Polly Baker is what you might call a well-seasoned seasonaire. Having swapped out the apres of France for the oom-paa of Austria some years ago, she’s perfectly positioned to recount some horrific tales from Mayrhofen’s legendary boozing culture.

Apres Ski: French by Name, Though Not by nature.

Sure, I’ve seen topless teens on the tables of La Folie Douce, but since landing a job in an Apres Ski bar and experiencing the dark, unbridled phenomenon they call Apres in Austria, where all usual morals and expectations are left outside on the ski rack, I’ve seen things I’d rather forget.

So much like the humble cul-de-sac I’m taking this fancy French phrase and bending it out of context.

Dictionaries shall henceforth read:  Apres-Ski, the amoral twisted universe where ordinarily civilised humans descend from a day on the slopes for some early evening hell-raising.

This is an eye-witness account of Apres Ski, Austrian style.

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