petit prince

I’ve just confirmed we live next to royalty.

Ever since last winter, there has been an unsubstantiated rumor that one of the villas on the private side street that connects with ours in the next block was owned and/or about to be occupied by a prince from an unnamed eastern state. This would have shades of Madeline and the son of the Spanish Ambassador (although G would have to be Pepito), except that a week after the rumors started flying, a ten-foot high, electronically controlled wrought-iron gate was built across both entrances to the side street, perhaps not the most obvious nod to neighborliness. Our babysitter A, who has lived on the other, non-gated side street for 20 years and is in the know about such things, swears that all the residents on the other side were pressured into agreeing to the gate, but that the prince paid for it all. I have definitely seen more than one elderly person pausing to swear at the gate when they forgot the combination.

On my walks with Lucy, I’ve determined that both a swimming pool and a tennis court seem to live on top of the roof of the villa in question. There is also a lot of staff, mostly visible taking breaks in the basement-level English style kitchen that fronts the road. Today I saw two men unloading a raft of groceries into the kitchen. Want to know what mysterious royalty drinks? A lot of supermarket brand water, apparently. It’s a little disappointing – I mean, how can we really build up a good head of envy unless the super-rich do their part and actually bathe in Veuve Clicquot?

In the last week, a permanent security guard has appeared at the villa end, although again, this is not as impressive as it could be. Fantasy security guards either dress like gendarmes (the best hats) or commandos (just scary in general), but the two guys that trade duty here wear plain tee-shirts that say “Securite” on the front in faded letters and they mostly lean up against their cars.

I kind of like these downmarket details. Is the prince pennypinching? Is he trying to say, hey, gates and tennis courts aside, I’m just a regular guy? Would he be up for un express at the corner café?

Tonight, on our 10 o’clock walk, the security guard spoke to us as we passed by. He was actually sitting all the way inside his car this time, so I had to scan a moment to place the disembodied voice.

“You all walk past here every day, huh?”

“Yes, sir, we do.”

He got out, and reached down to scratch Lucy behind the ears. “She doesn’t bite, right?” he said, and laughed.

“So, must be someone pretty important who lives here,” I said.

“Well, it’s a prince,” he admitted, and named the country (which pretty much met and rose all my expectations for the day).

“Wow,” I said. “That’s quite a neighbor.”

He shrugged without committing. “English?” he asked. (The question was about nationality, rather than native tongue).

“No, American.”

His face broadened into a smile that indicated this might be the least boring thing that had happened to him all evening. “You have such an election coming up,” he said. “I’ve been reading.”

“Tell me,” he added, “Are you for Obama?”