And what about the super-chalets and the superrich who own them? He liked soldiers and bullfighters and tough guys, and the few rich men he hung out with, men like Winston Guest, were gentlemen of the old school, plus a ten-goal handicap in polo. I don’t think today’s bunch would have raced his motor. They sure don’t race mine. My problem is that despite all the toys that make skiing easy as pie, I simply can no longer ski fast, plus I lose balance all the time. I still ski when the visibility is good, and still think I can get down any mountain that’s skiable, but I delude myself, just as I delude myself that when I meet Emma Stone, she’ll fall for me. What was that about old fools making fools of themselves?
Skiing has been so-so this year—not enough snow. Next week I’m off to Athens for a friend’s 90th birthday, if I ever get over the bloody bug I’ve had since the last time I got paralytic after skiing badly all day and being passed down the slopes by young whippersnappers, and even young girls. My shame was such that I simply had to have a drink. Or two. Or more.
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