GstaadLife

by Taki Theodoracopulos

GSTAAD—It’s been very sunny and hot, with the bluest of blue skies above and the greenest of green mountains around me. It does not get any better than this. The farmers have cut their grass and packed it for the winter’s feed, soon the cows will be coming down from the hills, and the Swiss franc will continue going through the roof. Life is now so expensive in Switzerland, even the rich are starting to complain.

by Taki Theodoracopulos

GSTAAD—Forget about Libya and don’t even think about Syria. The mother of all battles is about to take place right here in bucolic Gstaad, a place of terminal political incorrectness—until recently, that is.

But before I begin, the Beguine is far more likely to see Saif Gaddafi than we are in this glitzy nouveau-riche Mecca. The Beguine is a religious order in the Netherlands, the nation where the International Criminal Court is situated. I’d rather see Libyan justice meted out, and pronto—something like hanging a jockstrap out to dry, if you get my drift.

by Taki Theodoracopulos

Why would a German playboy-billionaire industrialist with a large family and lots of old and good friends have dinner in Gstaad with one of his closest buddies, then go up to his chalet and put a bullet in his brain? The New York Times says Gunter Sachs had been diagnosed with an “incurable degenerative disease,” but I don’t think that fully explains his suicide. Gunter was always somewhat mysterious. I knew him since the late 50s. His maternal uncle, Fritz von Opel, was the heir to the Opel car fortune and lived the grand life in St Moritz and St Tropez, where he had opulent houses. Gunter’s father was also an industrialist and was probably richer than the Opels. Fritz von Opel’s son Rikky blew his share while Gunter’s side multiplied it. But his father did commit suicide, so escaping the claustrophobia of life and old age was in Gunter’s genes.

by Taki Theodoracopulos

GSTAAD—I’ve got the end-of-season blues. I know I say this every year, but this has been a particularly fun winter, with friends throwing goodbye parties, dinners, and lunches since the beginning of March. My liver has done a Gaddafi and taken a brutal revenge on my body. The right ankle is doing a Saif as I write. If I stand on it—or, worse, try to walk—it feels what it’s going to feel like when the ghastly Gaddafis get through with their opponents. I’ve had this lower leg problem for a year. About a month ago I couldn’t stand it any longer and had an X-ray taken. The cartilage has done a Bin Laden and disappeared. Hence the pain as bone touched bone. I also have crystals—not the good kind, but those that form from congenital gout—and they are embedded where the cartilage once was. It was a very easy diagnosis to make. “If you want less pain stop eating rich foods and stop drinking anything except water,” said the good Dr. Mueller. That was unacceptable, as my personality improves with drink, and at my advantaged age personality is all I have left.

by Taki Theodoracopulos

GSTAAD—Six hours into the New Year, and already there was trouble. My own bash to welcome 2011 with fifty of my nearest and dearest finished around 5 a.m., so I rolled down toward the Palace hotel still looking for some action. I had a very pretty German girl in tow, my son’s friend Fiona, so I swept into the lobby in style. Then it happened. I saw the vision to end all visions and a desperate, sensuous pain, the type that can make a grown man cry out, hit me like never before.

by Taki Theodoracopulos

Is there anything worse than listening to those hucksters in South Africa going bananas over the ugly game called football? Modern society is dominated by emotion and propaganda, not to mention profit, and when all three are combined what we get is the World Cup. Technicolor pictures of fat men and women jumping up and down while blowing into a contraption called vuvuzela dominate the front pages, as if an order had come from up high to feature the most boorish and the fattest, cheering for the most foul mouthed and overpaid.

by Taki Theodoracopulos

The “fin de saison” feeling is like the end of term in boarding school. Bittersweet. At school one was cocooned from the big bad outside world, here in Gstaad, far from the crowds and bustle, one has time to ponder the melting snows and dream about one’s youth. Closing day at the Eagle Club was fun. At the Taki Cup presentation—the overall winner and new record holder was John Taki, in 36 minutes—I reminded the members that the Taki Cup has lasted longer than both world wars combined, which means it is a far more important historical event. Some Belgian people agreed.

by Taki Theodoracopulos

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 cow shed. If there’s a better way of communing with nature, I haven’t come across it yet. The natural beauty of the Alps is unspoiled 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.

by Taki Theodoracopulos

Gstaad. When I spoke with the mayor of Gstaad, as well as some other local stalwarts, they all assured me that they are ready for any invasion by the Libyans...

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Taki Theodoracopulos, better known as Taki, is a journalist and writer, living in Gstaad, London, and New York. His column ‘High Life’ has appeared in The Spectator for the past 25 years, and he has also written for National Review, the London Sunday Times, Esquire, Vanity Fair, the New York Press, and Quest Magazine, among others. In 2002 Taki founded The American Conservative magazine with Pat Buchanan and Scott McConnell, and he is also publisher of the British magazine Right Now! Taki has been writing for GstaadLife since its first season in 2003/4. More of his musings can be found here.