"In a bar in the French Alps have the afternoon passed into evening, and we are therefore somewhere between après ski and nightclub."
"the Dance floor is filled with happy brits, dutchmen, and one and the other parisians. Or what do I know, by the way, but the girl closest to me looks like the epitome of a young woman from the French capital. She has svidat if after a day on the slopes, has a mischievous page, minimal with the makeup around the eyes, red lipstick and kroppsmodell ”petite”. She is wearing a beige sidentopp patterned with cherries, and dancing as you dance in Paris. That is to say, a little discreet blasé, in no way vulgar. She is terribly wrong here."
"the Band has gone by but their version of ”Summer of 69” still hanging in the air, like ”Seven nation army”, which plunged the visitors into ecstasy. It is the newest song they burn off, the most modern I at all hear during my days in the Alps. The repertoire is the same as ten years ago, fifteen years ago, twenty? Those were the best days of my life."
"Pints in plastic glasses emptied in the premises, skidkläderna is colorful and remnants of zinkpasta is left on the lips. At a table sits a guy alone and look a little mysterious, as if he really is in on the act very seriously. He has even a slightly skeptical eye on everything? To be clear: In any other context, we had talked about an out of date type, a kind of millenniemänniska as the time ran from. He wears a knitted påsig hat, beard, wide pants and a piece of jewelry, perhaps a seashell in a tygband on the neck. But in the garish polyesterstämningen where Dutch words flying across the bar, he will immediately be something exciting – who will by the way not a bit arty with a bunch of loud dutchmen who fund? The tan on the lower half of the face is ambitious. He is probably seasonal staff and thus very high local currency. He drinks a mexican bottled beer with a slice of lemon in, this is not a place for the ipor or bitter pale ales. The drink list is no grog that did not exist when I grew up."
"When Michael Jackson is played lace I the ears, should anyone protest? But as the year mentally is in 1992 – and the mood is universal is ”not hypersensitive” or ”not-so-PK” – all love Michael, of course. Suddenly, a danståg from one end of the room, women of different ages marching in a row with hands on each other's shoulders, to the men and farbröders great delight. So spontaneously! Girls!"
"And suddenly it strikes me that we pay good money to go on vacation to a place where everything is as it always has been. No smaktrenden reach to the apres-ski place in Val d'isère, no electronic music can fit on the playlist. The costumed british killgänget – there is always at least one like that on each of the alport – can bröla completely undisturbed in their wigs and lösbröst when they navigate between the pubs on the main street, in the perfect state of ölfylla that moves just between the spontaneous gruppkramar and fights. Oooh, we're halfway there, oooh, livin’ on a prayer."
"I'm just as happy as all the others. I love this environment, it is so apolitical and relaxed that I had been able to stay in it in weeks. Maybe it is, in fact, it is here that the new age samhällsnostalgiker are looking for. In that case there is the answer to the contemporary rise kulturkrig closer than we thought. Instead of the politics of identity and brexit – a ski week in the Alps."