Fat and happy in the Spanish Pyrenees

By the time we finish lunch, it would be considered happy hour in the U.S. But we’re in Spain, and our happy hour — make that plural, happy hours — began during our mid-day meal, a massive and sumptuous repast at which I consume half a duck, two ensaladas, fois gras, and duck carpaccio, all enjoyed with two glasses of cava (Spanish sparkling wine) and a bottle of wine. Carajillo (spiked coffee) is served as a digestivo. By the time we finish, it’s way past siesta, and my friends ski off into the encroaching clouds. I speak no Spanish, let alone the local dialect, Aranese, where si is òc and adiós is adishatz.

Fending off alcohol-induced vertigo, I aim my skis toward some snowplowing skiers wearing festive colors and begin a Bode-Miller-ish downhill toward the village of Tanau and its five-star hotel, the Royal Tanau. Tapas and cocktails are next on the agenda. Someone in our group must have thought we’d need them. But this is the Pyrenees, and this is how it’s done.

Not to say the whole day has been a booze cruise. It began quite soberly in Vielha, the largest town in Spain’s Val d’Aran and the gateway to the country’s largest ski area, Baqueira-Beret. We awoke to brilliant southern European sunshine glinting off the tops of 10,000-foot peaks. Shaking off jetlag and the previous day’s four-hour bus ride from palm-treed Barcelona to snowy Vielha, we drove up to Baqueira around 10 a.m. — late by North American standards. But the Pyrenees enjoy one more hour of sunlight than the more northern Alps, so no one’s in a rush.

From the parking lot, we trudged a few hundred yards farther up the road to the base area, passing a phone booth buried almost to the roof in snow. From here, the resort looks small — just a few steep trails cut into a wooded mountainside. Our impression changed dramatically after a high-speed quad chairlift deposited us 1,000 feet farther up at Baqueira 1800, Spanish skiing’s version of Penn Station (1800 standing for elevation in meters). Here, seven lifts begin and end. And it pays to have a plan.

Rising in front of us is Cap de Baqueira, a massive mountain blanketed in snowfields, dimpled with untracked bowls, and streaked with 2,300-foot-long chutes. Far to the north are the wraparound snowfields and bowls of Beret; to the southeast, the mellow trails and short steep chutes of Bonaigua.

Our plan was to check out Baquiera, then head over to Beret for lunch. As the Pla de Baqueira six-pack chairlift whisked us to the summit, we watched the, uh, early risers carve turns down groomed swaths in the snowfields. Only a few tracks cut up the powder.

“When did it last snow?” I asked Marga, our guide. Clad in a mustard-colored one piece, she smiled all the time and kept apologizing for her English. “A couple of days ago,” she replied.

I looked around at the knolls, chutes, and bowls that comprise the Cap’s topographic profile. “Why doesn’t anyone ski there?” I asked, pointing to a shady pitch dotted with scrubby pines.

“You can,” she said, shrugging as if to say, “Why would you want to?” Then added, “You must be a good skier.”

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