21 - The Paris Hiltons and the Ukrainian Mafia

 

THE ROYAL HOTEL, San Remo, Italy

One of several lobby areas at the Royal

     Before reconnecting and joining me in Paris in 2006, Brenda lived awhile in Nice, and she has kept a rental property there where we spend part of our time when in France.

We took the train last year across the Italian border to San Remo for a few days at the Royal Hotel.  I was last at the Royal on my first trip to the Riviera 34 years ago.

On the balcony --room with a view

The hotel has remarkably remained a family-owned enterprise for 140 years.  San Remo --now a bit overgrown and under planned-- is no longer considered such a select vacation destination.    I had feared a decline at the Royal, but my worries were unfounded, as the hotel has remained a class act, and the Italian personnel is, to a man, warm and efficient.

My first telephone contact with a most congenial reservations clerk already started things off swimmingly.  Simona had suggested that if I had the flexibility of moving my dates a month earlier, the hotel could offer a more seductive deal.

Entrance to the Royal at twilight

 We ultimately opted for the Anniversary Package (“No anniversary necessary,” she assured me, “and friendlier prices.”), and in addition to all sorts of perks –breakfast, fruit, champagne, massage, etc.—we were guaranteed an upgrade to a sea view junior suite.  The upgrade turned out to be a double one, as we were given a stunning “penthouse junior suite de luxe,” which was a long way from the double room paid for.

Despite fairly high occupancy during our stay, both the concierge staff and restaurant personnel amazingly remembered our name every time they saw us.  It brought back to mind my first trip to the Gritti Palace in Venice.

The first afternoon by the pool we noticed an abundance of Russian chatter.  One couple stood out as kind of a caricature of what we loosely and unkindly call the Ukrainian mafia here in the south of France (see sidebar “On the Riviera”).

Broderick Crawford (Google)

The "Hilton" sisters, poolside

 He was something of a Slavic Broderick Crawford, if you can picture a rougher version of the “Highway Patrol” actor in wet tighty-whities*, she –tall, overweight and demanding—wore a skimpy age-inappropriate bikini.  

 The next morning at breakfast, Brenda was intrigued by two Paris Hilton look-alike/act-alikes.  One was blonde and the other, a redhead.  They were younger, prettier, apparently equally spoiled copies of the original, with red, red lips and a permanent pout.

We assumed they were American, but to our surprise they were soon met by their parents who turned out to be none other than the slavik Broderick Crawford and his blonde wife.

In no time at all they were creating a scene, as they felt all the good garden tables had been taken, and Mrs. Broderick Crawford did not wish to sit just anywhere with other hotel residents.

After some negotiating, I overheard a discreetly exasperated maitre d’hotel, as if speaking to four very small children, propose opening up an adjoining dining room “so you can have all the space you need and choose whichever table makes you happy.”

As they marched into the empty restaurant annex, the whole family seemed quite pleased with its little victory, oblivious to the fact they had been relegated to Siberia.

A very comfortable room 528

 *TIGHTY WHITIES :  Newspeak underwear description, transmitted to me by my delightfully ivy league nephew, Ryan, as opposed to what he considers the more acceptably trendy boxers.

SIDEBAR :  On the Riviera

Menton, looking across the harbor at the old town

Both the French and Italian Rivieras historically counted on British and Russian tourists.

Queen Victoria led the way in the late 19^th century when she added Nice to her list of regular winter villégiatures.  She was soon joined by throngs of well-heeled Londoners escaping the fog and damp.

1900 postcard art

Tchaikowsky set the pace on the Liguria Riviera when he set up residence in San Remo at the turn of the century.

Americans soon adopted the rivieras, particularly the French side, after the First World War, turning the Nice-Antibes-St. Raphael triangle into an elitist Anglo-Saxon literary colony, staked out as the personal playground of Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Somerset Maugham, to name but a few.

Today, the Americans, hit by a reversal of fortune similar to that which sent them home after the onset of the Great Depression, have all but disappeared.  Of course there are still plenty of U.S. tourists, but they are far outnumbered by their more affluent asian and middle eastern counterparts.

The Scott Fitzgeralds, Antibes 1926 (Google photo)

 The British are still numerous around Nice, but they are now often year-round residents, trying to stretch their pension a little further than might be possible back in England.

The Russians, who emigrated around the time of the Revolution, had pretty much died out by the 1970’s, and ceased to be a part of the Riviera landscape.  In recent years, however, they are back, but of a very different variety, most often in flashy clothes, big cars, and for the last decade, buying up the biggest houses on the Cote d’Azur.  

There are, in fact, two kinds of ex-Soviet residents now in view here:  young, single, usually attractive girls in search of a benefactor make up the first group.  Whatever their original aspirations, they frequently find their calling on the streets of Nice and neighboring resort villages.

The others come en famille and they generally seem to have unlimited supplies of money.  They are the ones we refer to as the Ukrainian mafia, even though we have no proof of either their nationality or their source of income.

The Sporting beach at Nice, off-season

 

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

Next Friday:  "Those little memory lapses, a night in Rotterdam "

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]