The harbour in Monaco glittered beneath the pale gold of evening light, water shifting in slow patterns against rows of moored yachts. Above the quayside, the temporary structures of the paddock clung to narrow streets, their clean white façades broken by flashes of colour from banners and sponsor boards. The space between team areas was tight, a web of corridors where every movement seemed to draw a camera lens or an assessing glance. From the pit lane, the scent of fuel mixed with the sharper tang of sea air, a combination as much a part of the Grand Prix as the sound of engines reverberating off the stone walls of the old city. Sponsor executives in tailored jackets stood in small, self-contained circles, their conversations low and deliberate. The presence of a new arrival was difficult to miss here; in Monaco, the distance between the hospitality suites and the media line was only a few steps, and whispers travelled faster than the rush of engines up the hill from Sainte Devote.