30 something

I think it’s number 32 (and 33 today) as Di informs me that I’ve double dipped on the 29 – oops.

Veg day Saturday. We walked the town, hired skis, purchased lift passes – all that stuff. Sunday skiied!

Cortina is the St Moritz of Italy. Mecedes 4WDs outnumber Audis and Range Rovers in the car park beneath the Gondola and yesterday I saw a Bentley four wheel drive – no kidding.

The array of apres ski fashion combos is a sight to see; full length fur with malamute, one piece gold ski suit with chihuahua, tweed riding cloak, trilby and cravat with miniature poodle (cravats are definitely in – and I have my eye on a nice gold and blue paisley number – it’ll be the perfect accompaniment to my aperol spritz), gold moon boot, body hugging snow white tights and matching puffer with pit bull. The make-up is pretty full on too.

We saw a girl in a full length green dyed fur (no faux here) and matching green Russian Cossak hat photographing a girl in a full length red dyed fur and matching red Russian Cossack hat by a glowing sled and santa – the essence of Christmas.

All the essentials are available in the main street; Rolex, Dior, Moncler, Jimmy Choo, and Prada.

The Alaska, as Di has reported, is a classic 70s hotel with indoor timber cobanas, a circular glass fire place and a purple dinner suited, one colour rinse, grandma perm-curl-haired happy hammond player, nightly. We love it. The rooms are huge – and but for the need of a separate sock and undy quarantine and disposal area (as reported), we could accommodate multiple additional guests in the spare room. Di suggests we sub-let – this would offset Aperol spritz bills nicely.

Di notes that, as opposed to everywhere else we’ve been where dogs are better behaved than most children (and a fair number of adults), in Cortina, even the dogs seem to be status conscious, bearing their teeth and barking at each other at leads-end as they pass – ‘That puffer’s not Moncler (they really have puffer jackets)!, I’ve got a dog bowl in Majorca!’ etc.

Everywhere in the town has breathtaking Dolomite views, and cafes and bars with afternoon sun enjoy full moon-booted and furred patronage. Aperol Spritz flows like glowing magma in the elevated alpine afternoon.

On the slopes, the fashion is much less low key, skiiers more interested in the vistas and snow. Me and three others on the Gondola this morning – Di came up a little later (also with only three or four others). The slopes were bare till, maybe 10am.

The village had a big dump early and has enjoyed sun since – so no snow in the village (1200m) but the the Gondola takes you to the bottom of the slopes at 2100m on the Faloria side of the valley and the snow is glorious – cold, well groomed and fast.

I ask these two young Italian ladies how to get to a place I can see yonder in the sun. ‘Skewzee – how I get there (pointing)’ – (almost fluent Italian now). They talk to each other in this awesome high speed, high pitched, hand blurred altercation then one says, ‘we show’ and drops off the edge of the bluff in a puff of cold morning snow crystals. I’m not a slow skiier, even on these weenie 183cm hired ice skates, but, hoolie doolie, it was ‘warp factor five captain’ as we flew down the mountain on the morning fast, peripherals catching blurred forests and glimpses of distant sunlit-rock-monoliths, smile acceleration-stretched across my face, jowls flapping. When we stop at the bottom I’m sucking in big ones. The two ladies are standing there waiting (did I detect wry smiles?), chatting, scarcely drawing breath, ‘you go there, thank you’. So I went there.

Twas a nice morning. Even when the ‘crowds’ grew mid morning, there was never a queue – accept at the top where people stop for photos out over the Dolomites – they really are spectacular. Di and I meet up and we ski and soak in the awesome scenery – and enjoy a break at one of the many mountain cafes, all with deck chairs, restaurants and bars. It’s all really quite magical – and quiet! (deck chairs to spare).

At lunch an Italian man (maybe 60) tells us (actually, mainly Di) that the secret of skiing is, ‘all in the hips’ (and that he’s an instructor, former international racer blah, blah – hello, I’m sitting right here dude, husband), ‘the knees bend like so and the body hardly moves’….cream sweater, suede jacket and chords – ski instructor, mmmm.

We dine at Cinque Torre where a serious looking patchy-bald-shaven head lady serves us goulash and polenta mash (stick to your rib stuff) and peppered goulash soup. Despite the Madmax appearance, she warms as the evening unwinds and convinces us that we need local grappa with alcohol drowned grapes in the bottom, but nor did we feel the subzero temperatures walking home.

Apology. The editors would like to apologise for the feature photo in the prior blog – it should have appeared as below – a much more free, expressive and slightly less phallic focussed work of art.