THERE'S something quite dreary about those who have to be different for the sake of being different. You know the type-often found at parties standing smugly in a corner wearing corduroys, talking about how Radiohead's music is 'rather derivative', the YBAS (Young British Artists) weren't actually all that interesting and how, actually, no, they didn't go skiing in France this year, or last year, as they 'just love the Dolomites. These people are often to be avoided.
But you hear it more and more, don't you? 'The Dolomites'. What are they? Who are they for? The name: floating in the background static of middle-class discourse, like one of those pictures that you have to squint at to see the true image behind all the nonsense.
One of the few things I like less than tediously reactionary people is being left out of the loop. Why are so many people eschewing the tried-and-tested destinations of Val soand-so? Has Chamonix lost its touch? What did everyone know that I, and seemingly all of the people that I regularly enjoy imbibing vast amounts of rosé with, didn't? There was a secret out there, in them thar Italian hills, that I needed to discover. And so, I found myself, on a Sunday morning in March, squinting into the sun at Innsbruck airport, destined for Corvara, the heart of the Alta Badia ski resort in South Tyrol. It was there that I met my transfer driver, a man whose name I cannot remember because I was too busy staring at the flying cap and goggles on his head when he introduced himself. When he led me to his Mercedes, rather than his bi-plane, I finally started to relax.
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