Imagine having a credit card with no limit. Not the kind that pretends to have no limit, but an actual golden pass to spend freely: unlimited money. What would you buy? A private jet? A château in the French countryside? A lifetime supply of Diptyque candles? (Yes, please.)
The truth is, money—fascinating as it is (and let’s be honest, it is)—only matters when it’s used to elevate life, not drown it in a sea of tacky excess. Because real luxury doesn’t scream, it whispers. It doesn’t beg for attention. It already is the moment. And that’s exactly what this post is about: a very personal (and shamelessly opinionated) list of five things I’d buy if money were truly no object—but with taste, intelligence, and a touch of French irony.
1. A Corner Apartment in Paris – overlooking the Seine, obviously.
If you’re going to splurge, invest in location. And in Paris, that means a corner spot in the 6th arrondissement, between Jardin du Luxembourg and the Seine. Floor-to-ceiling windows, original Versailles parquet flooring, white marble fireplaces, gilded molding, walls in ivory tones. No Scandi minimalism here—I want tapestries, antique chandeliers, French linen curtains, books everywhere and a black grand piano right in the center of the living room.
It would be my retreat. My creative space. The kind of place where I’d wake up at 8am (or let’s be honest, 11), slip into a silk robe, brew a strong coffee, and start writing pieces like this while the golden Parisian light floods in through the windows. Sounds like a movie scene? That’s because it would be. Literally.
To me, Paris isn’t just charm—it’s strategy. It’s a city where you can live slowly but be surrounded by everything that matters: culture, fashion, beauty, history, and decent bread. It’s where people dress well just to walk to the corner, where the architecture teaches more than any classroom, and where rushing is considered terribly inelegant.
And most importantly: it’s the perfect place to disappear in style. Because there’s nothing more elegant than knowing when to vanish for a little while. Preferably in a trench coat, holding a glass of chilled white wine.
2. A Personal Haute Couture Archive – from the 50s to now
When we talk about fashion, we’re talking about quiet power. No one needs to know what it cost. No one needs to see the label. But the silhouette? The structure? The fabric? That speaks volumes.
If I had unlimited money, I’d build a real haute couture archive—only original pieces: 1950s Dior, Balenciaga when Cristóbal himself was still at the atelier, Chanel before Lagerfeld, Givenchy when he dressed Audrey Hepburn. Then a leap to peak McQueen, and of course, some iconic Valentino Garavani. And no—I wouldn’t wear them to Saturday brunch. It would be a private collection. Almost secret.
But don’t picture one of those socialites who lock their dresses in a vault. Each piece would be displayed on personalized mannequins, under museum lighting, in a wood-paneled room with temperature control and the scent of old paper and roses in the air. A private temple to beauty. A tribute to fashion as art.
I’d study each piece slowly, understand the techniques, the historical influences, the social context. Having couture at home wouldn’t be about status—it would be about understanding what happens when talent meets obsessive craftsmanship. Because in the end, these dresses are cultural records. Almost like three-dimensional paintings made of organza, taffeta and French lace.
3. A Farm in the South of France – with horses, olive trees and silence
Okay, we have Paris. Now let’s talk about the countryside. Because real elegance also knows how to live with dirt under its nails and a low, messy bun. I’d buy a farm in the South of France. Nothing over-the-top—I’m not after a resort. I want an old stone house, perfectly restored, every crooked window and weathered doorframe preserved.
Picture acres and acres of olive trees, lavender fields, wildflowers. A garden where figs, artichokes, and real tomatoes grow. A kitchen with a wood-fired oven, open shelves, Italian ceramic dishes, and morning air filled with the smell of thyme and warm bread.
And horses. Gorgeous, strong horses raised with dignity. Not for polo or prestige, just as part of the land. Part of its soul.
The plan? Spend seasons there writing, reading, baking sourdough, sipping wine with fresh goat cheese, and listening to Bach between the olive branches. Yes, this exists. And yes, I want it.
4. A Private Library – with rare books, old editions, and the smell of worn leather
This might be my favorite part. I’d buy books. Lots of books. But not just any books: I want first editions, manuscripts, personal letters from authors, out-of-print philosophy, classic literature in leather covers, yellowed pages, and that one-of-a-kind scent of time and paper.
The space would be dark wood, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a rolling ladder (obviously). A green leather fainting couch, a working fireplace, a tea table, and a gold lamp glowing into the night. A sanctuary.
I’d collect original editions of Jane Austen, annotated Shakespeare, Dostoevsky in Russian (even if I don’t read Russian—it’s about the energy). Signed books, marked pages, history between the covers. Because intelligence is also a luxury.
And if someone said, “Maria, are you seriously spending all this money on old paper?” I’d just sip my tea, open a thousand-page novel, and carry on—because some decisions need no justification. Just good taste and the guts to own it.
5. A Private Fund for Historical Restoration – only the places that deserve it
And finally… something a little less personal, and a little more eternal. If I had unlimited money, I’d create a private fund to restore palaces, churches, homes, and libraries across the world—the kind that are crumbling from neglect. Not to turn them into hotels, or monetize them, or “revitalize” them with a Starbucks inside. No. To restore them faithfully, with reverence.
Imagine saving a 17th-century convent in Lisbon. Or a forgotten Italian villa. Or a baroque library in the Austrian countryside. Luxury isn’t about owning—it’s about preserving.
This would be my way of giving back. Of leaving something behind. Of proving that yes, money can be power—but only when paired with conscience.
Final Thoughts – What money can (and can’t) buy
With unlimited money, you can buy pretty much anything. But the real question isn’t “What can I buy?”—it’s “What’s worth buying?” Because luxury without purpose is just noise. And honestly? I’d rather have the quiet of a Paris morning, the scent of an old book, or the sound of a horse trotting down a country path than any logo splashed across a handbag.
This list is about taste. About the kind of life I find beautiful. The life I admire. The life I want to live. A life with meaning, aesthetics, and identity. A life that doesn’t beg for approval—but inspires. And that, darling reader, isn’t something even money can buy.
But if it could… well, now you know what I’d choose.
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