Postcard: Weltkurort St. Moritz

This is the time of year when my thoughts stray toward all things après ski... You know, rich hot chocolates, cocktails by the fire (preferably a mod one in a sunken living room), sleigh rides, and cheese fondue. In other words: I'm wishing myself to the Alps for a gorgeous, glamorous taste of life in a chalet after a day on the slopes. The kind that only writers from Vanity Fair get to see any longer. Er, now that Dominic Dunne is gone maybe no one at Vanity Fair gets to go these kind of places, but still, I live in hope.

Scenes of St. Moritz (and you know I love a multi-picture postcard!) make me think of the original Pink Panther movie, as well as any number of James Bond flicks. It's where French, English, German, and Italian all mix and mingle in a play of film stars, old money, and the kind of titles one only reads about in Burke's Peerage. This is where one finds a bad boy lover from a long-respected European family, that, or just Lapo Elkann. And who could forget the mention of St. Moritz in "Where do you go to My Lovely"? It's just so glam and sexy rich and well-coiffed, à la early 1960s Playboy or something. It's mythically Euro-stylish and marvelous and well-dressed in cashmere and shearling and really fabulous boots or coordinated ice skates. It's the epitome of wintertime chic, which I'm certain is reaching its nadir right about now...