The last night of the vultures

My dear husband and I may not be the most eager skiers, but we are surely good at one thing - overall "gemütlichkeit". Sunday was spent mostly at the hotel, as my dear husband had caught a terrible cold, and I had some work that I needed to finish (cyber-commuting is awesome). But, to get the perfect end to a perfect mini-week, we crawled out of our Austrian nest for a rendez-vous at the local fondue place in the evening. After close to a week of long lunches followed by five-course gourmet dinners back at the hotel every night (with short guest performances at the aprés-ski in-between), you should think that we could handle a simple three-course on the last night. Yeah, right.

At the Montjola we were greeted by the "jättetjusiga Gunilla". Which is, of course, not her real name. Still, most attractive blonde Swedish girls happen to go by this name (as opposed to her not-quite-so-attractive friend "Ulla-Brit"). It was quite surprising to be served by Gunilla wearing the local Tyrolean dress at this quite modest establishment, as rumour has it that most of her fellow countrymen in St. Anton work at the Krazy Kangaruh, serving belly-button shots. So I guess this was the one respectable exception. Or, maybe I am just not able to tell the difference between a real "Gunilla" and an "Ulla-Brit", as the latter would most probably never get a job working at the Kangaruh.

Anyway. We started off with the Fondue Paysan. Veal, beef and chicken in oil. With fries. Then we followed up with a huge serving of the local cheese fondue. This was when we started to feel our limitations. But, as yours truly is known to have the will-power of a daffodil (only living thing I could think of without ANY at all), chocolate fondue soon followed.

It was a good thing the restaurant was up the hill, and our hotel was at the very bottom of the hill. So we went with gravity and almost rolled "home".

Although we have had a great time, it will be good to be back home. Without any of the "apfelstrudel" temptations lurking around.

And I will NOT miss the smell of the ski/boot depot. Oh. My. God.