Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
I was sitting in a booth at the Central Hotel one mid-morning listening to Dick and his associates exchanging the current gossip. There were only five of us, Dick and me, the two Hartmanns and Brian, the homosexual American ne'er-do-well remittance son of rich parents. The subject under discussion at the time was the behaviour of a married American lady who was a teacher at the Army base. She had apparently decided to take off with another of the chaps from the group and shack up with him for a couple of weeks.
Brian, who had been reasonably silent until this point, suddenly exploded. 'Oh, that filthy bitch!' he cried when the news was made known. 'I never knew about that!'
Later, alone with Dick, heading back to 'The Room' (where I was now staying) I said 'Jesus, Brian really hit the roof when he heard about Norma and Sam. I didn't even know Norma and Brian were buddies.'
'Actually, they aren't,' Dick said. 'The filthy bitch Brian was referring to was Sam.'
'Good Lord! You mean to say that Sam is Brian's lover?'
'So it seems; you should probably keep your back to the wall whenever either of those two are around.'
'Well, I'll be buggered!' I said. 'No, let me reword that!'
'Probably wise,' Dick said with a chuckle.
Sometimes when we were skiing we missed the noon meal at the Burgriesen entirely and had subsisted all day on the 'zwei ei' (two soft-boiled eggs) and crusty buns we'd had for breakfast. As a result we arrived at the Kreid hungry enough to eat the hind end out of a dead horse. Well, quite hungry, anyway! The young Austrian waitresses automatically brought a basket of fresh thick-crusted thick-sliced French baguettes, pate de campagne and mustard and confirmed that we wanted the usual viertel (quarter litre) of red wine each. That was usually sufficient to quiet the primary urge to bite a large chunk out of the table.
The French officers and their wives were in the custom of cutting their wine with water but we dipped our bread in the delicious red wine just as it came. Some nights the fact that we didn't have a choice of starter eliminated the possibility of fisticuffs at this early stage. On the evenings that starters were served they were usually French masterpieces. One evening it would be Coquilles St. Jacques, on another, Escargots, on another, Grenouilles (Frog's Legs). Life was hell! Of course it was taken for granted that we would order either a Chateaubriand steak or an Entrecote, the former slightly more expensive. If we felt flush we would order the Chateaubriand and keep swilling the vin du pays while our order was grilling. Once the beefsteak arrived the tension increased and we vied for the opportunity to cut it exactly in halves. If Dick had the knife it would take up to ten minutes for him to size it up from every angle before deciding on the 'Master Stroke'.
'Hurry up! the meat's gonna be cold if you don't quit farting about! You're as slow as molasses in January for Chrissakes!'
Finally he would make a decision and cut the steak, leaving us each about twelve ounces of delicious pink beef. I began to suspect in an acceptable paranoid behaviour manner that he was somehow always getting slightly more meat than I was so I related the King Solomon story of how two women came to him each claiming to be the true mother of a baby in question. The wise king solved the problem by decreeing that the baby would be cut in half and an equal portion be given to each woman. One accepted his decision without complaint but the other wept openly as a result of the decision. Thereupon Solomon gave the baby to the distressed woman for obvious reasons.
As a result the 'Solomon Protocol' was instituted in the matter of the disputed steaks. It was agreed that on alternate nights one of us would divide the beef and the other would have first choice. This was without doubt a more equitable solution but unfortunately increased the time we would take to make the crucial cut. I simply became convinced that Dick was somehow able to cut the steak in such a manner that regardless of which portion I chose he would still get more steak than I. Such is basic animal greed and paranoia.
We would usually finish our meal with the dessert of the day which might be a flan or a crème brûlé and then repair to the bar where we would drink two-ounce shots of Remy Martin to settle our delicate tummies. The gourmet meal we had demolished in the dining room cost us, by our calculation, about seventy-five cents each. The connoisseur-type brandy, however, set us back ten cents a shot! Abomination!
***
It would be foolish to imply that we didn't perspire even a little bit. Or that we were basically sweet-smelling. I think the truth of the matter is that our 'pong' had increased so slowly that we had become accustomed to it. After two or three weeks, however, even our desensitized nostrils were unable to ignore the mouldy stench emanating from our unwashed bodies. Fortunately, there was a public bathhouse around the corner and half way down the street. One of us carried a bag full of putrid apparel and the other a bag with wearable clothing. We paid the required five schillings to the stout hausfrau at the front desk, received in exchange a large towel and a bar of soap and proceeded back to the shower room.
We stripped down and dropped our clothes on the concrete floor. The bag of fetid clothing was dumped onto the floor and each piece thoroughly wetted down and tramped upon along with the clothes we had been wearing. Then, as we stood in the shower we picked up each piece separately and soaped the critical areas with the soap bars we had been given; collars, armpits, crotches, you know the drill. After everything had been soaped down and well-rinsed we picked each piece up again, Dick at one side and I at the other and twisted them forcefully until most of the water had been squeezed out. Everything damp went back into one of the bags, we towelled down, and trudged back to 'The Room'.
We had chosen to abjure the normal frigid conditions and purchased a supply of firewood which went into the tall green metal Nuremburg stove standing unused in the corner of the room. A length of climbing rope was borrowed and stretched across the corner diagonally. The damp laundry was hung out and we enjoyed a few hours of unaccustomed warmth while our wash dried out.
I still remember mornings in 'The Room'. It was usually about 45 or 50 degrees Fahrenheit and little plumes of condensed breath would be rising from the 'mummy' bags scattered about the room. Once it was confirmed that everyone was awake there would be a fifteen minute argument about whose turn it was to go for 'Fruh fruhs'. The chosen candidate would then reluctantly crawl from his warm sleeping bag, dress hastily and set off for the morning starters which were small plastic cups of yogurt with fruit jam of some sort at the bottom below the yogurt. The rest of the group would snuggle back into their warm sleeping bags.
Much of the conversation at the Hotel Central revolved around 'ideal' ski resorts and their cost. Dick and I became convinced that Davos, in spite of its reputation for expense, merited a visit of at least a few days. Hedy Brossard said she could acquire good French red 'vin du pays' for us from the French military wholesale store, (the equivalent of the American PX). We opted for a five gallon glass carboy each (less than US $2 apiece). After these were loaded into our rucksacks there was little room left for anything else. A bottle and a funnel, a plastic tumbler, a couple of shirts, some socks and some shaving equipment and we were fully packed.
The train left Innsbruck in early afternoon and we rumbled west along the valley of the Inn with spectacular mountains rising on either side. We had a section to ourselves as far as Landeck, where four workmen boarded and crowded into the far side of the compartment. We nodded politely and then sat returning their stares as the train continued on out of the station.
'Ask them if they'd like a drop of "bingo",' I said to Dick. The workmen looked at each other with a mixture of amusement and skepticism when Dick made the offer. When he unlaced the top of his rucksack and pulled the cork from his carboy their expressions changed quickly to astonishment. Dick tilted the rucksack and the vintage gushed into the plastic tumbler, then he passed it across to a smiling worker. We seemed to have acquired immediate acceptance.
We watched as the workman tipped up the tumbler and began to swallow. He had emptied half of the contents before he stopped to catch his breath. I have no doubt he would have finished it off if his seatmate had not grabbed the tumbler from his hand.
'They're a thirsty mob, aren't they?' I muttered to Dick as the empty tumbler was handed back. There was nothing for it but to fill it up again and pass it back. The remaining two workmen made quick work of it.
Dick and I managed to slow the procedure by sharing a tumblerful and interspersing sips with questions and comments in broken German. We learned that they were rail workers and were only travelling a few miles but not before they finished off another round of the grape. They were extremely friendly and voluble by the time they left the train at Finstermunz. We agreed that they had not made serious inroads into our most precious commodity.
The train arrived at the Davos station in mid-afternoon so we checked our rucksacks at the 'Left Luggage' window and wandered down the street in search of a cheap hotel. We trudged around for close to an hour before reluctantly concluding that such accommodation did not exist. After bitching about the room rates at the last hotel we canvassed we had a helpful suggestion from the desk clerk.
'Perhaps you gentlemen would find something more to your liking at the Youth Hostel,' he said sympathetically.
'I feel like a bum!' I said to Dick as we left the hotel.
'I'll see if I can find one for you,' Dick said
'Har, har! Very funny!
Upon reflection I realize that I don't remember much about our arrival in Davos. Or was it Davos Dorf? Is it possible that Dick and I had continued to share a friendly glass of the red 'plonk' from time to time? Where did we meet the Canadian lawyer who had flown over for a week of skiing at Davos? Don't ask me, I don't remember!
Ironically, here was a guy we envied because he could afford to fly first class to Switzerland and stay at a five star hotel for a week. His total cost for that week alone was more than we expected to spend in a whole year.
'I envy you guys for not being on a fixed schedule,' he said. 'I'd love to stay on for another week.'
'It's a goofy old world, all right,' I said. 'You've got money to burn and no time; we've got time to spare and no money!' We slept in our mummy bags on the floor of his room that night. I wonder what ever became of him; I don't even remember his name!
The next day we took a bus out to the Youth Hostel and made the necessary arrangements to book in later that night. There were a few rules: No Smoking; No Drinking; 10 p.m. Curfew. The interesting part was that the young man at the desk never bothered to look at our passports, otherwise he would have seen that I was ten years too old to be staying there in the first place. Did I really look that young and innocent? Room and board was $2 a day compared to $4 a day for room alone in Davos. We were outraged at the high cost of living in Switzerland, Seriously! But we had been warned.
'You could save yourselves the cost of a bus when you come back if you take the shortcut across the lake,' the young man at the desk said. 'It's a clear track, you can't miss it!'
'Thanks for the tip,' I said. 'We'll remember that!'
As I've said, much of Davos remains a blur in my memory, a blur which might have been further enhanced by our forgetting the desk clerk's tip. We didn't get started back to the hostel till late afternoon, by which time the sun had set and dusk was settling in. We could see the yard light at the hostel shining quite brightly and since a full moon had already risen we had no concern about visibility. What ensued could have well been scripted for Laurel and Hardy.
The track in the snow across the lake had been impacted by many feet and as a result provided a solid base for the runners on our borrowed sled. The sled was an Austrian style 'rodel' with an elevated platform suspended about ten inches above the runners. There was just room for our two rucksacks on board, one behind the other.
The run down to the path was misleading in that it was packed down to a greater extent where people had clustered waiting to start across. As a result, the path narrowed gradually until it was barely wide enough to support both runners. There was obviously some diabolical force at work, for we were well out onto the lake, too far to turn back, before one of the runners slipped off the track and the load slowly tipped over into the snow, which we discovered was about three feet deep at that point. From that point on, one of us had to guide the load from behind in an attempt to keep it stable. It was only a partially satisfactory solution.
'I think we need to lighten the load,' I said after the third 'tipping'.
'How're we gonna do that?' Dick asked ingenuously.
'Just sit here on the side of the sled and gaze at the moon for a while and I'm sure a solution will come to you,' I said with a smile. He did as I directed until finally he turned to me with a broad grin,
'We could drink some of the wine!' he said.
'Really? Why, I suppose we could; what a brilliant idea!'
So we shared a couple of glasses and felt much invigorated. The routine had such a tranquilizing effect, the silence, the brilliant pathway of reflected moonlight on the silvery surface of the lake, the camaraderie extant, all combined to make our labours seem trivial. The stops became more frequent but the load definitely seemed lighter until we arrived at the hostel joking and giggling, filled with good cheer. We were even undismayed by the news that we were too late for the evening meal and after being shown to our room stretched out on our beds for a 'short nap' that lasted until breakfast the following morning.
After filling up with large helpings of cereal and toast the following morning we set off across the lake once again in order to get to the boarding point for the funicular railcar which went to the top of the Weissfluhhoch. From that point there were numerous runs in different directions including one to Wolfgang fourteen kilometres away. There were mini-buses waiting to ferry the skiers back to the funicular.
The station was crowded with skiers waiting to board the funicular car which held about twenty skiers on each trip. One car ascended while another descended on a parallel track. The trip up took about twenty minutes. By coincidence, Chuck and Sue Rowan, whom I had met at the Kreid in Innsbruck, were in the waiting mob and boarded the same car we did. There were no seats, so everyone stood holding their skis and poles as we set off.
About five minutes into the journey the cereal and toast, combined with our brisk walk into town, began to perform their peristaltic wonders. I sensed a grumbling in my bowels, followed by a churning sensation deep in my rectal neighborhood. I tried to concentrate on mundane things like income tax and political economy. It was important not to panic. I tightened my buttocks and mentally reefed down on the purse strings of my anal sphincter, while praying that I would not suffer the ultimate humiliation of an uncontrolled sanitary disaster. Apparently my efforts were not wholly effective.
'Oh, migawd!' cried Sue suddenly. 'Somebody open a window!' It seems that, while successful in retaining the solid and liquid components of my problem, certain villainous gases had managed to escape into the closed car and had quickly reached Sue's sensitive nostrils. Heads swivelled in my direction as the stunned occupants, bloodhound-like, sought the epicentre.
Sue cast an accusatory look in my direction, but, in spite of being the perpetrator, I managed to imply a look of 'no es culpa mia' and assumed instead, the wounded, bewildered look of the other victims of the horrific stench I had created. As good fortune would have it, I was positioned directly behind Dick and, although it shames me greatly to admit it, I raised my hand above his head and pointed downward, assuming at the same time a look of sanctimonious disapproval.
The passengers edged toward the nearest open windows. Some covered their faces with handkerchies or scarves. As soon as the car stopped at the mountain top and the door opened I shouldered my way through the crowd and walked briskly into the men's washroom. As I suspected, the emergency was essentially gaseous in nature but I had not been inclined to take reckless risks.
'What the hell happened to you?' Dick said when I returned, 'You took off from the car like your pants were on fire.'
'Nothing serious,' I replied. 'An unpredictable sanitary emergency was all.'
'I thought maybe you had been sickened by that unbelievable fart somebody had let!'
'Fart? Did someone fart? I never noticed,' I said, stone-faced. I obviously overdid it.
'You've got a guilty look about you. Did you do that dreadful thing?' he said, with narrowed eyes. I must have reddened slightly and I found it impossible to restrain the hint of a sly smile. Actually, I wanted to burst out laughing.
'I couldn't help myself, I swear,' I said. 'Truth to tell, I feel quite guilty about it all!'
'I should think you would; it's a wonder some people didn't leap overboard.'
'Actually, that's not exactly what I feel guilty about.'
'Whatta you mean?'
'Well, you may recall I was standing right behind you. When everyone started gasping and looking around for the perpetrator, I pointed at you.'
'Well, you rotten bastard! Sue just finished chewing me out for doing the unspeakable deed.'
'I thought I had it under control, honestly. It just slipped out silently; I had no idea it would be so incredibly pungent.'
'No one ever does; they just hope it isn't!' he said bitterly.
The sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky so we ate lunch sitting out on the terrace. A Californian sitting opposite us introduced himself as Warren Miller. He said he had started the previous year making ski films and was filming material for the coming year. I was wearing a black stocking cap Dick had given me and also had a five day growth of red beard. Warren thought a few feet of me dipping French bread in my red wine and popping it into my mouth would make an amusing insert for his forthcoming film.
'How about letting me take some footage of you skiing when we've finished our lunch?' he said. I wondered briefly why he would want to take movies of me skiing; after all, Dick was a much better skier.
'Something for the Canadian viewers,' he said lightly.
'Oh, what the hell! I'll give it a shot.' That was my first mistake.
After lunch we climbed up a hundred yards or so to the rim of the mountain above the lodge. When I looked over the edge I recoiled slightly in terror. It was a sheer, windblown mogul-free slope that fell away unbroken for what appeared to be at least a thousand or fifteen hundred feet. It was not unlike looking down from the top of the Empire State building.
'Good Lord! Surely you don't expect me to ski down that!' I protested.
'Not to worry, you just have to maintain your concentration. I'll ski on down first and film from below. Okay?' Warren was a superb skier and made his way on down in long graceful turns. By the time he was at the bottom he really did look like an ant. I felt that I had not much of an alternative; I had to follow him.
'Well, here goes nothing!' I said to Dick as we saw Warren give us a wave from far below. That was my second mistake.
'Amen!' Dick said. 'Don't sit back!' That was the worst thing he could have said. The slope was so incredibly steep and daunting that I couldn't force myself to dive into the turn as I finished my first traverse. I sat back. I lost an edge. That was all she wrote. I began a slow rotating journey at high speed down the slope, not on my skis but lying on my back.
There's an old saying that 'when rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it!' I wish I'd thought of it at the time. Instead, each time my skis came around perpendicular to the fall line I tried to dig them in and get traction so I could get upright. This slowed my skis enough that my head and shoulders swung down and I was once again treated to a passing panorama of the cloudless sky above. Moments later I was panning the scene below where Warren was conscientiously filming every majestic revolution.
'Perfect!' he exclaimed as I slid slowly to a stop virtually at his feet.
Moments later Dick swerved graciously to a halt nearby and clapped his hands together. 'Bravo! Quite spectacular!' he cried. Meanwhile the minute ice particles that had migrated down my neck and penetrated every other possible opening in my apparel were melting and making me cold and uncomfortable.
'Feel like giving it another go?' Warren asked.
'Maybe some other time, thanks.'
'Please yourself,' he said amiably. But I suspected that he was already pleased and had obtained precisely the footage he had wanted all along.
He was showing his movies in the lounge of his hotel that night and invited us to stay over and see them. He narrated in his own inimitable style but the editing was amateurish and the projector broke down a couple of times. Nowadays, with his staff of accomplished assistants and a crew of photographers Warren seems to have achieved just what he was aiming for all those years ago. The movie show started late and ended late and it was well past curfew when Dick and I started across the lake. When we were about two hundred yards from the hostel we heard a single tentative 'Woof'. We froze, but it was too late; there was a growing chorus of barks as the entire pack got into the act.
'Shit! I forgot about the hounds,' I said. 'They'll wake the whole establishment.'
'Better we should just stand still and see if they settle down,' Dick whispered. We stood silently until the ruckus had gradually petered out, then started slowly for the hostel again. I expected a renewed outbreak but, miraculously, all was quiet. We tried the front door and were not surprised to find it locked. We crept quietly around to the side of the building and identified what we thought was our window on the second floor just above the roof of a porch.
'I think we can climb up here,' I whispered. About five feet from the balcony there was a substantial-looking drainpipe that ran down from the eavestrough and a heavy growth of vines that had made their way up past it.
'Worth a try,' Dick replied.
'Catch me if I fall,' I said. 'If you do fall, try to throw yourself off to one side at the last moment,' he said.
'Thanks for the vote of confidence,' I said as I started up.
There were sturdy support brackets about every five feet along the drain pipe. Between them and the vines I had very little difficulty scrambling up to balcony level. It was a bit of a stretch to get my hands on the balcony railing but once I had both hands secure I was over on to the balcony quickly. As Dick started up the drain I tiptoed over to the shutters but found them securely fastened. I hadn't counted on this development so I went down to the next set of shutters and started tapping gently on them.
Suddenly I heard a racket from Dick's direction. Good Lord! The shutters directly above him had flown open and a night-clad apparition had appeared. It was the 'Stud Lady' complete with lace-trimmed nightcap and dressing gown, jabbering a torrent of completely unintelligible admonitions in German, or Romansch, or whatever. She was definitely displeased.
Poor Dick, meanwhile, had been arrested just in the middle of his crossover to the balcony. He was spread-eagled with one hand on the balcony railing and his left foot barely in contact with the balcony. He looked like a rock climber who'd forgotten where the next handhold was.
'I didn't know whether to shit or go blind,' he told me later. 'The silly old bitch knows we don't speak that much German.'
'I reckon she was so pissed off she forgot,' I said. 'Anyway, I think she was just letting off steam.'
In the meantime I was still unnoticed since the open shutter obscured me from the old bird's vision. Then, after five minutes of non-stop upbraiding she slammed the shutters closed and silence reigned once more. Even the dogs had remained silent. Her departure was timely since I had noticed that Dick's left leg had started to tremble from its sustained extension.
Meanwhile, the shutters I had tapped on had opened and a fresh-faced European youth was beckoning us in. He was only too happy to be involved in helping the 'strange Americans'. Back in our room at last we had a celebratory glass or two of wine and called it a day.
We were slightly hung over the next morning but considered that to be simply par for the course. We dragged ourselves down for our usual gluttonous portions of cereal and toast regardless. During breakfast we were approached by one of the young hostellers.
'Frau Mueller would like to see you in the kitchen when you've finished breakfast,' he said with a smile. As we walked toward the kitchen we felt like prisoners en route to the gallows. All of the youngsters at the other tables were smiling.
'You vere told about ze curfew, ja?'
'Ja, I mean yes," I said.
'Last night you vas quvite naughty und must haff punish.' She seemed to have recovered a modicum of English.
'We're truly sorry, it won't happen again,' Dick said contritely.
'Neggs time you must leaf ze hostel, no zegond chance.' She concluded by assigning us to two days of K.P. as punishment. Fortunately this comprised little more than gathering up all the dirty dishes and stacking them in the kitchen dishwashers. We were constrained, however, to take the funicular up the mountain about mid-morning, a more civilized time of day anyway, in my opinion,
One afternoon I was working my way slowly and methodically down the mountain, as was my custom. Dick had, as usual, shot off far in advance. He seemed more interested in quantity than in quality when it came to skiing. As a matter of fact, I thought, that doesn't apply just to skiing, but I'll tell you about that later. At any rate, I came upon a couple standing side by side atop a mogul as though posing for a ski clothing advertisement. It was the honeymooners, Sue and Chuck.
'I know your see-cret!' said Sue in a singsong way, smiling slyly all the while. Goddammit! I thought, that 'sumbitch' Croul has blabbed! On the other hand, I could hardly blame him under the circumstances. I tried the 'complete ignorance of what you're talking about' gambit but soon realized it wasn't working. Chuck and Sue continued to regard me with their sly, skeptical smiles. I skied away with my guilt and paranoia.
The food at the hostel was anything but fancy, but there was plenty of it, delivered to each table in huge enamelled cooking pots. There were pitchers of milk and baskets of rolls. The cooking pots usually contained a mixture of cooked ground beef and pasta of some kind. The cooking staff must have added MSG or Maggi sauce to the mixture because we found it to be positively addictive.
I've already mentioned my buddy's penchant for speed and quantity on the ski slopes. He carried the same characteristics over to his behaviour at the dinner table. Dick was not in the habit of 'dining' in a leisurely manner, interspersed with philosophical commentary; he put his head down and 'ate'! No talking! I admit to a similar culpability 'vis-a-vis' quantity at least. There were eight residents to a table and when each had eaten his fill the pot would end up in front of Dick and me to be scavenged.
We had been generous with our wine and any one of the more mature residents had found that if they sneaked over to our room half an hour prior to dinner time (with their own glass) they would be treated to a draught of 'the true, the blushful Hippocrene'. Ergo, because of this routine and our gargantuan appetites we had become 'temporary' legendary figures. By the end of our stay, youths would come over from other tables carrying partially full pots of food, curious to see how long it would take before we groaned and sat back and cried 'Uncle' (German version). It rarely happened.
There was some sort of loose understanding that the maximum stay in the hostel was a week, which was about right, since we decided that after seven days we had 'done' Davos anyway. Of more pertinent concern was the status of our wine supply. Dick's jug was empty. We figured the amount sloshing around in the bottom of my carboy was barely sufficient to see us through any emergencies that might arise during our five hour return trip to Innsbruck. At least our loads were much lighter as we trudged across the lake one last time on our way to the train station at Davos Dorf.
— The End —