Monaco

The Monaco Grand Prix isn't so much a sporting event as it is a gleeful shrine to excess, risk, and engine noise-a hedonistic pilgrimage where trust fund heirs rub pleated khakis with petrol-headed car enthusiasts. Each May, the tiny, absurdly wealthy principality of Monaco transforms its already perilous winding streets into one of the most glamorous-and terrifying-race tracks on the planet. Picture multimillion-dollar rocket ships skirting hairpin turns mere inches from designer boutiques where Grace Kelly once browsed casually, and you'll grasp the surreal charm of Monte Carlo's annual petrol-soaked circus. Practical advice? Book your tickets months ahead (better yet, a year), prepare to hemorrhage money faster than the Ferraris burn their fuel (expect to fork out upwards of €500 for general access; factor in double if you want champagne instead of bottled water), and be sure to arrive before 9 a.m. to stake a claim on your viewing spot. Pack earplugs and sunglasses, embrace the unapologetic spectacle, and remind yourself that Hemingway, Sinatra, and James Hunt all embraced the same outrageous decadence you're about to. Ultimately, yes, it's wildly overpriced, absurdly crowded, and deliciously vulgar-but trust me, you'll dine out for years on the memory alone.

There's something irresistibly peculiar about Monaco's Prince's Palace-where extravagant opulence casually collides with fairy-tale theatrics, all atop a rugged, sun-drenched rock. Watching the Changing of the Guard here, surrounded by tourists in pastel shorts and conspicuously expensive sunglasses, feels a bit like crashing an impeccably choreographed Wes Anderson scene. Arrive a good half-hour before the 11:55 a.m. showtime-a ritual so oddly precise it practically screams "royalty"-to secure prime viewing of Monaco's stern-faced guards parading in white uniforms that wouldn't look out of place at a yacht club gala. Afterwards, wander the lavish state apartments, taking grim satisfaction in noting that even princely decor can slide into kitsch territory. Tickets to explore inside hover around €10, which, in Monaco terms, counts as pleasantly affordable. Bring water, sunscreen, and your sharpest sunglasses-Monaco-Ville at midday is unreasonably bright and unforgivingly warm. Sure, you could dismiss it as a quaint tourist trap, but strolling through halls once trod by Grace Kelly-Hollywood icon turned princess-is worth the price alone. And let's face it, there's undeniable cocktail-party cachet in casually dropping: "You know, there was this time in Monaco when I hung out at the Prince's place..."

Wine tasting in Provence isn't merely about swirling and sniffing wine; it's closer to a pilgrimage to the altar of hedonism, set amongst lavender fields and sunlit vineyards that could charm even the most cynical traveler into poetic rhapsody. You'll find yourself debating terroir and tannins by mid-afternoon, even if your usual wine vocabulary is limited to "red," "white," and "more, please." Provence, conveniently close yet blissfully detached from reality, has been producing wine since before Julius Caesar was sharpening his knives-so trust the locals, they've had 2,600 years of practice. Go early in the morning-your taste buds (and sobriety) will thank you, and call ahead at least a week or two-Provencal vineyards have cultivated a laid-back, slightly aloof charm that doesn't always welcome spontaneous drop-ins. Bring cash (around €50-€100 per person for a comfortable tasting tour), bottled water, and sunscreen; you'd be surprised how quickly the southern French sun turns you rose-colored. And even if you leave without remembering a single grape varietal or the poetic ramblings of your sommelier, you'll come away with a story-and a faint, satisfying hangover worth bragging about.