And again summer approaches and one must sift through all those spoiling invitations that inevitably come rolling in when one is an indolent (and impoverished) European aristocrat — who needs to freeload off the rich and hardworking. 

I have offers to bob around the Med on a plutocrat’s gleaming white yacht and go swanning up and down the northeast coast of the USA, doubtless visiting a healthy roster of infamous summer resorts, all of which have become bywords in seasonal destinations for the “rich and famous.”

Many of these places have been the preferred playgrounds “to summer” for literally generations. Think of the Cote d’Azur, the Hamptons, the Amalfi coast and the islands of Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard. 

However, the thought occurs to me, having stopped off last summer in Cannes on the glittering coast of the South of France, that increasingly all these places are rapidly becoming a parody of themselves and their own brands. Are the locals quietly laughing at us behind our backs? Or, more worryingly, do we deserve their mirth? 

Why? Well, at the Cannes Palais des Festival, the home of the most glamorous annual movie gathering on the planet, one can find at any time of day or night a long line of enthusiastic tourists patiently waiting their turn to take selfies on the “red carpet” next to their favorite film celebrities (although the festival, which took place earlier this month, this year tried to prevent the tourist hordes from doing so, just as it attempted, unsuccessfully, to ban gowns with long trains and barely-there looks). The iconic red carpet is now a permanent fixture and the celebs are mere cardboard cutouts. The town council of Cannes is cleverly, but cynically, milking their own brand to pull in ever-higher volumes of tourists to have the “Cannes red carpet experience.”

In East Hampton, Long Island, last summer’s storm-in-a-teacup, or more accurately, in a salad, was the offering from a well-known town deli of the $120 portion of lobster salad. A local paper, enthusiastically consumed by the phenomenally well-heeled residents, gave a breakdown of the actual cost of a 1-pound portion of local lobster. Many customers had a sense of humor failure. Had things just gone too far, even for the Hampton’s super-wealthy? The deli wisely removed the price, but even more wisely kept on selling their summer gold dust to the unwitting. 

Back on the Cap d’Antibes in France, having lunch at the beachside restaurant of the beautiful Belles Rives Hotel, (once the home of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife, Zelda), I realized we were all but surrounded by characters that had apparently been plucked from central casting. At the next table was an elderly man entertaining what could only be described as his current mistress. She was possibly a quarter his age, but still sported lips of such size and pneumatic quality that they easily competed with the inflatable dingy tethered just meters away. Nearby, an apparent yet-to-be-sanctioned Russian gentleman repeatedly ordered magnums of Ruinart Champagne. The need to keep the orders coming was that each time the ice in the wine cooler had melted, he required a fresh bottle. The idea of ordering more ice, at possibly 1/1000th the cost of a new magnum, did not seem to occur to the fellow. In his mind, I think he was simply doing what a rich person in Antibes does. 

Toward the end of last summer, when we stopped off on Nantucket, I thought to treat the GeneralQuartierMeister (aka the German wife) to dinner at a brand new and achingly fashionable restaurant on the island. Through some type of miracle, we secured ourselves a reservation. Upon arrival, the fawning maitre d’ led us through the main restaurant and out onto a lovely terrace overlooking a well lit and verdant garden. 

“How pleasant,” we thought as we took our seats. We soon learned, apparently not so for most New Yorkers. “I must apologize that I cannot give you a better table,” groveled the maître d’. 

“Better?” I inquired. “This couldn’t be nicer.”

“Ah, well, as long as you are happy, sir,” he responded.

“I don’t understand. What could be better than this?” I asked, sweeping my arm across the charming view in a theatrical manner.

“Inside,” he answered. “Because only there can you see all the other diners and they can also see you” was his comeback. Oh dear, has society in these places really sunk so low, I thought. 

Earlier in the summer, we had an extraordinary, but exemplary, conversation with a hotel parking attendant in the South of France. As we walked to the entrance, we stopped to admire a stunning silver 1964 convertible E-Type Jaguar, surely one of the most beautiful and iconic roadsters ever built. Directly in front of the hotel’s revolving door was an orange McLaren P1 and a Lamborghini Veneno — to us both looking more like NASA space modules than beautiful road cars. The young-shaver who was the parking attendant told us he preferred “the new ones, as they drive and park themselves, whereas that old thing [pointing dismissively to the Jaguar] is simply impossible. You really must know how to drive when inside that ancient machine,” he sheepishly admitted. Again, oh dear! 

In Kennebunkport, one of Maine’s most exclusive summer retreats, these days you can buy yourself an extortionately priced lobster stuffed animal and in St. Tropez, back on the Med, a four-minute water ski session this coming summer will set you back more than $150. That makes a Wall Street lawyer look underpaid. I know that the hardworking locals in these places have short summer seasons and need to cash in as best as possible, but one can’t help think that they return home each evening and quietly chuckle to themselves at our gullibility.

On the Amalfi coast, which has long been a summer destination of the world’s glamor crowd, a key stop-off is Positano, the picture perfect Italian village tumbling down the cliffside into the sparkling Mediterranean. There, the hotel of choice is the truly special Le Sirenuse. This family-owned hotel is achingly tasteful, the service is second to none and the restaurant completely sublime. Ninety-nine percent of visitors to Positano can barely afford an Aperol Spritz at Le Sirenuse’s gorgeous bar, let alone a room with a view. But that doesn’t stop them coming to the tiny town in their droves. Every day they descend in their thousands, thronging the narrow alleys and passageways, fighting for towel space on the all-too ungenerous black sand beach (urgh!) and leave with T-shirts that admit to the world, apparently with no irony, “I visited Positano and all I could afford was this lousy T-shirt.”

How brilliantly can a humble T-shirt catch the zeitgeist of an entire socioeconomic travel sector? Again, someone, somewhere is having a laugh.

A brief sail along the coast from Positano, one can drop anchor at Capri. Along with Bikini in the Pacific, these are the only two islands I know of that have given their names to a lady’s fashion item. While Bikini was all but vaporized after a series of nuclear tests, leaving only a slither of land — much like the slither of material that can constitute the swimwear of the same name — capri pants summon to mind the iconic photos of Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe in the cropped trouser.

But fashion aside, Capri in truth is an utterly inhospitable piece of high rock surrounded by churning seas, with not a single accessible beach to its name. So why do dozens of ferries disgorge thousands of backpacking day-trippers all through the summer season? It’s the “Capri” brand, of course. And what they discover is a clutch of unaffordable designer shops that rival Paris’ Rue Faubourg Saint-Honoré and Rome’s Via del Corso in glamor and prices. I can’t believe that most depart disillusioned, if not considerably poorer. But, on the plus side, they can say they visited Capri.

At the height of last summer’s season, there was a power outage in the Hamptons area. Word got out that an upmarket food retailer was selling their caviar stock at 50 percent discounts while their refrigeration units were out of action. As I sauntered past the grocery store, dodging enthusiastic shoppers in an unseemly rush to get their fish roe, I passed a balding man sitting in his open top Porsche, bellowing into his cell phone: “Honey, is it the Beluga or the Sevruga we need?” I particularly liked the use of the word “need” in the question. Everyone in the Hamptons needs caviar. 

A fitness-freak friend in the Hamptons informs me that there is a “keen-as-mustard” waiting list approaching 100 people for her local SoulCycle classes, in large part apparently, because the instructors are “so very hot” and perhaps all the clientele have gorged on too much caviar?

And lastly, back to Cap d’Antibes, where it’s not uncommon to pay over $50 million for a seafront home, and where a casual lunchtime cheeseburger at the utterly gorgeous Eden Roc Hotel will set you back 90 euros. Therefore, you surely wouldn’t flinch at the 480 euro ticket price for a good old-fashioned steak at the same table.

All perfectly reasonable, no? 

So, if you can ignore the background noise of all the locals laughing at all of us, I do hope you have a lovely summer.