High life
Halcyon days
Taki
Gstaad Thirty-five years ago, spending the sum- mer in Gstaad was like committing social seppuku. (This is the samurai suicide of slashing one's stomach.) Only the very old and very un-trendy did it. The rest of us were all on the French Riviera, where it all happened. Beaulieu was Gianni Agnelli ter- ritory, and he presided over it from La Leopolda, his magnificent villa which was built by King Leopold of the Belgians around the turn of the century. Monte Carlo was, of course, Onassis and Rainier land, with Ari on his opulent Christina keeping a close watch on Rainier's pink palace on the hill. Further up the coast, in Cap Martin, lived Eddie Gilbert, in Villa Zamir, where he gave weekly Gatsbyesque Sunday parties for the great and the good, most of whom he had never met. His clos- est friend and supporter was John Aspinall, who even flew to America and visited Gilbert in Sing-Sing where Eddie ended up after a fraudulent transaction. This was in 1962. But until he got into trouble, there was no one more generous than Eddie.
I first met him playing tennis in New York. His real name was Ginsberg, and he was a pretty good athlete. As soon as he made big moolah, he rented Villa Zamir and ran an open house. Everyone called him names behind his back but everyone went to his parties. Jay Gatsby had nothing on old Eddie, who is still very much alive and doing well — after another prison spell — in the Bagel. Gilbert would have about 25 or so unattached girls walking around the pool, and the festivities would start after his swan dive. He could not have been nicer to me, especially after he caught me in the bushes with a female member of his family. (It doesn't matter, he said to her, the kid's like a son to me.) On the Provence side of the Cote d'Azure, was Paul-Louis Weiller's `La Reine Jeanne', a property bigger than Rhode Island, but not much. Paul-Louis, who water-skied without skis well into his 80s, and continued to swim and ski while in his 90s and blind, hosted deposed royals during the summer months. The houses of Savoy and of Yugoslavia were permanent guests. Gunter Sachs was the King of St Tropez, although his close friendship with louche people made him a bit suspect even back then. In between St Tropez and Cap Martin were the Greeks. Stavros Niarchos in the Château de la Croe, in Cap d'Antibes, and the Goulandris clan in the Hotel du Cap. Ditto yours truly.
In fact, I had the best deal in town. The then owner of the best located hotel in the world, Monsieur Sella, knew my family and kept a small room in the attic for the season. It had no bathroom but it had something unique. As soon as you entered you were in bed, like it or not. I lived in that room every summer from age 18 to 27. Gianni Agnelli always called it the Taki suite.
Looking back those were halcyon days. The sea was unpolluted, everyone knew everyone else, there were parties galore, and the only towelhead (not even, because he was an Albanian) was King Farouk. The death of the Riviera followed the death of Bela Darvi, the actress who committed sui- cide in the Old Beach hotel in Monte Carlo as the 60s drew to a close. Agnelli sold La Leopolda, Gilbert went to Sing-Sing, Andres Dubonnet died, the Goulandrises built large yachts and sailed away, and my friend Zographos and I looked around one day and saw only new oil and funny money. We moved to the Olive Republic and after that went down the tubes, to Gstaad.
Now I walk up beautiful mountains, play tennis and spend wonderful moments with my children in the most perfect resort in the world. Yet what wouldn't I give — now that I finally have the moolah — for one week on the Riviera, just the way it used to be.
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