Patrice Pastor in the Village of Monaco: A Real-World Reflection of Patrick McGoohan's 'The Prisoner' After arriving underground by train from Nice, I walked up the stairs, stepped into Monaco, and immediately noticed how clean the streets were. I looked up at the buildings and saw how perfectly maintained they were. Everything around me seemed new and fresh.
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| The Starck Club in Dallas, Texas |
Philippe Starck’s Concrete Oasis and the Fluid Nightlife Revolution of 1980s
My favorite place that I would frequently visit in Dallas was the Starck Club. It was located in the old part of town, where the once life-sustaining warehouses were abandoned and crumbling, right past the forgotten railroad tracks of the forgotten Industrial Revolution. But this one particular warehouse was adopted and remodeled by the French architect and designer, Philippe Starck.
Getting into the Starck Club wasn’t easy. There was always a long line, and the doormen were highly selective about who they allowed to enter. In my early twenties, with bleached blond hair, I was hip enough to pass. I wore black parachute pants and white leather shoes—very Duran Duran-esque.
The first time I entered the Starck Club, I was in a state of shock and awe. It wasn’t just the unique design of the club but the energy, the music, and the women. I had never been to a place where so many women looked at me with such sensuality. They would lock eyes, smile, and maintain eye contact. It was so intense that, at times, I had to keep walking until I reached the bar for a bottle of Corona beer with lime to calm my nerves.
I enjoyed wandering around, pussyfooting through the disco clouds. The place was always dark, with spotlights shining the Starck Club logo onto gauzy veil curtains. Between these curtains were white linen chairs and small sofas where people cuddled together.
The music was non-stop—a heavy industrial beat layered with an array of synthesizer sounds. I had never heard music like this before. Then, suddenly, I heard the Pet Shop Boys: "I've got the brains, you've got the looks, let's make lots of money." The entire place erupted as everyone began dancing. This also happened when "Nemesis" by Shriekback played, another Starck Club favorite:
Though the style of music constantly changed, the beat remained, and the sound, like the club’s surroundings, felt mystical and intoxicating. Nothing seemed to matter except love expressed in a variety of ways and body languages.
The Starck Club became a ritual for me. Every Saturday night I was there. It was where all the hip people gathered. But for me it was even more than that – it was the epicenter of culture and the place to be.
Hence, the closing of the Starck Club caused tremendous sadness for many. For some clubbers, life was never the same. For others, it was the end of an extraordinary chapter. For Sita, it meant a first-class ticket back to San Francisco, returning to a life of high society, charity events and hors d’oeuvres between Belvedere, California, and Monte Carlo, Monaco.
Years later, I learned Sita’s real name was Christina de Limur and I tried reaching out to her, but my standing was too low for her social class and too high for her charities.
Getting into the Starck Club wasn’t easy. There was always a long line, and the doormen were highly selective about who they allowed to enter. In my early twenties, with bleached blond hair, I was hip enough to pass. I wore black parachute pants and white leather shoes—very Duran Duran-esque.
The first time I entered the Starck Club, I was in a state of shock and awe. It wasn’t just the unique design of the club but the energy, the music, and the women. I had never been to a place where so many women looked at me with such sensuality. They would lock eyes, smile, and maintain eye contact. It was so intense that, at times, I had to keep walking until I reached the bar for a bottle of Corona beer with lime to calm my nerves.
I enjoyed wandering around, pussyfooting through the disco clouds. The place was always dark, with spotlights shining the Starck Club logo onto gauzy veil curtains. Between these curtains were white linen chairs and small sofas where people cuddled together.
The music was non-stop—a heavy industrial beat layered with an array of synthesizer sounds. I had never heard music like this before. Then, suddenly, I heard the Pet Shop Boys: "I've got the brains, you've got the looks, let's make lots of money." The entire place erupted as everyone began dancing. This also happened when "Nemesis" by Shriekback played, another Starck Club favorite:
Though the style of music constantly changed, the beat remained, and the sound, like the club’s surroundings, felt mystical and intoxicating. Nothing seemed to matter except love expressed in a variety of ways and body languages.
Below was the staircase to the dance floor, but the dance floor wasn’t the only place where people danced; they danced everywhere, including on the steps of the staircase itself. The energy in the club was incredibly inviting. Frequently, I felt as though I were in a strange dream and had to go to the restroom to splash cold water on my face and check my hairstyle.
The restroom was a large, unisex space with a sleek array of faucets and surrounding mirrors. In the middle sat a large white linen sofa occupied by people with big, wild hairstyles. It seemed many enjoyed lounging in the restroom. When I tried washing my hands, I couldn’t find the handles to turn on the faucet. Fortunately, someone noticed and instructed me to place my hands under it, and magically the water flowed. I had never seen this technology before. Everything in the Starck Club felt modern and stylish, even its restroom.
Outside the restroom was a small kiosk attended by a bald-headed person whose gender was hard to discern. They were selling clove cigarettes among other items. Every time I saw him or her, he or she was trying to seduce a woman at the counter, proudly displaying his or her non-existent cleavage. If female, he or she could have been related to Grace Jones, though he or she was not as tall or charismatic as Grace Jones. If male, he might have been a smaller Black Kojak. I later learned he or she was selling ecstasy, which back then was pure MDMA and legal in Texas.
The Starck Club became a ritual for me. Every Saturday night I was there. It was where all the hip people gathered. But for me it was even more than that – it was the epicenter of culture and the place to be.
There was another reason I kept returning: I had become infatuated with a mysterious woman. I would always see her from a distance, our eyes locking in a strong, intense, and meaningful gaze. She had long blonde hair, fair skin, and large, dark, radiant eyes. But each time I tried to approach her, she would vanish behind the rising mist or a veil curtain, and I could never find her afterward.
It was intriguing and existential. I hoped one day to exchange words with her, but that never happened. Our communication remained silent and visual. Perhaps this was for the best—she might have broken the spell by speaking. Sometimes, it’s better to leave mysteries as mysteries and fantasies as fantasies.
I later learned her name was Sita, that she was French and that she came from a high-society family in San Francisco, likely living across the Golden Gate Bridge in Marin County. Whether she was high on ecstasy, I’ll never know. I like to believe we shared a natural and organic experience, one without chemical enhancements. I know for myself that it was.
Then one day, the police raided the Starck Club, and it was shut down permanently. Apparently, during the bust, ecstasy was scattered across the floor as people frantically unloaded their stashes.
This was a terrible blow. It marked the end of the Starck Club and the spirit so many came to worship. For me, it was devastating, but it was even worse for others whose entire lives and identities revolved around the club. Some had moved to Dallas solely for the Starck Club.
Hence, the closing of the Starck Club caused tremendous sadness for many. For some clubbers, life was never the same. For others, it was the end of an extraordinary chapter. For Sita, it meant a first-class ticket back to San Francisco, returning to a life of high society, charity events and hors d’oeuvres between Belvedere, California, and Monte Carlo, Monaco.
Years later, I learned Sita’s real name was Christina de Limur and I tried reaching out to her, but my standing was too low for her social class and too high for her charities.