Gstaad
A lovely liquid lunch in a mountain hut with my friend Nicola Anouilh after two hard runs. Blue skies, gentle winds, a few puffs of white cloud and the sound of bells from the nearby cowshed. If there’s a better way of communing with nature, I haven’t come across it yet. The natural beauty of the Alps is unspoilt and majestically alluring. White wine helps one dream and feel at peace with the world, until, that is, we’re back on skis and losing altitude fast. The bumps come up fast and in a blur, and turning uphill in order to avoid them one feels one’s about to ski off a crest and into the valley a couple of miles below. But it’s only the wine doing its work on one’s head and legs. Weaving through the pine trees toward the bottom, past wooden huts and beginner skiers, we finally reach the parking lot — as unromantic a finish as I can think of after the stupendous scenery.
I once flew with three friends from Saanen (a tiny airport near Gstaad) to some moon-like place, where a guide waited. It was exactly 33 years ago because the mother of my children was pregnant and the guide advised her not to try it. Roman Polanski, Ludovico Antinori and I took about three hours to reach Kleine Scheidegg, and when we got there we were informed that we were white as sheets from exhaustion. Those were the days. Polanski was and is a tough skier, and I could carry my weight, as they say, but we sure gave it to poor Ludovico when at the Eigergletscher he momentarily lost his nerve and asked if we could signal a chopper to come and get him.
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