Monte Carlo, Darling!

Monte Carlo, Darling!

You, me, Audi and Monte Carlo, Darling.

  

It was the dead of Winter in America, but for me, it was Spring Break.  I, an American professor, and my mother on vacation in Monaco to celebrate my 50^th birthday.  Oh so chic and ooh-la-la!  My dream trip during my favorite time of year.  I love Winter and I loved Monte Carlo!

Months ago, I had decided to finally see for myself what I had envisioned for decades.  I could only imagine the lives of the super-rich and the often famous and fabulous.  Full-powdered faces drenched in luxury and living the life of pampered princesses had played out in many of my fantasies. Gentlemen and ladies dressed in labels with prices starting in the thousands residing in homes, second homes and even five or six homes located all over the globe were the people I had expected to see. I had not anticipated though that several would live on yachts, docked at the Marina jutting slightly out into the Mediterranean Sea.

Did someone mention a cruise to the French Riviera?  Not now.  We’re in Monte Carlo, Darling.

Zoom-Zoom, Audi sports cars flying by.  I had no idea it was almost time for the Monaco Grand Prix race through Monte Carlo.  By extreme luck, Mom and I were booked at the Monte Carlo Bay Hotel and Resort, the home base that year for the corporate team preparing for the world-renown racing spectacular.  Aside from us, the Audi team were the main guests of this 5-star hotel overlooking the calm deep blue sea.

We felt royal and privileged. 

Our room was the size of a large midtown Manhattan studio apartment.  The hallway leading to the bedroom was as long as my budget.  We both had closets lining the hallway, double the size needed for the few garments we had packed.  I had suggested we limit our attire to the pattern of cheetah, the shade of black and the accent of turquoise jewelry.  We looked divine!  Like upper-middle class Americans with a little money to spend.  Simply divine.

Walking in and out of the various locales was indeed half the pleasure.  Well-groomed garcons, Monsieurs actually, opening doors for fortunate heiresses--and us--was a constant joy…and expectation for some.  Having no real access to a fortune, we trotted across the street to the bus stop to ride like the help to the famous Place du Casino.  It was a dose of humility in our daily excursion to rub elbows with the super-super-rich. 

Adorned in the accepted garb of working America, Mom and I wore fashionable shawls to keep us warm for our hike through the famed courtyard.  Stepping off the bus, we headed each day for lunch to our “spot,” Café De Paris.  For us, it was like having free fourth-row tickets for a sold-out opera.
Each day, once the Maitre D’ realized we would be dining at the Cafe for lunch throughout our trip, he would seat us in the banquette facing the door, about two rows inward.  This designated location within the Café was an optimum spot for viewing the barrage of hundred-thousand dollar furs strolling through the front door.  We saw rare red foxes, silver foxes, dark sables, triple-colored minks, and even bi-colored ermines with metallic leather trims.  The furs, the furs, the furs!  My eyes had never seen such a parade of furs!

Dazzling maxi-length furs and over-sized vests of gorilla or monkey hair. The fur spectacular was a show in itself. Woman nor man was without a show-piece of a fur.  Poor Vanessa and her Mother were relegated to cotton-acrylic blends of faux cheetah cloth shawls.  How gauche.  How sad.

We were in Monte Carlo and stuck out like Hippies in a Black Church.

I wanted more.  I wanted to see more.  I wanted those Sophia Webster shoes.  For just one moment more, I wanted to live out my fantasy to the fullest. 

Enter the Casino.

The Casino de Monte Carlo was exactly like in photographs.  Immediately beyond the Place du Casino courtyard and central fountain was a multitude of custom-designed and handmade Rolls Royces and Bentleys parked for all onlookers to see.  To the left and the right were high-end cars I could not identify, staged in positions as eye-candy incentives for those of us who dared to climb the regal stairs.  

Observing the rules and exchanging my meager funds, I was escorted to the area behind the red velvet stanchions.  My preferred game of chance was Roulette and I was about to play the Monk’s wheel at the famed Casino de Monte Carlo. 
It was happening.

Allowing my mother to have a seat on the dainty, gold-painted chairs, her role had been defined and accepted by Management.  She was my assistant, a purse and shawl holder.  She defined my class, so I was accepted as a Monte Carlo table player.

Taking a seat and taking it all in, I braced myself and made a first bet.  I could not believe where I was playing.  It was almost too much to comprehend.  I felt like a female Bond, a daring woman of adventure who would leave three hours later with a $300 profit.

Nice work, if you can get it.

A day later, we ventured on to the South of France.  Boarding a metro-liner riding on the edge of the Mediterranean, we, like the locales headed to other destinations situated along the yacht owners’ playground.  Passing through Beaulieu, Saint Jean Cap Ferrat, and Vieux Eze, we finally arrived in Nice.  Taking a short journey on narrow streets directed us to the pot of gold---Cannes.

It was lunchtime and the brilliant Carlton Hotel was an inviting option for dejeuner. Placing us in coveted seats facing the water, the waiter allowed us to feel what half of Hollywood elite would feel in roughly four months.  We felt important.  If only there was a motion picture deal for us to sign.

Knowing there was a pit stop to make before spending a few more hours in Cannes slot machine-filled casino, Mom and I darted in and out of tiny designer boutiques a short distance before the glamourous staircase.  It was magnificent!  The red carpeted staircase of the Cannes Film Festival.  No one would stop us from playing out our fantasy.  The sign announcing the event was already hung above the staircase so we took the opportunity to pose on the red carpet. 

Where are the paparazzi when you need them?

Back in Monaco, one night left on a trip not-to-be missed, we waltzed into the exclusive Hotel de Paris.  Boldly planted next door to the Casino de Monte Carlo, Hotel de Paris was an intimidating place to order a drink. The bartender spoke English well.  He was gentle and kind to us, unable to ignore our nervousness.  We stumbled through our orders of coffee, but he brought out a full tray of petit desserts which accompanied our two café au laits.  So chic.  So chic.  

You are in Monte Carlo, Darling.  Relax. 

Hours of packing up.  Moments of travel through airports and on airplanes.  The people of America looked different.  The black limousines and the stretched whatevers just did not have the appeal of what we had seen on a tiny municipality in the cobalt sea.  American style was now uninspired.  The bland nature of business suits on countless blank faces pulled me back into a mundane existence. 

I’m no longer in Monte Carlo.  Darling, I’m back to reality.  


*Vanessa Brantley  Style395.blogspot.com  April 24, 2017,  "Monte Carlo, Darling!", Volume 5, Blog 1b [vol. 5, 1a-1c].

Charlie Rose: Living His Dream

Charlie Rose: Living His Dream

 

 

I woke up the year my father passed and realized that I was broke.

I wasn’t broken, just penniless and unfulfilled.  My parents had lived their dreams and ended up with something to show for it.  My brother had lived his dream and ended up with a multitude of blessings.  Vanessa had compromised her dreams and ended up with nothing, except what was in my memory bank and a storage locker that I could no longer afford. Somewhere along the way, I had stopped living my dreams and started living the dreams and chasing the goals society had placed upon me.

Life.

Sometimes, life doesn’t work out the way you imagine.  You end up 75 years old, not married and without any children.  Many people might find that type of life miserable, a failure, extremely unimaginable and disappointing, but not me.  And not Charlie Rose.

To be honest, I had no idea that Charlie Rose wasn’t married or that he had no children to inherit his incredible legacy.  It was only in researching for my tribute to him that I learned these aspects of his life.  Funny.  I thought I was the only person who wasn’t going to let the absence of typical existence hold me back from living out my dreams.

I knew Charlie Rose was on my radar for decades for some reason.  I always felt a connection to him, as well as a high-level of respect.

Having no passion for the field of medicine, Charlie Rose changed his life mid-college at Duke University.  At first, he graduated in history and then law (finishing the Juris Doctorate) then later changed to pursue business in New York, but then finally realized what his first and only wife was doing was far more interesting.  Her field of interest was broadcasting.

After working for various stations, making a name for himself along his journeyed path, Charlie Rose found himself divorced and living in Dallas, Texas.  Texas wasn’t an awkward place for him, I bet.  He was born in the South, in Henderson, North Carolina.  He was apparently comfortable enough with the Southern scene that he was given his own namesake show.    

Living out his dream in the “Big D” went on for years.  Although, New York beckoned again for the bigger opportunities being offered at NBC, PBS and CBS.  Working as a team player moving into the role of producer and executive producer, Charlie Rose at the mid-life age of basically 49, ventured back into the host chair and anchored his own namesake show, The Charlie Rose Show.

 

Over the past 26 years, since 1991, Charlie Rose has interviewed and challenged several experts and gifted people in the fields of Humor, Brain Studies, Performance, Technology and even recipients of the Nobel Laureate.  From George Carlin to Google’s CEO, Rose has prodded the minds of our most intriguing humans.  Hosting panel discussions on President Obama’s Brain Initiative to the ins and outs of the internet, Rose has made us aware of the most complex and emotional topics many are afraid to face.

 

Charlie Rose is now roughly 75 years old.  He faces each day with a sense of accomplishment.  Rarely, I’m sure is there time to feel defeated for not having children or getting married again.  For like Charlie, I too, find very little time to stop and wish I coulda, shoulda, woulda. 
 

My life, I hope, is at mid-stream now. I’m just realizing I must face the world of social media and lay claim to my space.  I, like Charlie, have already ventured deep into my first loves of fashion, entertainment, writing and teaching.  At this time in my life, I want to express my thoughts, my opinions and my views.  I want a chair at the table.  In fact, in a few months, I will launch my new YouTube Channel under the name Wroxfair 395 Communications.  And, my first video will be the premiere video of my new talk show, entitled, “At the Table with Vanessa Brantley.” 

I’m not going to wait for someone to write my obituary for the world to know my story.  I’m writing my story.  I’m documenting my life…the good, the bad, the unconventional, and the just plain me.  I’m inviting you to take the journey with me.  To ask me questions and to challenge my mind. So reread my blogs and get your questions ready.  For beginning in a few months, I’m stopping the mass market chatter and walking in the path of one of my intellectual heroes, Charlie Rose. 

Soon, I will bring you exceptional and deep monologues from the intriguing and intellectual crevices of my mind.  No more fear about what others might say about my beliefs and opinions.  No more fear about my losing my livelihood and career because I disagree with some boss or politician.  And definitely, no more fear about going broke if my house doesn’t sell.  Let them have it. 

No more stress. 

I have a life to live and oh so much more learning to do.  I want to know more, do more, meet more people and talk about my experiences to the world.  Like Charlie Rose, I’m prepared, credentialed and ready.

So, let’s talk.

 

*Vanessa Brantley  Style395.blogspot.com  April 6, 2017,  "Charlie Rose: Living His Dream", Volume 5, Blog 1a [vol. 5, 1a-1c].

Celebrating Women's History Month-March 2017-ANNA SUI: THE "HIPQUAKE QUEEN"

CELEBRATING WOMEN’S HISTORY MONTH

(This is my last blog for Women’s History Month-March 2017)

“Anna Sui:  The HipQuake Queen"

What is Hip?  Ask Anna Sui. 

 

For 24 years, Anna Sui has been the quintessential fashion designer for folks who are young and hip who have a cutting-edge disposition on life and all things retro, especially the 1960s and 1970s.

As a second time resident of Los Angeles, in the 1990s, I learned about the funkafied stylings of fashion guru and designer, Anna Sui.  She had been to Parsons School of Design in NYC and had made a name for herself back in the 1980s.  Although, it wasn’t until the early 1990s when I paid attention to her youthquake-inspired, no century limitation of design.  Choosing to make a collection of timeless designs channeling the tastes of wealthy youth from different time periods, Los Angelans (Hollywood and music elite) were obsessed with the garments sported by half of SoHo in New York City.

Anni Sui had managed to bridge the bi-coastal gap of style between funky New York City and bad-to-the bones L.A. proper.   She had created what I call a “HipQuake.”

 

Just as in her current Fall/Winter 2016-2017 collection, she has always highlighted a colorful mix of fabrics and patterns turning each collection into a kaleidoscope spread of Hippie whimsy.  Combining androgynous styles and delicate girly clothing to form a thought-provoking line of rock and roll tour costumes, Sui has kept up the beat of the Hendrix crew long after his fascination with the play on layered vestment.

Anna Sui, in her Fall/Winter 2016-2017 collection, is digging the scene of red with orange on grape-purple paisley to black and white overtures of velvet and lace.  Cloaking boys and girls in heavy vest and monkey fur looking coats, she has doubled-down on her aesthetic this time around.  Like the weather, calling for the last hoorah of Winter, it’s your last weekend to make the Sui look, your look.  April showers might hold off a bit for one last blow of Winter’s chill.  Make haste and find comfort in a faux fur vest with floral-print stockings and matching shoes.  For Sui style is always “on fleek” and the moment is here.  Tie-up your lace-front boots one more time.  Throw a belt on your hip and make the buckle slip.  Anna Sui is what Philadelphian Vincent King calls “seasonless”. 

                       

Whether boy or girl, Anna Sui calls for Mod, child.  Calling all flower children to shout-out for peace and place a flower in your hair.  Wear your granny dress in layers from maxi to midi to mid-thigh, but don’t hold back.  Bell bottoms are in and now is the time to wear your round, colored glasses and opaque socks.  Match a pattern or not.  Sui doesn’t care.  Just be you, all layered and pattern true.

 

 

Mix your gender, your race, your hair, your style, your size.  Fluffy vests give you a figure, while Anna Sui chiffon dresses give you sway and motion.  Rock on in your orange. 

Anna Sui is and always will be that “woman.”  She is an energetic inspiration of fearless wonderment and classic designer style. 

I take my cue from Anna Sui.  Always feel free…to be thee.

*Vanessa Brantley  Style395.blogspot.com  April 2, 2017,  "Anna Sui: The HipQuake Queen"   Volume 4, Blog 1c [vol. 4, 1-1c].