Arc'Teryx Freeride Academy, St Anton am Arlberg, February 2023

The second annual Arc’Teryx Academy took place in St Anton am Arlberg on the 2nd to the 5th of February, and I was a very willing participant as the Arc’Teryx community here in St Anton has become an integral part of my life (all year round) propelling me to try new things and build a better and healthier me.

“Hello, I’m Harry, the Bergführer” said the man standing at my kitchen door as I lamented over my burnt banana bread. He had a calm demeanour, with gentle eyes which gave an impression that he had seen a lot but was phased by little.

“Why hello Harry the Bergführer! Welcome”. And so, the much anticipated Arc’teryx Freeride Academy weekend had begun.

Sure, the weekend held the promise of a variety of clinics, products to try, and giveaways, but strongly underlying Arc’Teryx is the theme of community, and they provide the platform to push your personal limits whilst in the proximity of like minded people (while of course looking classy in their gear).

Last year I enrolled in the “Ladies Freeride Day” in the academy, with the intention of making my first foray in to the tantalising world of off-piste, but things were still awry from Covid, the snow conditions were questionable, and when the day presented itself with flat light, I was forced  to make a measured retreat and hold out for a year.

“Harry the Bergführer” and I sat in the kitchen to have a coffee, and it took him a good ten minutes to work out that I could not speak German properly, which flattered me as it normally takes one sentence before someone switches to English. Throughout our festival of Ginglish (a hybrid of German and English), we got to know each other a little, he had a look at the programme, and let me know that I would be doing my “Ski Touring For Beginners” the next day with Alex, with whom he would be sharing a room. 

“Harry the Bergführer” and Alex’s moustache

The next morning, I woke up at 0700 in my sub-human pre-coffee state, and opened my bedroom door to head down to breakfast and alleviate the coffee situation, when I almost had a collision at the bottom of the stairs with a man I could only assume was Alex. I was immediately perplexed trying to guess this spritely individual’s age. Was he a younger man who had partied too much, or an older one with a bit of the “Peter Pan” syndrome going on? To be fair, the whispers of what I think was an attempted moustache did have a big part to play in the ambiguity of his vintage.

As we arrived in the kitchen, “Harry The Bergführer” introduced me as the “Chefin”(“boss lady” around these parts)  and I articulated that this was only the case at breakfast and launched into a nervous ramble about how I was a bit special, particularly when it came to ski touring as I could not work out the bindings.

After breakfast,  I took the bus and was  still filled with the stomach churning that I had woken up with, a feeling I get every time I challenge myself in a new way, but it is never something that a few 80’s anthems on my EarPods can’t fix. I am not “Simply the Best” but Tina Turner makes me feel like I am.

St. Anton had a crackle about it, possibly because of the fresh powder that had been forecast a few weeks before. To an extent, the “dump of the season” had been anticlimactic, but there was enough for it to constitute powder days and have weekenders swarming to the slopes. In the epicentre of all of the weekend chaos was the Academy Village, a series of well organised tents with clear directions. Obviously the first priority was to register, and I then headed to the meeting point where Alex was standing with two very lovely ladies. Coco, who was our French Arc’teryx pro, and Lisa, a journalist from “The Pill” magazine. Both were wide eyed, gorgeous, open, and friendly, making me feel at ease. 

I went off to change my boots at my locker, and the area was filled with the urgency of people wanting to get on the slope. As I sidled through, there were two people in a frenzy yelling at the staff who were renting them their equipment, and I thought to myself how lucky I was to be getting away from all of that today. After my boots, I went back to the meeting point where we resumed our relaxed banter. Alex said that we were still waiting for three more people, and as if on queue a lovely German lady (who was raised in the UK) joined us, and I was feeling that it was going to be a wonderful day. We waited another 5-10 minutes before Alex decided that the other two were not coming, so we picked up our touring skis ready to start our adventure. But the last two did rock up in a fluster, and it was none other than the ones that had been yelling at the staff in the ski hire. They immediately started complaining rather than apologising for being 20 minutes late.

Coco and Lisa managed to placate them, and it was relaxed enough as we headed to Galzig Bahn. The queue was nothing like I had seen in my 12 years of living here, and I suggested that we just get the bus (or a taxi) straight to Verwall where the tour was taking place and skip the practice run. This suggestion was met with agreement by all (almost) but it set the wild cards off again as they had purchased a day ticket, and insisted on going and waiting in the long line for a refund.  It was 1030 by the time we finally arrived at Wagner Hutte in Verwall where the tour was to begin. After a check of everyone’s bindings (as all are different) and our skins were on –“skinning up” now has a whole new meaning for me – we set off gently along the road.

Touring requires a certain rhythm and a foreign skill set. Reverberating through my head were the tips I had received on the few previous occasions when I had toured up pistes, the main one being, “pretend that you are a ballerina drawing lines in the sand with your toes” and the other being “stay upright and use the legs.” As there was no incline, I found myself sampling the movements and getting into the aforementioned rhythm. We then stopped briefly in a clearing for some avalanche safety training before we started our ascent.

As we made fresh tracks, the sun was peeking through the trees like first sunlight through the curtains in the morning, and I felt moments of calmness : it was a poetic contrast to the crowds in St. Anton, and we only stopped occasionally to either slurp some water or tea, remove a layer, or take photos. Some were merrily chatting, but I was just happy to be away from the house, the crowds and my responsibilities for a few hours.

Once we had moved up through the forest, the majestic Patteriol (3056m) came into view. For some reason this mountain reminds me of Lisa Simpson’s hair, and I almost  avoided verbalising this as the mercurial mountains around me in both the Verwall Gruppe and Lechtaler group garner such a level of respect that, after exploring in summer, I am now more inclined to address them formally and tip my hat.

As we headed up “Wild Ebene”, the terrain got steep enough that scissor turns –– official name “kick turns!”–– were required and the weather concurrently moved in. The snow was no longer twinkling but morphing into an ominous flat grey. My legs were starting to burn, and the rhythm I had established became more of a trudge with my skis leaving the ground a little too often and I felt more like an awkward giraffe than a ballerina. The lady in our “wildcard pair” started to get somewhat stressed, and at one point became completely overwhelmed by those kicking scissor things. She could not get her ski around with confidence, and lay floundering in the snow whilst having a conniption for what seemed like five minutes. I asked if I could help and she grunted, yelled, and may as well have put her hand dramatically to her brow and said, “Leave me and save the others”. Coco and Lisa gently talked to her, as the four of us were behind the others, and we resumed. Alex was understanding and waited patiently up the top.

We then had a break, and I imagine on a clear day,  this would be the moment of exhilaration, achievement and a chance to absorb the surroundings. After changing our boots and bindings to “ski” mode, Alex  asked Coco to lead the way down, and she did so with the most elegant turns. As the slope was exposed, the cold weather had taken an immediate effect on the quality of the snow rendering it crusty and heavy. They say that when you ski tour, you “earn your turns”, but I feel that I had been overcharged for these ones as the 5km tour relegated me to a snowplough on the descent. There was also a slight snow shortage when we came back through the forest meaning I had a run in with a few rocks.

We eventually arrived back at Wagner Hütte, where I wolfed down some Knödels (Austrian dumplings) and a coffee before the bus back to St. Anton, which of course our wild cards almost missed from faffing.

Following some downtime, I got ready for the “Arc’Teryx Film Tour”. Even  though I was weary, I was determined to make the most of the social aspect of the weekend also. The Arlbergsaal was full of eager people in beanies ready to see 5-7 short films, and each one delivered. The films had a common thread of pushing personal limits in wild adventures of soul searching. The last one struck a chord as it questioned the source of creativity, and this is a question I have often pondered. For me, creativity can be found in the most obscure and surprising places, but I am yet to discover a finite recipe, nor am I sure I ever will, but one base ingredient is a dance outside one’s comfort zone . I transitioned into my slumber that evening with these thoughts in my mind.

The next day I was due to partake in the “Atomic” clinic, where you try the equipment starting with piste skis and eventually moving onto “fat skis' ' for powder. I came down to breakfast where “Harry the Bergführer '' was donning glasses and studiously eating his breakfast. I went to the balcony and saw that it had been raining, prompting me to almost lose my nerve about powder skiing. Inching dangerously close to pulling out of  my clinic,  a plethora of well worn excuses came trippingly out of my mouth, starting with how the flat light caused stress on the screws in my ankle, but “Harry the Bergführer” was having none of it, and he patiently waited for the bullsheisse to finish tumbling out. Then, possibly for my benefit, he opened the balcony door, got down on his hands and knees and did a snow analysis. I would not have been surprised if he had pulled out a stethoscope, provided a diagnosis, and a prescription of “harden up” tablets. He did deduce that it had, indeed, been raining and that I should indeed, logically go out.

The procedure was the same as the morning before, checking in and then heading to the group at the Atomic Tent. Two lovely brothers were sorting the skis, and as I was partaking in the official clinic, I was given priority for skis. The initial idea was that we start with piste skis and then slowly transition step by step to fat skis. However, given the snow conditions and the fact that we had a pro Arc’Teryx skier with us, Matthew, our genuinely enthusiastic guide made an executive decision to go straight to the core of the day with fat skis.

Mathew,’s smile rarely left his face

With our Arc’Teryx athlete, Craig

We started with a run underneath the Galzigbahn, then we went up again and turned left coming down Maienwasen. I was slowly starting to get the feel of the skis, which were a confronting contrast to the heavy racing skis designed for piste skiing that I normally wore: these were more malleable, and my confidence steadily increased. We then did another run down to the right, and after we had come down to the lifts again we saw three helicopters flying up to the mountains, including a police helicopter that had all the skiers (not just in our group) speculating. Again I was reminded of the seriousness of the adventure I was partaking in.

Off piste skiing has a very different feeling to it than “poodling” around on piste. There seems to be a network of communication akin to Formula One racing where information on conditions and incidents is constantly coming in via teammates and the pit crew. By the end of the next gondola up Nasserein, it had been determined that there had been an avalanche in the gully, and the details were starting to come through.

My “fat skis”

On days like this there was no stopping for lunch. Matt’s full-tilt attitude had not dissipated, so we stopped briefly –more like a fat ski drive by– for a panini at Hex cafe, and anyone who wanted to try different skis could, then it was straight up Rendl. I had never ventured to the off-piste area of Rendl before, but during this run, the sun was lowering behind the mountain, and we were getting the very last of its light. It was here that I had my moment, or the moment that I had only heard about. My confidence and rhythm came together and I felt like I was floating. Even though it was brief, the exhilaration and the taste of the “soul crack” will forever be etched in my mind. 

After the open magical slope, we once again came down through the trees and again the snow conditions were scratchy,  but, having grown up in Australia, this was a  medium I was confident with. 

When we got to the bottom of Rendl, I was starting to feel lethargic, and was mentally toeing the lines of my limits. Was it a sensible time to call it a day, or should I push through one more run? We then took the chairlift up again, and on the way, one of our group received some devastating news regarding a friend in an avalanche. in a different Austrian ski resort. This made everything a little too real for me, I was rattled and excused myself: I had pushed it hard enough, and was calling it a day.

I went back to the Arc’Teryx village, where people were sipping on delicious warm beverages, and then went home to reflect on the weekend. Would I do it again? I can say yes, without flinching. What’s next? Hopefully a ski tour to a summit that I have done in the summertime with an overnight stay in a hut. 

Do I know what the source of creativity is? Still no, but I am willing  to spend my life trying to find out. 

Innkeeper's Tales - Part 1

Transparent Showers, Nosy Neighbours, and Shots of Schnapps: My Adventures Running an Austrian AirBnb

The Innkeeper's Tales is an ongoing series wherein we cajole the charming characters behind hotels we love to give us a peek under the covers and behind the curtains of their adventures in hospitality. Natasha Hecher was already a regular Fathom contributor when life took a turn and she ended up running her mother's Austrian AirBnb.

Somewhere in the throes of my globetrotting 30s, I resolved that children and tangibles were not for me, as my character (and dreams) were more aligned to a whimsical and possession-free existence.

But the universe had other ideas, and here I am, somewhere in the vicinity of 38 (again), living my mother’s dream of curating and running a 300-year-old guest house in Pettneu am Alberg in Tirol, Austria.

My life consists of stray cats breaking in, hedgehogs living in the garden, an underground Yahtzee ring, a plethora of strapping young men calling me Auntie Tashie (as I bake them fresh pies made with apples from the tree in the garden, while wearing a pink button-up sweater, just to complete the fantasy), an elderly neighbour who watches way too much porn, and a parade of travellers coming through, bringing their worlds to me.

My transition to badass lady boss has been an adventure in itself. As I type, I’m sitting on my mother’s throne in the kitchen, reminiscing about the last four years, no distractions except for occasional gusts of wind, a humming dishwasher, and Janis Joplin on the speaker stoking that badass fire.

The last conversation I had with my mother in late 2017 – after I had just declared that I was giving up my existence as a Jägermeister-guzzling waitress in the Alps to become a writer in a third-world country – revolved around my aspirations. She was wondering what direction my life was heading in, and I said I was unsure, but with experience in banking, stand-up comedy, travel writing, waitressing, and 43 countries traveled, I assured her that as long as I was always moving forward, I was content.

Six weeks later and two weeks after her funeral, my first guest arrived, and my past experiences converged into this unexpected direction. “This” being a warm and inviting house that smells of lemongrass and sandalwood, an inn full of quirks, stories, and (I like to wish) a happy blend of my mother’s and my visions, as well as our family history of ski racing.

It is a life’s work in progress.

That first guest was a German lady of Japanese-American heritage who arrived with her son and gave me two stars for accuracy as she “didn’t think it would be this nice.” In my defence, the shell of the listing had only gone up twelve minutes before she booked, when I had not even had time to grieve.

My mother’s living room, a space which was opened up this year, but still not a space that i can spend time in.

At first, the anxiety I experienced every time I got notification of a new review was almost crippling, as it is highly confronting walking around your home knowing that people are judging you. (A task that should be left to the neighbours looking out their windows in a tiny Alpine village.)

Waking up in a bad mood is not an option, so I have taken steps to assure that I don’t, like making a photo wall on the the staircase devoted to people and moments I love, to remind me of what I am doing, why I am doing it, and who I am doing it for. (I also wear a leopard-print onesie as a breakfast uniform to distract from my tired face.) Apparently these tactics work, as here I am, some 200+ terrific reviews later, only three of them a mere three stars.

To circumvent any surprises from either side, I invest almost too much time and energy vetting my guests in an attempt to ensure that they are a good fit for the house. After seven years working the Alpine après-ski scene, the last thing I want is drunk and disrespectful buffoons clomping around the house giving me attitude. I also have to delicately ascertain who they are traveling with as well as their heights, as many of the rooms have transparent showers, and some of them have slightly… Let's call them “constricted” space.

On one occasion I had a couple from Australia, my home country. At breakfast her first morning, the woman informed me she was a little uncomfortable with the transparent shower. (I was taken slightly aback, as she was traveling with her boyfriend, who I presume had already seen her goodies.) I apologised profusely and said that although this was standard in old Tirolean houses, I could give them a room with a separate shower. Later in the day, after moving rooms, she came down and said that they were heading to the Wellness, the local town sauna. Part of me wanted to warn her that it was a naked setting, and she would be seeing many more wing-wangs than she would through a transparent shower in her room upstairs, but, well, that was out of my jurisdiction, and I was just too amused.

“Have fun,” I replied.

After my extensive vetting, every new guest feels like my first. I await their arrival, upon which I offer them a tea, a coffee, or a schnapps while they check in. This appears to be optimal hospitality, but it really helps give me a small window onto their character. Perhaps it is the way I say it, as I do lower my voice slightly and add some cheekiness with the offer. If they take the schnapps and come into the kitchen for a chat, it is a fair indication that they are wanting to be social. If they decline all offers and make it a brief check in, they are likely to be more reserved.

My longest check-in took four hours.

This initial ritual escalated quickly into letting them know about the forbidden words around the inn. They include “Trump,” “Hitler,” “Mexit,” “Brexit,” “Covid,” and “schnapps,” which I threw in for fun. If any of these blasphemous words are uttered, a schnapps must be consumed. Naturally, this has on occasion backfired, and I often have guests arrive home, poke their head around the kitchen door, and say in a low, mischievous voice, “did someone say schnapps?” as their hand reaches from behind, offering a fresh bottle of the sweet, sweet liquid. Little wonder I have given up drinking in winter. (Mostly.)

When guests check in, I inform them that they are welcome to be as social or as private as they like — after all, it is their holiday — but that I am always available for recommendations, a cup of tea, or a round of Yahtzee. I check on their dietary requirements, as I make breakfast fresh every morning — usually muesli with Greek yogurt and berries followed by fresh farm eggs scrambled with mountain cheese, cream, and chives. The traditional breakfast around here is cheese and meats, but I am a firm believer in hot breakfast.

My approach to the house comes from my personal experiences, from places that have tickled me around the world. I have always found that the hostel atmosphere with a private room is most aligned to my nature, so it is what I do here.

Gauging people’s personal tastes is almost an art form. Some like a raucous apres-ski; others are total teetotallers. The strong majority of my guests have been incredible, and very often we part with a teary goodbye, aware that our special interaction was a moment in time, unlikely to be repeated as time passes and communication eventually becomes relegated to Facebook likes of their wedding photos and soon-to-come munchkins.

This is one reason why return guests give me the warm and fuzzies. I would have had a lot more of them were it not for the difficult last few years (I won’t say the word, as that would require a schnapps).

As far as validation goes, return guests are wonderful, but return helpers are on a whole new level. The helpers can be transient for a few weeks or they can stay for the season. I pay them a minimum salary and offer them lodging and food. They come in different forms. Maiju was a Finnish house guest who I asked to please come back forever — and she did for a season before traveling overland from Finland to Thailand. Gabby is a lawyer I knew from my Zurich banking days, who is now in Athens running a women’s centers for Syrian refugees. Sadeja is a beautiful German lass I met in a hostel in Mandalay. Currently I have Rens, a young Dutch man who tirelessly works two other jobs as well as being a very good handyman.

I give them different names, such as “minions” and “retrievers” (a story in itself), but they are so much more. Technically, they are here to help me with breakfast, rooms, and snow shoveling, but in reality they are so much more – my support system, my respite, and my friends.

The days are busy during the winter season, which runs from December to April with many ebbs and flows. Sometimes guests will come home and ask what I did all day. My eyes cheekily light up, and I say, “I just sat here, and it was amazing. I watched the house clean itself, the emails get answered, the shopping get done, the administration get sorted , and the check-ins checked in. And in the end, my legs just took themselves to the gym. All very magic flute-esque.”

It probably goes without saying that because something always goes wrong in an old house, I have been forced to acquire a new skill set. In the beginning, if a light went out or the heating spluttered, I would panic, but now I know where the fuses are and who to call. I can even change a lightbulb.

It can be challenging living in a village where tradition is in abundance, and the familiarity is one-sided. I have been required to come around to their way of thinking, even though on occasions I have a different aspect. If I had known four years ago that I simply had to be efficient in snow shovelling and have pretty flowers out in summer, I would have saved myself a lot of time. Thankfully I have all but mastered the local dialect (almost like learning the Queen’s English and then moving to the Scottish Highlands) and am now able to sit at the regulars tables at the local restaurants without feeling like an imposter. But it is hard work, and although not my consciously chosen vocation, it does have its unique and unexpected joys.

Stay tuned for the adventures of the broken plumbing and the missing Mexicans.

A Toe Dip Into The New World of Travel (Covid)

1st Movement

Vivace 

At this moment, the birthplace of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart lies a mere 100 meters away from me in the Old Town (Altstadt) of Salzburg, Austria. Whilst I scribe on parchment by candlelight,  it makes sense to listen to some of his works. Should it be a Sonata or a Requiem? Probably both. 

Kinda like my fluctuating moods during isolation… If I could be bothered to put on a bra then we had the sonata, and wine for breakfast in a leopard-print onesie? the requiem. Constantly flipping between C major and D Minor. 

Travelling during this time feels much the same, aside from my choice of attire. 

It is a cautious expedition before the borders open – targeting destinations on a “list” that I had previously dismissed due to the tourism overflow – when else does one get the opportunity to explore places in such a manner? The empty streets leave much time for alternate tones whilst pondering the new face of travel.  

My backpack was ready to go some months ago (a trilling restlessness - often referred to as Fernweh), as not only was I in isolation alone for 7 weeks, but as a creature of habit, as soon as the ski season has finished, and the last guest checked out, the door to my Pension is locked and off I go a wandering until December. Even though the ski season ended abruptly this season with a frightening en mass evacuation, the yearning crept up. To keep my sanity amongst the chaos, I dreamt of past and future adventures whilst I simultaneously explored the nuances of my well hidden introvert.  

Once hotels started opening I boarded that train with gusto. It was close to empty, with the conductors keeping a safe distance. The sign specified that facemasks were to be worn on public transport and in public areas at all times, but the dining cars were apparently still open. How does one eat whilst wearing a facemask? Not a desireable ensemble. 

I began with Innsbruck – a place I am acutely familiar with – and I stayed at “Stage 12” . As I walked in and looked to the right, the bar appeared to be busy, but it was mannequins. A clever way to adhere to social distancing. After such a long quarantine they looked very attractive and were a nice alternative to talking to the tree in my backyard. I called my mannequin Klaus, or Matthias or something: can’t remember as we got pretty tipsy. 

I’m not going to give you a blow by blow description, but  the next day I did go to the hairdresser for a blow dry and possibly another treatment which subtly assists my insistence that I am a natural blonde.  Wearing a mask for three hours was just not the same: there was no delicate Prosecco drinking, just formal interaction with no gossip (I am not sure why I said “just” as there is nothing normal about not having a gossip with your hairdresser). There was a sense of trepidation, from both the clients and the stylists, and both the former and latter often smiled from a distance and said, “Sheisse Corona”. No shit. 

Following this was the a few days of catching up with friends at the Kitzbühel Golf Club, but this is more aptly demonstrated with a sophisticated picture. And yes, there were people playing golf: watching them tee-off from “Steakhouse Kaps” was a spectator sport in itself. The high-society that encapsulates the “Glitz of Kitz”  was in good form and seemed somewhat relieved to be naturally blonde again, and for this there was glass tinkling and golf claps all round. 

My next intended destination was to be Hallstatt, the most instagrammed spot in Austria, but as the forecast was for rain I decided to save that until the weekend. My amended travel plans saw me heading to Salzburg on a once again quiet train. 

2nd Movement

Moderato 

This brings us back to the present where perhaps being in the proximity of such unbridled genius has simultaneously replenished some brain cells culled off at the golf club and also inspired me to write. Splurging on a decadent hotel may also play a part. My internal negotiation system resolved that it seems reasonable as it does not look like I will need it for International flights in the immediate future. 

I have never been here before, and yearned to see it quiet, and that it is. 

The squares are empty, but I can imagine they are normally filled with buskers, musicians and not only the culture of Mozart but Mozart’s Balls being force fed to you. No I’m not being dirty, a very kitsch confection that is purveyed in abundance are called “Mozartkugeln” and they are in the front window of all of the closed souvenir stores. 

Only a few souls in black jackets going from baroque to romantic on drizzly cobblestoned streets, plus me, a lone tourist. 

At my hotel they are admirable in all distancing precautions. There is of course disinfectant as you arrive, and all people are required to wear facemasks whilst also maintaining the required physical distance. In my room also a sign assuring you that it has been duly sanitised. I had a conversation with my “receptionist” Ulrika, but she is really much more than a receptionist. She can only be described as a saucy middle aged minx, who is the ultimate advocate for Wolford Stockings, and a consummate professional with hilarious dry humour: you really need to drag out the “r” in her name with a feisty growl. 

Some points she made chimed so very true. Whilst she was happy to be open again and have her vocation (as well as income) back in order, there is a sense of trepidation as no-one is wanting anything more to go wrong. What if something does, and what if it is traced back to the hotel? We’ve all been asking ourselves these questions about the “whats”, “ifs” and “hows” for some months, but we’re still in the middle of it. In the hotel’s case at minimum their carefully cultivated reputation could be gone as quickly as our freedoms were some months ago. It is also themes I have pondered over the months as a guest house “bad ass lady boss” in the Austrian Alps. Even though my Winter Season is still a safe distance away it is close enough for me to worry. 

With all this overthinking, I decided to partake in some retail therapy, but I can’t say it helped (even though it was the first day of the mid-year sales) as shopping also has intricate and perplexing issues. Why is one permitted to go into a store, try on clothes, yet socialdistance even when you are both touching hangers? What if someone touches their face again as they are in the change room? Why am I wearing a mask, when I am breathing on the merchandise as I pull it over my head? It is a peculiar dichotomy, and not something that I have reached a comfortable relationship with. 

Following dinner in an empty restaurant I got a small aperitif from the mini bar and sat on the tiny bench outside Mozart’s birthplace to siphon for myself an essence of genius; much more appealing to me than the fountain of youth. 

I wonder what my next movements will be? 

3rd Movement 

Allegretto  

There is a small possibility that I didn’t note the public holiday and sunshine forecast for the weekend, and the fanfare has picked up considerably. I called in the cavalry as a friend of mine was celebrating her birthday and feeling slightly melancholy having been enclosed in the valley with the same people and the same faces for so long. By lunchtime she had arrived. 

The last two days we’ve been exploring the streets, with much laughter and delicious food: after all, it is white asparagus season here. During our long lunch (which just happened to be at our hotel in Goldgasse), we had a particularly wonderful server who donned a “sophisticated” clear plastic mask, allowing us to see her beautiful smile. 

In most touristy European destinations, you can normally find the focus on not only the Historical Centre but also the bridges weighed down by kitschy declarations of love such as proposals and padlocks. Not my thing,  but I gotta say, a lone busker, harmonised with an acceptable sunset on the near empty Markarsteg was quite poignant and I may have temporarily exercised some empathy. 

Gradually there are more buskers appearing. Naturally I try and spare some change, but not for the guy playing “My Heart Will Go On” next to a fountain on his violin. There is no space for such negativity in my life. 

We also met a fellow traveller whilst having a tasty beverage in the main square. Her and her partner did not work out during this time and broke up. She took her belongings and her dog (a samoyed), and they piled into her small hatchback: kudos to that straight shooting,  “Auf Wiedersehen”. 

My friend has now left, and there are some tendrils of trepidation creeping in. The borders are open and there is an influx of people:  I am sure it is not a patch on the normal situation but many have no consideration for social distancing. Kids everywhere eating ice-creams and putting their sticky paws on everything: no shiny surface or window seems safe. And, well, some bars are packed with flirting in full force: I was good with my mannequin thanks. 

In my opinion, the opening of the borders and being here has crossed a few of the lines I drew for myself in regards to caution. Travelling in Northern Myanmar solo for 5 weeks and being on the back of a drunk 12 year old kid’s motorbike is one thing….. But in Covid exploration terms this feels slightly reckless. 

4th Movement 

Diminuendo

Alas my reader, my final movement of this “amateur chord flipping composition” finds me in the confines of my kitchen having made a stealthy retreat. I must accentuate that it’s not Salzburg, It’s me. Seeing the  Salzburg that I wished for was a unique experience, but there’s a but…. 

Perhaps I would have marched on, had it not been for the 10 days of rain forecast and my mental overstimulation. I felt secure in this decision after I arrived in The Arlberg on my overcrowded train bound for Zurich. In more ways than one I left in one world and came back in another, and I feel that I got to walk a very rare bridge leading to the beginning of the “new normal”. 

Now that I am not feeling so flat and my washing is done, more about backtracking on the backpacking. For years I have been expanding my comfort zone through travel and new experiences, but I have also trusted my instincts. Being in self isolation alone for such a long time – aside from a few geriatric neighbours waving from their balconies – and not being able to travel was out of my comfort zone in itself. I became used to solitude, the mountains surrounding me and the walks within them: best to go up and down those paths a little more for now. Overnight stays in huts, 3 day “wanders” in the Alps, supporting local businesses and maybe the occasional mid-week ventures further afield. 

A different me in a different world. 

This is by no means the fine, just a little less allegro and a little more andante.

Tirol, Austria: Nine Wonderful Things To Try During Winter

1)  GO TO THE KRAMPUS PARADE

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(Photo from Reuters /Dominic Ebenbichler)

The season begins  on the 5th of December with a parade in the St Anton pedestrian zone of big hairy beasts on tractors looking for trouble. It could be mistaken for an English stag do looking for the next bar, but in this case the snarling, possessed brutes with the red eyes are looking for bad children to punish for naughtiness with their whips which are made out of freshly cut willow tree branches.

It is an Alpine tradition called Krampus, a perfectly logical yang to Saint Nicholas, and rather than the saccharine gingerbread "ho ho ho" crap with a smiling fat man asking you to sit on his knee, the children who prefer to listen to the voice on their left shoulder are pursued by The Krampalar, who travel on foot or by big chugging tractors.

Children of all ages provoke them and shriek with a mixture of fear and delight whilst spectators look on sipping hot mulled wine (Gluhwein) and eating warm gooey cheesy delights from the market stalls.

2) EAT A SCHNITZEL

A delicious schnitzel in Tirol

In Austria, most things that begin with the letter "s" either taste, feel or sound good. Take Schnitzel for example. Not only is it a national dish, but "schnitzel" is such a sensational word. It can be used as a term of endearment, "oh Schnitzy, you were great last night" (referring to possible fornication, which funnily enough, the Austrian term for is Schnaxeln), when you make a mistake, "I totally schnitzelled it", or you can just eat it.

Where could you go wrong with meat (traditionally veal, pork is also very popular and sometimes chicken) fried in egg, flour and breadcrumbs? It is not for the gluten free, vegetarian, or living life intolerant, but for the rest it is the ultimate comfort food. Normally served with potatoes, lemon, and cranberry sauce (Preiselbeeren) it leaves you so close to full that the only thing you have room for is Strudel. And possibly a Schnaps. Or two. And more skiing.

3) WATCH SOME ALPINE SKI RACING

Of course in this case I was going for Hirscher.

In Austria Ski Racers are Gods, so you should probably familiarise yourself with the machinations of racing. You ready? Got your pen and paper ready to take notes? Ok, here it goes. The guy who gets from the top of the mountain to the bottom quickest wins the race.

There are different disciplines and so forth, but it is easy to catch on. Most importantly, you must ALWAYS go for Austria: I don't care how good looking Felix Neureuther is, he's German, and if you are caught cheering for him in public you will draw ire from the locals. The one and only exception to this rule is Italian Racers from Sud-Tirol, as they are Tirolean, and the locals are first Tirolean and then Austrian. 

If you can go to an actual ski race, the atmosphere is unrivaled.

4) LISTEN TO SOME AUSTRIAN MUSIC

Unfortunately, not all Austrian music is yodeling and Hansi Hinterseer. I know, I know. It should be. If they had living National Treasures in Austria he would be it. This yodeling ex-ski racer dressed in white with those beautifully coiffed locks is the ideal Austrian man. For Grannies.

Almost as cool as Hansi (but not quite) is Parov Stelar.   His wildly creative electro-swing music deserves to be  inducted into the Hall of Awesome.  Even better live.

5) USE TINDER IN SKI RESORT

Ski resorts are just like Tinder in real life, aside form the proportion of men to women. St Anton is referred to as Manton, and the Picadilly Bar is fondly known as Pick-a-willy.

So I was thinking, using Tinder could streamline the whole process. Rather than talking to randoms in the bars and swiping left in person, you could ask all the relevant information about prospective mates from the comfort of your abode, even set up a "Love-Ski" - an Alpine themed date. Then, when you get down to the Schnaxeln part of the night (more likely to be in a boot room than in front of an open fire) put on some Hansi Hinterseer as a mood enhancer.

6) HAVE A SAUNA

You should probably be warned though, the Austrian Sauna culture is something quite special. You go naked, and I am not talking about to the waist. I am talking butt naked: ding-dongs and Muschis (take a guess what that is Austrian slang for) on full display. If you are feeling really brave, you can do a whole day of nakedness, apparently referred to as "Wellness" at the Aqua Dome in Längenfeld.

 

7) WEAR A DIRNDL

Dirndls in Tirol

Dirndls and Lederhosen are traditional Austrian and Bavarian dress, which were not invented for Oktoberfest but for special occasions such as weddings, christenings and drinking. The beauty of a Dirndl is that it can make even the most pedestrian rack look tremendous.

They are well worth investing in, and even though they tend to be very expensive cheaper options are available if you go to a Trachtenwelt.

 

 

 

8) TRY A WILLY AT APRES SKI

No, I am not talking about an Austrian's wing-wang, but knock yourself out. In this case I am referring to Pear Williams Schnaps, which is astoundingly popular during Apres Ski. Basically it is served in a shot glass, with a ball of pear on a plastic cocktail stick that you are to eat afterwards, to soften the taste. Some people toast the pears like a little sword fight (which occasionally progresses to miniature jousting tournament), others just ignore it.

Either way as long as you look everyone in the eye and say, "Prost" (cheers) before you drink all else is forgiven (not looking people in the eye before you drink results in seven years of bad sex). Try and order 6 shots of Williams in German and keep a straight face. "Sechs Willies bitte". Tip for Apres Ski: doing it half assed is not an option.

9) WATCH THE WEISSE RAUSCH

. http://www.arlbergadler.eu The White Thrill 2012 - The first competition of the challenging triathlon -The Arlberg Adler- fascinates St. Anton's winter athletes. The aim is to tame the "monster" Valluga. http://www.arlbergadler.eu

Lycra. Lots of lycra.

The "White Rush" will take place in St Anton am Arlberg on the 18th of April, 2015. This annual skl race, which is part of a unique "triathlon" called the Arlberg Adler normally has 500-700 hundred entrants (strictly limited). Basically there are three different start groups, depending on age and category.

Everyone in that group starts together, and a kamikaze all the way to the bottom ensues, with a little hike in the middle thrown in for good measure. As if this isn't challenging enough, when they get to the bottom of the mountain, exhausted, there is a huge crowd watching and they have to climb over a sizable mound of snow. Then they fall over the finish line half dead but happy to be alive (glass half empty half full thing) and wait for someone to give them a Schnaps.

Tips on getting a job in an Austrian ski resort

St Anton am Arlberg, Austria

UPDATED SEPTEMBER 2019

So, you are thinking of working a ski season?

Hopefully you don't think that you are going to rock up when the snow starts falling, find a job, spend a few hours working each day for really good money, and then spend the rest of your time skiing or relaxing in your really nice pad when you are not out having drinks bought for you. There is not one part of that statement which is a reality.

However, getting a job is possible, even without speaking German (but German definitely gives you a strong advantage).

1. The sooner you get there the better

To be honest, most of the good jobs are already gone, and the competition is fierce for those that remain. You will be lucky to get anything, but the longer you leave it, the less likely it is.

2. Have a good resume

You may not get asked for it, but as you trudge around asking about work it would be very useful to have handy. And a professional one. A photo on it of you in a bra lying on the bar having Jägermeister slurped off your belly is not a "qualification." And yes, in Austria and Switzerland people have a photo on their resume.

3. Dress the part

Flannel shirts, beanies and boobies hanging out are not going to get you anywhere (both sexes). Actually, that is false, it will probably get you laid. A lot. But it won't get you a job. Actually, that is not 100% true either. BUT, just to be on the safe side, dress like you are meeting your boyfriend or girlfriend's mother, as many of the lady bosses, or "Chefins", in Austria are of that vintage. And you probably will bang their child at some point, so in a roundabout way that is exactly who you are meeting.

4. Be prepared to work

In St Anton the hours are long, jobs very hard to come by, and when you do, they are very hard work. Chances are you will be working 8-10 hours a day, six days a week, for a salary of 900-1500 Euro a month, but your employer will pay your health insurance.

5. Always ask if there is a room included

Some places provide rooms for their staff, in which case you are lucky. But don't expect it to be a room by yourself. There are normally 2-3 people in a room, and often these rooms are not in the village. In the case of St Anton it is likely to be in the nearby villages of St Jakob, Pettneu or Flirsch.

6. Talk to people

If you are there in November, there are not too many people around, meaning not too many bars open yet, so it is a good time to get to know the seasonaires and locals. In the case of St Anton am Arlberg, if you go to Jules or Fang House, there should be people that will tell you what is around and who is looking for staff. Same goes for rooms. If you do find a room before a job, take it. It is easier to find a job if you already have accommodation.

In this time in November, check out Gasthof Edelweiss in Pettneu as a base. Miriam and Dave are more than awesome, and are willing to provide a base for people at minimum rates (starting at 18 Euro a night). As Dave was a ski bum himself, and Miriam is local and used to work at the Tourist Office, you could not wish for better hosts.

7. Don't be an ass

Cannot be stressed enough for all of the above. And life. At all times keep your manners in check. You can't afford to be an ass when you are new to town: few people will tolerate it or want to help you.

8. Take sufficient money with you

Don't think that you are going to get there and money will start snowing down. You will need to shell out for a ski pass (in St Anton you will get some of that money back at the end of the season when you have worked a certain number of hours) and possibly accommodation. Even if you do get a job straight away, you will not get paid until the end of the month.

HOWEVER....

Doing a ski season is an awesome experience, and if you can, do it. It is something you will never forget.