Walking in a Winter Wonderland, in Spring

Absentee or Long Suffering Boyfriend says he’s taking control of the situation, no way was I going to be allowed to ski and the skis are going back to the rental shop.

‘I’ll be fine by Wednesday’ I assure him. He’s not in the least perturbed, but, sadly says there is no point staying in a ski hotel if we’re not skiing. We can drive somewhere else I helpfully recommend, have car will travel, I think. I can see he’s already diverting back to work. If I had a few bob and no job, well that is half the case, I’d drive to Lake Como and be there in time for Easter when the season opens in the middle of the lake, or Venice where there’s bound to be some carnival atmosphere, and let the lodgers and cost centres take over the bills.

There’s a short train ride from Davos to Klosters, it’s on my itinerary, and we might not have got there if we skied each day. It’s also a 24km ski run, which is a bit much even without an injury.

I’m expecting to find somewhere spectacular; this is where Princess Diana came with her boys, and where all those other royal skiers get papped in Winter. The train trundles through pine forests sloping dramatically on both sides, glimpses of frozen lakes appear, ABF keeps saying he can’t believe there’s so much snow this time of year, there’s usually green fields by the end of March. We arrive in Klosters and guess what? The streets are empty, as are the bars and restaurants. We go in search of a quintessentially pretty Alpine bistro; there are none open for lunch, probably only high on the slopes. Most buildings have classic Alpine character, unlike Davos, making it at least a pretty place to visit. I had wanted a stroll around Klosters and I’m certainly getting that in the search taking us to all ends of the town, hobble, hobble.

I’m beginning to think Dublin is as vibrant and alive as they say in Failte Ireland adverts.

I have morphed into a restaurant critic, but since I’ve left landladyland all I’ve done is eat and drink and fall. And I’m not even here forty eight hours.

We decide on the Bars (Bears) Bistro in the Piz Buin hotel and agree it’s the kind of hotel we’d prefer to stay in. Very hip detail. Of course, we’ve missed the lunch window and have to opt for pizza. It was, without doubt, the most feathery light, even healthy, pizza ever seen or tasted. So there’s the place to eat next time you’re in Klosters with the Middleton Classes.

Back in Davos I meet Mr Tel Aviv again, I’ve emerged from a massage and he is waiting to go in. The masseur did something to help my knee and certainly seemed happy there was nothing broken.

Tel Aviv and I chat idly in our bathrobes; he tells me they’re doing retail therapy in Zurich the following day. He seems really pleased about that – men who like to shop, that must be another unusual Israeli trait? He says the skiing wasn’t great, low visibility and wind chill. I’m pleased, as Absentee Boyfriend assured me the same, we wouldn’t have been skiing much on our second or third day even if I hadn’t fallen. Always good to see the glass nearly full to the top, I say.

I’m due to meet ABF for a visit to the sauna; I’ve brought my swimsuit as instructed and go looking for him, it’s not the kind of thing you want to do, open sauna doors and peer inside. Especially when the occupants are fully naked.

Oh, dear, I’m going to look like an eejit in a swimsuit. Well they weren’t exactly super models in there so off it comes and one just gets on with it. Quite easy really. ABF tells me my return flight is booked for the following evening. Oh dear yet again, we’re not even here forty-eight hours, which I point out and then start singing ‘48 hours in Davos’ to the tune of ‘24 hours to Tulsa’. He’s only slightly amused; I think it’s my pitch rather than my humour. We are alone in the sauna by the way.

You can cook your own horse at the table

Later we go in search of some famous steakhouse in Davos Platz, back on the bus again. It’s called Ochsen as in Oxen. I haven’t done this before, cooked my own steak on a piece of stone in front of me. White bibs are tied around our necks and off we go. I simply had to photograph the menu with all the horse dishes and was expecting a rap on the knuckles by the surly waiter, who wasn’t impressed at the arrival of late diners. My eye was drawn to the horse filet steak at 37 Swiss Francs compared to the beef filet at 48 Swiss Francs. Not as wide a difference as the burger meat processers would have us believe.

It’s Argentinian rib-eye beef for him and American filet for me. Now, I was sure most of Europe was buying Irish grass-fed, open grazing beef these days. The indoor grain fed American variety is tougher, but very flavoursome as it turns out.

We’re still not here 48 hours and it’s the last night. We venture up the town for a nightcap, there are really gorgeous wine bars here, but still empty. I guess they make the most of it in January when the politeratti and regalatti are in abundance.  

Ernst Ludwig Kirchner 'View of Davos'

We make it to the Kirchner museum next day and a heavenly snowy walk. The German Expressionist artist, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner was one of the founders of the Die Brucke (The Bridge – between academic art of the past and modernism) movement; he’s also one of the artists labelled Degenerate by Hitler. The collection is in a purpose built modern gallery which conveys his range of woodcuts, oils, timber sculpture and tapestry really effectively, over a life time dogged by mental illness. There is a wonderfully vivid streetscape of Davos in the 1920’s which shows the town before the very pedestrian high-rise blocks went up. As far as town planning is concerned, I thought we were the worst culprits in Europe. We’re not. And, believe it or not, I am a historic building planning consultant, nothing pleases me more than an old wall.

Later in the day, we’re back at Zurich airport, ABF will take a train south and I have four hours before my flight. Time flies as I grapple with the duty-free conscientious decision. A carton of cigarettes for distribution, or not. At less than 4 euro a pack I know many takers.  Conscience takes over, especially as I haven’t been tempted to partake in four days.

I still have the relic of the boom days, a Gold Circle Card which I’ve had to pay for by giving up points rather than earning points. When there’s a four hour wait the luxury of a lounge with wi-fi, armchairs, let’s face it, free wine and hot food, I think Zurich is one of the last to do the hot food, helps take the sting out of not being able to shop. I thought there’d be lots of quiet moments on this trip where I could continue the tenth edit of my novel. It’s been such a short time, not even 72 hours and I try to catch up on editing in the lounge. Not a good plan, a novel takes some serious head space and concentration, even to re-craft a sentence. So I start writing blogs of course. And remember to text the cost centres to tell them I’m on my way home, give them time to sort the mess before I hobble in.

At the boarding gate I’m reminded of the article by Melanie Reid in last Saturday’s Times’ magazine, she broke her neck and back falling from a horse in 2010 and writes The Spinal Column about the experience. Last week she was being moved from her hospital bed to a wheelchair for the first time in over two years. She felt lucky to be sitting in a wheelchair. When you have two injuries, you’re glad you don’t have three, she says, and would put up with having one. As I see two other skiers (I guess) in wheelchairs with black eyes and slings. I agree, a short trip was cut shorter and a couple of sprains are not a lot to put up with. I had a great time and now I’m looking forward to my own bed.

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.