When it comes to the marriage of wealth and style, Monte Carlo is still on top of its game. How does it do it? G.Y. Dryansky follows the money…

Each time I fly beyond the Bay of Angels on the helicopter from Nice toward Monte Carlo, I remember, shamelessly happy, that I am heading for the homeland of True Glitz—not some fool's gold rendition of it but the whole twenty-four-karat version of uninhibited, sybaritic luxury. You might argue that nobody has a moral right to all that conspicuous consumption. But this place—this phenomenon—has undeniably marked our civilization. And, in the end, Monte Carlo is a hard place to use as a crusade against Mammon; it might even have melted the heart of that devoted ascetic Savonarola.

Lately, the 430-acre principality of Monaco, squeezed between the Alps and the Mediterranean (and between Italy and France), has been embracing state-of-the-planet high culture, ecology, and technology with a seriousness that goes beyond providing a counterweight to its reputation as a gambler's playground. Things sparkle as ever, but change is happening. There are signs that Monte Carlo, which always felt sheltered from the world beyond, might be losing some of its separateness.

And its particularity can have a powerful effect: I am remembering a moment in a suite at the Hôtel Hermitage, with a woman who has come to Monte Carlo for the first time even though luxury is her raison d'être. She is the editor of a famous fashion publication. I throw open a window, and she stares at the harbor that legend says Hercules built and made godly deep—as if he'd anticipated those mega-tonnage white yachts on the blue water—and she stares beyond, to the prince's pastel palace with its crenellated tower, which dominates the similarly pastel town of Monaco. Into the eyes of this sophisticated New Yorker come tears.

Someone once asked me about a modest hotel in Monte Carlo, but modesty is not an operative word here. This is no place to enjoy the pastries by staring through the bakery window. The flock of Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces, and other big-ticket vehicles can be intimidating—unless, as is commonly done, you rent one for your stay. That said, a sojourn at, for instance, the 1863 Hôtel de Paris, the fanciest hotel in Monte Carlo, will set you back no more than one at the Ritz in Paris. A couple of star-anointed gourmet venues are as expensive here as they are elsewhere, and the impulse to live it up at Jimmy'z discotheque or the nightclub Le Sporting, whose roof opens to the Mediterranean sky, can give your bank card a hangover. Yet dinner at, say, the Sass Café, where models and rock stars rendezvous, will not be much more expensive than factory food at an ordinary restaurant in Paris. And a meal in a humble Monte Carlo bistro, some of which are unabashedly frequented by stylish people, will cost you less than its equivalent in Paris. On a long coast that has been nearly ravaged by mediocre tourism, Monte Carlo, in my experience, gives you much more for your money than a costly whiff of the myth.