High life
Slippery slopes
Taki
Gstaad
T
eke everything else in this world Gstaad,
the beautiful alpine village in the Bernese Oberland, has changed for the worse. More cars, more buildings, more people. Unlike other tourist spots, however, the authorities here have not ruin- ed the incredible beauty of the place by allowing modern horrors to go up. Carpen- try has flowered here for centuries, and the majority of chalets and buildings are made of wood with carved decorations and shingled roofs. Some of the hotels have not changed externally for more than 300 years.
And yet year after year I get more and more nostalgic for the time when Gstaad was a tranquil little village known only to a few discerning souls and where jet-setters were as rare as pacifists in Beirut. Like any man recalling a period of history that has vanished, I can only conclude that it's the people who have changed and, obviously, for the worse. Take, for example, the Rosey, the school of kings during the first 50 years of the 20th century, the school for the hawk-eyed, the hook-nosed, and the unacceptably rich since the first world war. This week the Rosey is celebrating a week- long reunion in order to bid adieu to its departing owner and headmaster for the last 30 years, Colonel Johannot. Johannot has taken over the Palace Hotel, as well as almost everything else in town, in order to say goodbye. For some strange reason the Colonel doesn't like me, and I must confess the feeling is mutual. Mind you, he was very strict about drugs — one puff of the weed and you were expelled — but what I don't like about him is his tycoon-like greed when it comes to money.
In the past 15 years le Rosey has become an extension of Riyadh High, with a bit of Beverly Hills High thrown in for good measure. Never in my life have I seen such a motley — rich and incredibly flash motley
crew as these greasy little rich kids who make up more than half of the school's stu- dent body. Whereas once upon a time there were lots of Americans (40 per cent), 25 per cent French, Italians another 25 per cent and a few Englishmen who had been thrown out of places like Eton for buggery, with the odd wog (like the Shah) thrown in for good measure, the place now resembles more Oman and Miami beach than a Swiss prep school. Money is the cause of the decline. Le Rosey is the most expensive
school in the world, and only oily ones, or men who deal in real estate and call books properties, can afford to send their ghastly offspring there.
Speaking about men who call books pro- perties, Gstaad is full of them. I don't know Why, but nothing looks more out of place — even more than Arabs in djellabas — in an alpine setting than a Hollywood tart or producer. First of all, they're so terribly loud and gauche. Second, they wear gold Jewellery and high heels and drive in their Rolls Royces to the hairdresser at ten in the morning. I saw one while coming back from mY early-morning cross-country ski, and her perfume almost made me sick. When I inquired who she was they told me she was the wife of a well-known actor whose name
cannot write because I don't feel like mak- ing him richer than he already is. Then there is Julie Andrews, a woman who somehow I don't believe is for real. Last Christmas she paid for the whole town to be ht UP, but I somehow suspect that the light dawned on her how to get a bit of cheap Publicity. Her husband, one Blake Ed- wards, insists that his telephone number re- mains unlisted. A new phenomenon in Gstaad.
To top it all off, Vivian Ventura decided to visit my beloved Gstaad. And guess who she brought with her? Do you believe Joan Collins? And there was worse to come. I call them the Beehive Bunch — a lot of starlets looking for beefy producers to go down on. Well, it might sound bad but only Comparison to what it was. The Palace is still the best hotel in the world, the Eagle Club's service and setting, ditto (no Polan- skis, Kashoggis or Nathan Cummingses allowed in), and the locals friendly, polite and nice. And this year the snow has never been better, and I do mean the kind one skis on. It used to be a dream place, and it could be again if only there was a revolution that lolled selectively, and I could make up the list.
Previous page
