St. Anton

The village is concurrently quaint and kind of macho. The excitement of sweat and athleticism pervades the air as bands of fleece-clad people swagger past still in their boots carrying their skis or boards. Not only the ski instructors, but also all kinds of other people wear uniform-like outfits of bright colors and stripes that make them look fast even in clunky ski boots. Of course, I just looked out the window and a guy clicked by in a Packers jersey and yesterday there was a group of skiers in cow costumes. But, when we checked in Brigitte Falch, the owner of the hotel, was suggesting restaurants to us and, in response to my comment that we weren’t dressed for a fancy dinner, said that we were in a ‘sport resort’ and that it was generally come-as-you-are. Sport resort is a phase that captures the feeling of the place. Everyone is here to do something. It feels the way I might expect an Olympic village to feel only muted- and I don’t think there are little kids with tiny little skis and bright yellow vests making their serpentine way down those slopes
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The hotel is gorgeous. It is all wood and glass and clean rectilinear surfaces with sliding walls and sliding glass doors and deep white bathtubs that slope on both sides and fill in the middle. The ceiling in the lobby is plywood and our beds are modern planes of goose-filled cream puffs. After all the problems and wasted money and self-deprecation about this trip, this particular waste of money was well worth it.