden. And then, as I left—well, lefted—I saw him.
He’d been at the roulette table. He’d helped me place my chip on black, right next to his. We’d both lost. But I didn’t hold it against him. As I turned left to leave, my ridiculous, beautiful shoes betrayed me—untied themselves with perfect cinematic timing. I bent down. Tied them. Stood up. And there he was. Twinkling eyes. Slight smile. A polite tap on the shoulder.
“Hello,” he said. “Would you like champagne on my yacht?”
Reader, I said yes.
Suddenly, the helicopter sounded so unbelievably gauche. I said yes so quickly, I was afraid I’d scared him. But he just laughed and led me toward a different path (metaphor, metaphor, metaphor, metaphor).
We collected his friends along the way, which I was grateful for since getting me down the hill to the docks in those bullshit beautiful shoes was a two man job.
They sat me on the boat and poured me a glass, while I pulled off my shoes. I learned who spoke the best English, they learned that I spoke the worst Italian, but the more we drank— well, we might as well have been speaking Russian by the end of the night. Or Esperanto. Or love.
Eventually, his friends left and it was just us. And the boat. We talked without the champagne. He was easier to understand for a million reasons.
He didn’t protest when I told him I’d find my own way back. I think he understood: I needed to walk away in the red dress. I wanted to be remembered exactly like that.
The walk back to the hotel was less glamorous. Just so you know: no cab would stop for a woman alone at 4 a.m. in a red dress in Monte Carlo, and absolutely no concierge will let you through the front door of their five-star hotel, let alone call a cab for you. But my luck hadn’t run out in Monte Carlo, not that night. I found a car kind enough to stop and slid into it, thanking the driver—a man named Harvey, of course—and headed home.
I returned to my room and ate a can of Pringles that would later turn out to be €24. I watched the sunrise over the French Riviera. No millions won. No briefcase handcuffed to my wrist.
But the dress? Worth every cent.
Travel isn’t always about the destination. Sometimes it’s about the dress you wear when the fantasy catches up with you. If you want to become the kind of woman who meets a man on a yacht, you don’t need to be her already. You just need to dress like her. Behave like her. Daydream like her. You can fake the rest.
So go ahead. Walk like the shot’s already framed. Manifest shamelessly. If you believe you belong in Monte Carlo, you probably do. Pack silk. Pack stilettos. Pack a strap-on if you want, I don’t know your life. Just be fun. You have to be fun to have fun. Because you’re definitely not here to be practical.
At the very least, you’ll leave with a story and a €24 can of Pringles. Which is something.
