Perfect peace

Gstaad

The end of another perfect season where skiing is concerned. Wonderful powder snow, beautiful sunshine, plunging temperatures at night and empty slopes once the glitzy types went back to whatever holes they came from. On my son’s last day here, he and I skied recklessly fast together (I couldn’t keep up) and late in the afternoon we were the last two on the mountain. It was so perfect, so beautiful and still, I almost blubbed. I was sad that he was leaving and sad that the next time I see snow I will be 70. (Well, perhaps not. If I go to Japan next month for a farewell karate session with the masters, there is always Mount Fuji.)

The Palace hotel and the Eagle club closed on the same day, last Sunday. While climbing to the club in order to give the Taki Cup trophies, I thought the end had finally come. Some of you oldies might know the symptoms. The left hand feeling a bit numb, the breath coming in faster than usual, the throat dry and the vision bleary. Actually, I made it to the top and it all turned out to be a hangover, but still. In no time everything was hunky-dory, however.

As it turned out, it was the last perfect day. Once the club closed, so did the weather, and I’m packing for London as I write this. One of the good things that the Taki Cup offers is that I am given the microphone by the president and I get to harangue the packed terrace for a while. This year it was back to Marc Rich and the fact that he was brought to the club by some Spaniard. And it wasn’t only yours truly who protested.