All they did was slowly collapse like a flan in a cupboard, as many important historians have said. Although they did indirectly lead to two of my favourite things: Embers by Sandor Marai, and now the best set of player party photos since Linz (not that one).
I mean, it’s pretty hard for tournaments these days to really stand out, especially if they aren’t a big name like Indian Wells, or don’t have any striking local indigenous fauna. So frankly, all credit to the people at Bad Gastein for taking the little-used approach of hearkening back to their history as a fashionable spa resort in the nineteenth century. (Thanks, Wikipedia!)
Alize. Sweet as a little pie.
Probably should have taken off the wristbands though.
For a good few minutes, I was trying to understand why I didn’t remember Sorana playing this tournament. Sorry, Julia Goerges.
There are a few unfortunate tan lines going on here.
Petkorazzi practices her royal wave.
Not another evening among the ton listening to the latest on-dits, Patricia Mayr seems to say.
It’s not that I don’t like Timea Bacsinszky. It’s just that whatever you dress her in, she always looks like she’s just been dragged out of a crack den. By her hair. Through a hedge.
I’m not going to lie, I don’t know if this is a player or a random bit of muslin, but I really want that dress.
And saving the best until last …
Khader Nouni. Officer. Gentleman. Possible doorman.
God among men.
