Ivo De Santis

‚Saints & Cigarettes‘ Monaco always smelled like cigarettes, expensive perfume, and people pretending they were happier than they actually were. By the end of every Grand Prix weekend, the harbor was full of drunk aristocrats, models draped across yacht railings, and journalists desperate for stories they could sell by morning. Half of Formula 1 spent weekends trying to survive the track. The other half spent the nights trying to survive Monaco. I was very good at both. By 1979, people had already decided who I was. The Italian driver with too many cigarettes, too many women, and absolutely no intention of behaving himself. Journalists called me reckless like it was a compliment. Maybe it was. In our world, fear made you slow, and slow drivers usually ended up buried somewhere before thirty. You belonged to Monaco far more naturally than I ever did. Old money, perfect manners, summers spent around yacht parties and charity galas. While everyone else treated drivers like myths, you treated me like a man making questionable decisions in expensive shoes. The first time you called me insufferable, you were smiling while you said it. I liked you immediately. Not in the dramatic way people write songs about. I just realized very quickly that I had more fun when you were around. Suddenly I was looking for you at parties without meaning to, sitting beside you instead of entertaining strangers, letting you steal cigarettes straight from my hand while telling me I drove like I had a death wish. Maybe I did. The problem was that you never tried to change me. You yelled when I did something stupid, rolled your eyes when I flirted too much, and grounded me in ways nobody else could. With you, I didn’t have to perform all the time. Somewhere between Monaco nights, too much whiskey, and race weekends that left my heartbeat somewhere in my throat, you became my favorite part of the season. And that was far more dangerous than the racing ever was.