My Bar Mitzvah party was held in the basement of the old “Monte Carlo” Restaurant on Eglinton Avenue. I remember, the boys stood on one side of the room talking about sports and the girls… ? Actually, to this day I have no freakin’ idea what girls talk about. Anyway, THIS Monte Carlo was not that.

This Monte Carlo is Paradise.

Of course, it’s ridiculous in its glamour, but I found I had not as much disdain for the decadence as I had admiration for the sheer opulence.

I don’t know about you, but I love clichés. They create for me a kind of rudimentary world order, even if it’s a world order where people conduct themselves not according to scriptures or the talmud, but to “B” novels, I still love them.

Like I love the sorta sexy 50-something surgically–enhanced, 96 pound woman walking her two Armani sweater–clad Chihuahuas on diamond studded leashes. I love her turned down mouth and her $500 coif and her $200 nails, her Prada suit, and her Manolo Blanco shoes (or whatever you call them.)

I love the Italian playboys with their slicked jet-dyed hair and their shiny red Lamborghini’s permanently parked outside The Hotel De Paris. I love them for their bright white one-wear-only sneakers and their $1500 designer sunglasses. (Don’t they LOSE them all the time? Within 24 hours of buying my Shoppers Drug Mart sunglasses, I invariably either lose them or sit on them.)

I love them for behaving exactly the way they are supposed to. And I’m certainly not being dismissive here. Whether they worked hard for their money, or were just born lucky, the citizens of Monaco have arrived in The Promised Land, and they know it, and what’s wrong with that? Overall I found them intelligent and cultured, easy to talk to and fun to watch.

And the yachts give me a chuckle, man.

Anyway, I rented a motor scooter and blasted all over Monaco. Awesome. I went up the mountain to Beausoleil – the wrong side of the track in Monaco (meaning you can get a 2 bedroom apartment for under 2 Million Euros), and over to Menton where you can buy an avocado and a carburetor in the same store.

Nursing an espresso on the sunny patio of the swanky Cafe De Paris, I met my new best friend “Tuan Lam” and his lovely wife “Something Unpronouncable” (No, that really is her name). Tuan is a Vietnamese-Canadian kid from Mississaugua, who has been both a welder and a poker dealer in various illegal poker clubs around The GTA. Like me, Tuan did not win the 8 million dollar first prize in the 2007 World Series. Unlike me he did come second and won 4 million. He and his wife are very nice and just happened to be on the same return flight as me so Tuan taught me everything he could in a very short period of time. I’ll get more out of him when they come to Second Seder at my house next week.

I also spent a lot of time in Monte Carlo discussing poker strategy with my OTHER new best friend “Tim Something” (real name, I believe). He’s a good ole boy from the St. Louis area who I watched win 1.8 million dollars in Copenhagen a few months ago with 3 sweat-faded photographs of his 5 year old daughter taped to the inside of his Cardinals baseball cap. Very nice guy – if not the brightest flare on the landing strip, if you catch my drift there – but very entertaining and possessing an acute poker acumen nonetheless. And I know he’ll keep everybody laughing at the seder.

I had breakfasts with Domenic (“The Dom-inator” stenciled on HIS baseball cap) and “Irish Mike”. Domenic and Mike have been best buddies since they were teenagers on the Jersey Shore, SIXTY years ago! Recently widowed after 52 years of marriage, Domenic, who continues to smoke a pack a day, has survived 4 different bouts with cancer and 4 multiple by-passes. He told me his doctor looked him in the eye and warned him that if he doesn’t quit, he’s flat out going to die. Domenic stared him down like Doyle Brunson on a flush draw, and then calmly stated “Then I’ll die”. “Irish Mike” says Dom’s gonna die of a broken heart first anyway. I just hope not before the seder.

There were others: Jars, the bicycle courier from Amsterdam playing court jester throughout the tournament with his bright orange pants outshone only by his short-cropped bright yellow hair. Jars said he’s never even BEEN to a seder. And there was this big hairy student from Toronto, You know those big and bearded Jewish guys with the hair on their back as thick as 50 ounce pile carpet? And just as they’re about to get in the hot tub you wanna yell “DUDE WAIT, YOU’VE STILL GOT YOUR SWEATER…!” oops too late “…on”. Anyway he made the top 40 and cashed over 38000 Euros (which oughtta keep him in back waxes for quite some time). He’s already booked up for the second seder.

So it’s an interesting group, this panoply of poker players. Muslims and Christians and Jews, Lebanese and Israelis, Black, Brown, White, male, female, “Jars”(not quite sure which box Jars checks off on his driver’s license application), ne’er-do-wells, celebrities, grocery clerks and CEO’s, pimply-faced teenage savants, and even the odd talent agent come together for a short period of time, put their politics, economic backgrounds, educational inequities and common differences aside, and just play some cards.

So as much as I missed everyone at home, I have to say, I was sorry to leave. I took a helicopter from Monte Carlo to Nice which was a little bit cool and a lot a bit claustrophobic. Whoops, don’t think I actually mentioned that little detail to Ruth come to think of it. Well, she’ll read it here first I guess.

I managed to get into Frankfurt for a few hours on our stopover. I bought “the wife” (she loves it when I call her that) something quite nice there, at least I think she really dug it but I guess I’ll never really know for sure. She has a pretty good poker face herself, that little Ruthie Marshall.

Checked out some of the architecture in Frankfurt, ran over quite a few German toes with my rolling tote bag (my little payback, I guess), and ate something gross in a charming little German Patisserie. Nobody could explain to me in English what it was exactly. Curious fool that I am I bought it and ate it anyway just to settle the argument. Jury’s still out.

I’m tired though. This is how tired I am. On the cab coming back from Frankfurt I was listening to Queen sing “We Will Rock You” in German and it wasn’t until halfway through the song that it even occurred to me that it PROBABLY WASN”T QUEEN!

Most of this is information you don’t need. I think all you need to know is that I had a really great time, and I got some valuable experience under my belt. Want to know the really sick thing? I can’t wait to sit down at a poker table again.

Signing off.