Gstaad
One of the safest countries on earth is in trouble. Good old Helvetia, a country more upside-down than sideways, according to Papa, could end up on its head. Its industrial base might melt as its currency is much too strong for its own good, and deflation might set in as the Swiss National Bank is printing good money to tie its fortune to the euro. Lashing the franc to the euro seems a suicidal thing to do, but such are the joys of global finance. Mind you, I don’t understand a thing and am on my way down to see some bankers who will explain things, not that I trust bankers as much as I used to.
Still, buying foreign currencies in unlimited quantities to win respite for its exporters is a dangerous practice, something the Swiss are not known for. Switzerland is a small country which unites a number of unique, diverse communities which are small worlds in themselves, all with a well-earned reputation for freedom, independence, industry and honesty.
The Swiss enjoy direct democracy, with referendums at regular intervals about important subjects such as joining the EU, permitting tall minarets, and, until 1971 in the canton of Appenzell, allowing women to vote. I’m a big fan but a worried one. Every bum I know wants to come and live here, and bums do not have the Swiss attitude of hard work and honesty. Soon the place might turn into Italy, or Greece, or even Britain.
The expensive Swiss franc is another problem altogether. When I first came to Gstaad and moved into the Palace hotel, one dollar got you 4.30 francs. Living at the best hotel in town cost me around $10 a day, tips included. The most expensive chalet was worth around 100,000 francs — you do the maths. A season ticket for all the mountains in the region was less than $100, or £25. My season began on 22 December and ended around Easter. The place was full of Americans, many of them pilots who had bailed out over Switzerland while bombing the industrial Ruhr. Those were very good types, tall, blond, sports-loving daredevils with an eye for the girls. Most of them were Wasps. Alas all of them are now dead, but I have some very fond memories of deep-snow skiing without guides and with very little light left. Once you’ve been flying against flak, skiing on unknown slopes in the dark is child’s play.
My good friend was Jimmy Raye, a tall American pilot from California who got hit over Stuttgart and bailed just over the border near Zurich. He visited Gstaad, went bananas over the place and built a small chalet for himself and his El Lay sweetheart, who joined him after the war. Jimmy once broke his arm — and I heard it break — when he hit a boulder. He went to see the doc, had the arm placed in a cast and went skiing with me again after lunch. He was a lady’s man and his El Lay sweetheart turned a blind eye, until he got too involved with some gal I was also romancing. Just about that time the dollar began its long downward spiral, so the sweetheart talked him into going back to sunny California where the livin’ was easy and also cheaper.
I was heartbroken, but what the hell. The Americans were busy fighting useless wars in Vietnam and spending lotsa moolah at home to keep the poor black folk happy and in burgers. The dollar sank, the Swiss franc rose, and I lost a good buddy. Jimmy died about 25 years ago and the sweetheart wrote and told me how much Jimmy had appreciated the fun we had together in Gstaad when life was cheap and the girls rather friendly.
Now chalets in Gstaad go for 25 to 50 to 100 million francs — and, again, you do the maths. One franc is worth about 80 American cents. There are no Jimmy types around, and the ones who can afford such chalets do not ski, yours truly being an exception. I have ‘catastrophic arthritis’ on both ankles, according to my very nice doctor, and limp all over the place but still kick the bag and punch the ‘makiwara’. It’s called refusing to accept the inevitable, but what the hell. It’s better than sitting around with the ghastly nouveaux riches who are pouring in here like North Africans sailing into Lampedusa.
The only good news is that my friends Wafic and Rosemary Said have bought a place and will be coming here. Wafic had a place in Courchevel but after a couple of Russian crook oligarchs had their flunkies shoot at each other while they were in the middle of dinner, Wafic decided Gstaad might be safer. It is and it isn’t. Boredom can kill one as easily as a Russian crook’s stray bullet; in fact, the latter is quicker.
Yes, I’m worried about the future of Gstaad because of the coarseness of today’s rich, who instead of copying their betters, take their manners from Hollywood movies and the music industry. Hawk-eyed hucksters are roaming the globe advertising the fact that for 425 million one can buy a small three-bedroom apartment in the village of Gstaad. And in the morning, if one’s lucky and does not need glasses to read the small print, one can see tiny Bernie Ecclestone in person buying the newspapers in the railway station. Such were the joys, but no longer.
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