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February is not the best time to be in Gstaad, because everyone else is. Including Madame Bancroft Cooke, my recently married daughter, which is the good news. Lolly took her first steps not very far from here, on a February evening. Her mother started crying, like women tend to do, whereas I went to the Palace and celebrated for a change. Now there’s less and less to celebrate, which can put a damper on the high life. Eugenie Radziwill’s birthday party was one such occasion, the other being the solace I find—both intellectually and emotionally—when I cross-country ski alone below the tree line late in the afternoon.

Some of you may remember that a few years ago I wrote about running into a large bear just as dusk was descending near the Lauenensee, a few miles from Gstaad. If memory serves it made me nervous, but my curiosity got the best of me and I approached the animal. It turned out to be a Saudi woman, very fat and covered in furs and jewels and being extremely unfriendly—like bears tend to be—when I asked her if she was lost. I saw that old fat bitch again last week, but this time I skied on, sliding past her while she popped dates into her mouth, I presume.

Yep, the snow’s good and the new arrivals flashy, but as the great W.C. Fields almost said, I’d rather be here than in Beirut anytime.