The Rich rich and Poor rich
Observations on the French Riviera
Français: https://yeswecannes.substack.com/p/riches-riches-et-pauvres-riches
Espagnol: https://yeswecannes.substack.com/p/los-ricos-ricos-y-pobres-ricos
Nederlands: https://yeswecannes.substack.com/p/arme-rijken-en-rijke-rijken
Publishing a book about problems is always delicate when you run a hotel — especially in France. If I had told the full truth in my first book, not a single guest would ever have come to stay.
I wrote four books about the Côte d’Azur, but the last one was never published at the time for exactly that reason. Everything was ready — even the title Franszalig, created by the Dutch rock-’n-roll legend and master of wordplay Peter Koelewijn.
That book finally appeared in 2024, twelve years after I sold the hotel. France teaches patience.
It was a manuscript filled with raw reality and unfiltered opinions.
Now, years later, this story seemed like the right way to introduce myself on Substack. The inspiration came from a good friend. After reading the book, she told me that this story had struck her most. Despite her love for the Côte d’Azur — and even though she invests in real estate herself — she avoids one specific period each year: MIPIM, the loud, excessive annual real-estate fair.
So here we go.
The Rich Rich and the Poor Rich
The name “Côte d’Azur” instantly evokes images of extreme wealth. Oil sheikhs burning money, film stars in absurdly expensive hotels, and a parade of vaguely rich people — including the occasional semi-famous Dutchman. They’ve shaped the showy, ostentatious image of Saint-Tropez, Cannes, Nice and Monaco.
Unfairly so, because only a few kilometres inland you find nature reserves, quiet paths and the most beautiful Provençal villages imaginable.
And on that tiny, overexposed strip of coastline, there are really only two kinds of rich people: the rich rich and the poor rich.
The Rich Rich
These are people who truly accomplished something in life, who built their own success and earned their wealth along the way — and who chose the Côte d’Azur for idyllic, decidedly non-showy reasons.
They live normal but comfortable lives. They have hobbies, drink a cool glass of rosé by a warm pool, read a book, make music, chat with the baker and the butcher, and sleep well. Sometimes they drive around in small, dented cars that disappear anonymously into the landscape.
They don’t show off. They respect the culture and the local people.
Many successful Dutch people quietly invested part of their good fortune into a sunny refuge — a life as God in France. They enjoy good restaurants, small village terraces and the cultural richness of their new surroundings without drawing attention to themselves.
Beauty Through the Eyes of Ordinary People
Every now and then I took hotel guests — ordinary people who work hard and juggle their finances each month — to the harbour to look at the mega-yachts. They stared wide-eyed, impressed, but sometimes with that quiet thought: “This is a world we’ll never belong to.”
I always told them, almost casually:
“Beautiful yachts, aren’t they? But don’t be fooled — at least half of them are under seizure by the police or the bailiff.”
And every time I saw the same small moment of relief.
The realisation that much of it is façade.
Not everything that glitters is gold.
And how good it is that ordinary people can admire beauty without feeling they fall short.
They too are rich — in the ways that matter.
The Poor Rich
And then there is — a few months each year — a smaller but much louder group. People who follow the scent of money, seek each other out here, and can talk about little else. They feel a burning need to show how successful they are, so the annual “who-has-the-highest-status” contest can begin.
My conservative parents always said:
“Talking about money is as vulgar as talking about sex.”
And my mother said of such men:
“If he could, he would carry his entire fortune in cash just to show it to everyone.”
These people live in a state of permanent financial obsession. Without their euros, they feel like nothing — back to zero. And unfortunately, they are often the source of the endless stream of headlines about excesses on the Côte d’Azur.
As a hotelier you see a lot, but it remains astonishing how quickly primitive instincts rise to the surface the moment someone believes that wealth places him above civilisation. Money doesn’t lift them toward beauty or opportunity; it opens a trapdoor greased with green soap — straight into the lowest drain of human behaviour.
Among each other they laugh hardest at stories in which they managed to swindle “ordinary people” out of their last euro in the most cunning way possible.
But they still need those ordinary people — otherwise there’s no one left to admire them (or their money).
The Sad Part
This loud minority receives disproportionately more media attention than the thousands of beautiful places, the history, the climate, the culture, the azur-blue Mediterranean, or the warm, funny and moving encounters with genuine locals.
They often come from the same fast worlds: real estate, crypto, IT and the car trade — sectors where money can appear quickly, with little depth beneath it.
And then there is the worst part of the media: the glamour journalists who live like human selfie sticks. They gladly accept invitations from the very men they later write about — free tickets, hotels and champagne included. They are shuttled from party to party for a week, nod, smile, pose for photos…
and then write just enough friendly words to be invited back the following year.
They stroke the host’s vanity, not his reputation.
Meanwhile, culture, winemakers, painters and sculptors rarely get attention. There is so much beauty here.
The Annual Ritual
The poor rich follow the exact same pattern every year.
They arrive, call each other, and compare invitations.
There is a hierarchy — a ranking of parties you must attend.
Not invited?
Panic → calling → cajoling → paying → getting in anyway.
Want to spot them? Easy:
Lunch: La Guérite (Île Sainte-Marguerite) or Nikki Beach (Saint-Tropez).
Dinner: La Môme or Le Baôli (Cannes).
After that: drinking, shouting, dancing.
And once the alcohol works and the music gets louder, the “Russettes” appear — once mostly Eastern European, now from all corners of the world. Beautiful young women who dance on tables like dessert, admired by their drunken hosts. A generous bonus often follows if they come along to the hotel.
A waiter once told me they know nothing about wine; they simply choose the most expensive bottle. Sometimes that’s an overly sweet dessert wine. They don’t notice. The staff does — and they tell me their stories, laughing.
The poor rich often bring along semi-famous Dutch figures — footballers and lightweight entertainers — who function mainly as decor pieces, meant to impress their wealthy “friends.”
(A spicy detail: for years, MIPIM visitors complained about a shortage of escorts. Nowadays, a plane full of Dutch escorts is flown in annually to support their French colleagues.)
And in the morning?
Aspirin, Valium, cocaine, sunglasses, and the obligatory phone call home:
“Honey, it’s amazing here! Fantastic atmosphere! Great business!”
MIPIM brings local hospitality more revenue in five days than the world-famous Film Festival does in ten.
And how do I know all this?
I was there.
As an observer — of course.
“Dress as well as you can afford —
rich but not flashy —
for clothes make the man, especially in France.”
— William Shakespeare