High life
Guess the f-word
Taki
Gstaad
Lady Thatcher, her daughter and Sir Denis have arrived without fanfare in Gstaad, staying in John Latsis's digs. The same John Latsis in whose boat Prince Charles and his two children are cruising the Aegean. Unlike the heir to the throne and Lady T, however, I am not staying with Latsis, which obviously makes me a minori- ty of sorts. In that ludicrously politically correct climate sweeping America, I might claim compensation of sorts, like gays and American Indians do, but I feel in a very charitable mood and will let things pass.
The reason for my good spirits is Gstaad. The weather is cool, the place is green, pleasant and full of flowers, and the people are among the most politically incorrect looking since the films of Leni Riefenstall. Gstaad in summer is the way Gstaad used to be in winter about 35 years ago.
Back in the early Sixties, Gstaad was the chic resort for people with old money but, as everyone knows, it didn't stay that way. Although David Niven kept it quiet, Eliza- beth Taylor did not, and soon the place was crawling with Hollywood types and those who are attracted to those types such as high class and expensive bimbos. This is the bad news. The good is that even by the 1950s, some astute individuals had intro- duced strict building regulations, the prin- ciples of which are still in force today. The main purpose is to prohibit buildings in non-local styles. Now, as everyone who has heard of face lifts knows, the rich and the glitzy cannot do without marble and glass anymore than Hollywood types can do without cocaine. After a while they tired of Gstaad and its simplicity and returned to their natural habitats: Aspen, the French Riviera and Miami Beach. But the damage had been done. Gstaad was on the jetset's map, and far too many people come and rubberneck during the winter.
Not so in summer. The village is full of families of people who are here to hike, climb, paraglide, play tennis and golf, or simply swim. Everyone exercises and the place shuts down early at night. The few Arabs to be seen in town are mostly nan- nies, their masters taking the sea air off Monte Carlo, I am sure. When I started coming here, five years ago, my only friends were my immediate family and Car- olos Fix, a childhood Greek buddy. No longer. Now we have a nucleus of about 20, all very old friends, who come for the month of August from all parts of the world. We see each other every evening, hike and climb together during the day, and argue non-stop whether it is worth buying a chalet or renting one with a long lease. Oh yes, a few of us also get drunk, but there are no hangovers up here. One of our favourite games is an imaginary Platon- ic conversation between Prince Charles and Latsis including all the F-words I have heard Latsis use. This is the high point of the evening but British libel laws prevent me from elaborating. Readers, however, are welcome to send me a few samples under Latsis's Symposium.
I'm up early in the morning, breakfast on the terrace, and then head out either for a long run in the woods or a much longer hike. Woods, meadows and an occasional chalet line my route. There is nothing to detract from the feeling of serenity, not even the American accents of some horri- bly brought up teenagers my little boy John Taki periodically brings around.
This week I am celebrating a birthday by throwing a rather grand party chez moi. Many old friends are coming but for some strange reason neither Latsis nor Slam, Bang Pam Harriman are expected. Their invitations were lost in the post. Something I'm sure will keep them up all night.
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