Appreciating the High Life

I hobble and pound on to the funicular, it’s quite a knack in ski boots and torn ligaments, I wonder how long it will take to recover. This was day one, what will we do for the next three days? The problem with a ski accident is that it leaves the other person with nothing to do, unless they ski alone, which Absentee Boyfriend isn’t interested in doing as he has ample time to ski in his own Canton. Three of us are standing in the carriage, there are no seats, in busy times you pile in, grip your skis, poles and remain stoic.

A fresh-faced, attractive woman hears our accents and strikes up a conversation. She’s from Toronto but living in Tel Aviv. 

‘I do this once a year for my husband’s sake, and I hate it,’ she says. She’s the second woman I’ve heard say that recently, the other is in a very wealthy marriage, says she even hates the snow, not just the skiing.

If I had a husband who wanted me to accompany him sailing, skiing, hiking, touring, generally sharing time off, I’d be with him in a flash.

Some resorts are better than others for skiing, especially if you just want to waltz down gentle slopes in sunshine, like me. This lovely lady says they prefer Lech in Austria, but couldn’t get a hotel as it’s Easter week. Same as us. Actually the hotels in Lech have lost five customers because their prices were ridiculously exorbitant if you went for a portion of a week. So it’s economy driven that we’re all in Davos. She’s left her daughter in Israel because she’s in the army. Although she doesn’t look old enough to have an eighteen year old daughter, having one in the army isn’t every mother’s dream.

We get to the ski room and take a look at the injuries; her husband has now joined us and says I need an x-ray. ‘Are you a doctor?’ I ask hopefully. ‘No,’ he smiles but goes on to tell us he’s been to Ireland; he flew to Cork and Kerry. 

‘He’s a pilot,’ his wife adds helpfully.

‘What airline are you with?’ I ask, as if it makes a difference.

‘None, flew my own plane,’ he adds, ‘the working class,’ he laughs.

I’m not quite sure what was supposed to be funny about that. I think it was Jewish humour, dry and ironic, the kind that makes Seinfeld popular.

We all agree there isn’t much atmosphere in Davos Dorf. We’ll just have to make our own. The lovely wife is going to spend the following day at the hotel avoiding the now misty slopes. I think we'll be going to Klosters, it's a must. I'd love to talk to her more, as a writer I want all sorts of unique information about life in Tel Aviv. I’ve been there once as a plus one for a conference, the only scary bit is the airport, the machine guns, the uniforms...

I strap up my knee and later we take the free bus to Davos Platz. There were times when a taxi would have been waiting; even ABF is doing public transport now.

Davos Platz is where the big economic forum convenes and has lots of lovely shops that would have been painful to pass every day so I’m glad we’re on the outskirts with nothing but a church bell to distract us. It’s a much older town with winding, sloping streets, the kind that are challenging with a torn ligament. We find the restaurant ABF remembered; the best Italian in the region, Ristorante Parma it’s called. I insisted on asking the hotel to make a reservation, at least be sure it’s open. We’ve had an experience in Ibiza when a hotel sent us to a remote restaurant nearly an hours drive away and it turned out to be hosting a private wedding. The taxi driver was gone and we had to wait two hours for another one to pick us up. They wouldn’t even allow us buy a drink. Two hours pacing a beach at night, no food or drink. I wanted to hit the receptionist over the head, she hadn’t phoned.

A table barbecue of seafood at Parma, Davos Platz

The streets of Davos are deserted and every wine bar or pub we pass is empty. This cosy restaurant only has a few diners but has all the atmosphere of somewhere that’s been hosting great food for fifty years. Injuries disappear as I realise how special this short time away is. ABF’s order of seafood arrives on a cauldron, to be barbecued at the table.The host is in his eighties and is very proud of his offering, his wife is the head waitress. In my experience, only in mainland Europe do you find such pride in family-run restaurants, where being a waiter is a lifetime career and not something to do during college.

His seafood looks great and tastes great eventually, but ABF's worn out with the peeling and shelling. I can never remember what I eat, I'm so caught up in talking, listening and looking, I think it was snails again. It feels like being far, far away from landladyland and that’s the main thing.