Bursting at the seams
Taki
Gstaad
Bpack up in the mountains once again, with a bit of snow for a change. It's getting close to my 50th winter up here (1956) and the place is not improving, that's for sure. It all has to do with — you guessed it — the sort of people this small village tends to attract. Once upon a time it was rich (educated and well-mannered) Americans who had either served in the OSS during the war in neutral Switzerland, or had attended Le Rosey. There were also many Italians of noble birth, some Brits, a few South Americans and us Greeks. The Germans were still doing penance, the Belgians (with the exception of the Washer family) were as always molesting children, the Arabs were in their tents eating their dates, and the Russians were busy as beavers digging holes through the ice in Siberia.
Well, as some of you may have realised, things ain't what they used to be. For starters, the Swiss soon realised that it was easier to milk foreigners than cows. Prices shot up as if on Viagra. They also got greedy. They began to build like Pharaohs, turning a charming little Alpine village into a place Yogi Berra would describe as being so crowded nobody goes there any more. The oil crisis of 1973 did not help matters. The Arabs came on like gangbusters, their children bloating Le Rosey's roster, turning that once fine institution of learning into a billionaires' Borstal. The next catastrophe was the fall of the Wall. The Russkies arrived with trunkloads of cash, lotsa hookers in tow and exhibiting the worst manners since their grandfathers' last visit to Berlin circa 1945.
Oh yes, I almost forgot. There was also the little matter of the so-called jet-set. Once the secret of Gstaad was blown, every rich tart, every preposterous poofter and every social climber this side of Everest suddenly called it home. The locals were delighted. The more they jacked up the prices, the more suckers came. Chalet prices went from six figures during the Fifties and Sixties to high eight figures during the roaring Nineties. Like the great fool that I am, I started to build when they were at an all-time high. (Well, a fool yes, but a wise one because they've kept going up.) This, then, is the situation at present. The town is bursting at the seams with the rich and the not so pretty, the prices are outrageous, the snow conditions are as reliable as the Italian army, and I am very happy to be here.
Mind you, Eve been doing a lot of thinking about Gstaad. Having been heavily fined and given 20 days in the clink (suspended because of previous good character — ha, ha — and because I spend like a Russian, which in good old Helvetia constitutes good character), I seriously contemplated leaving the place for another station d'hiver higher up. When I hit a tree with my Mini I was dead sober. By the time the fuzz came to check me out, four hours later, I was dead drunk. I told the truth in court but the testimony of two people, who claimed I asked them the way to the Palace Hotel in a slurred manner, swung the judge. Some judge. Be that as it may. Moving to a new station d'hiver, one with guaranteed snow like St Moritz, could be great fun, especially as the social life over here is completely out of hand. But moving is the next most boring thing to breaking up. Everything is on automatic pilot from now on, so this one I will really take my time on. Sir Roger Moore did it, but for reasons of delicatesse.
And speaking of Sir Roger, the best news I've had since the first fall of Tobruk is that his good friend and mine, Bill Buckley, is returning to Gstaad. Bill and Pat Buckley have been coming here since 1962. Two years ago they had had enough. Most of their good friends were either dead or had left. People like David Niven, Natasha Stewart and Vladimir Nabokov had gone skiing in that great slope up above, while Roger Moore and Ken Galbraith had chosen to stay closer to sea level. Gstaad, for all its faults, is a hard place to give up, and if Bill decided to give it one more try. who am I. a poor little Greek, to say enough. Once Buckley gave up the fort, like it or not I was the town's resident intellectual, which in a way illustrates the depth of Gstaad's deterioration. Now that Bill is back I might reconsider staying, which is making a lot of people in St Moritz attend church rather regularly.
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