Let me preface by saying I am from Florida. Every year my parents and I took big trips to places like Costa Rica, the Bahamas. California or New Orleans. Though my parent’s enjoyed adult ski trips while I was a kid, I wasn’t introduced to snow, mountains or skiing (I use that term loosely) until I was 13. It’s not that I was deprived; we just enjoyed the warm outdoors. Since then, I have only been skiing a handful of times; a week in college and a few weekend trips my fist 2 winters in NYC. Joe, on the other hand, started skiing the slopes by 4 years old and skied regularly every season. By 17 he was free styling, doing crazy jumps and going off trails.
We decided to celebrate Joe’s winter break & our year anniversary in the French Alps where Joe went to boarding school. It’s been 3 years since my feet touched skis. However, at that time, I was quite comfortable on the slopes after a couple of seasons skiing back to back just outside of NYC. First on the agenda after arriving to the quaint mountain town, was renting equipment. I freely admitted ignorance as to my level of skiing when choosing the right skis. So we chose the appropriate skis for a beginner. (Thank God!) The ski store was run by a townie named Marcel. He spoke little to no English. Marcel had to mime to me how to pretend to ski with my boots on to make sure they fit correctly. With equipment rented and securely fitted, I felt confidant for our first day out skiing.
The next morning we woke up early, piled on our ski attire, had a hardy breakfast and excitedly made our way to the slopes. We walked a couple of blocks in our ski boots with skis in hand. I felt like a transformer and quickly grew tired before we even began. I briefly started having flash backs to exactly a year ago when I was sunning on a beach in Mexico and imagined Joe & I were actually caring towels in hand instead of 10lbs of ski equipment. (Sigh!)
First we traveled up this thing that looks like an egg (appropriately called “les oeufs“) to the actual ski site. Then we ski over to the different slopes. As soon as I put my skis on, I feel like a fish out of water, but I tried to look like I’ve been doing this for years. I recently invested in a sexy new ski outfit just for this trip. I figured I could at least look cute skiing even if I didn’t know what the hell I was doing! So here I am trucking up to a ski lift in my fashionable ski attire…well as fashionable as you can get in 10 layers of fabrics! Apparently, to get up to the top of the trail, we have to take a little ride up on a pole. Yes a pole! A long pole with a tiny little tire at the end and attached to a line by a bungee chord replaces the chair lift I am used to in the states. Without hesitation, Joe pushes me ahead and tells me to go in front of him. I yell back, “What the hell do I do?” Joe then says “Grab the pole and put it between your legs!”. Me, “Put what? where??” Joe, “Grab the pole and put it between your legs!” Mind you, I have limited speech, sight and hearing at this time as my hood nearly covers my entire face & head. Confused, I finally shrug my shoulders, grab the pole and I am suddenly jerked forward. I yelp out a “Whoo!” and almost drag my ass on the ground before I stabilize. I catch my breath and start to grasp the pole as tightly as possible. Normally it might be thrilling to have a large, metal pole between one’s legs, but as I made my way to the top of the trail, I started to feel slightly nauseated. I made the mistake of looking back down the lift. I desperately clench my inner thighs around the pole as the climb became steeper. By the time I reached the top and I let go of the odd bungee pole my knees are shaking. At this time, I assumed my knees were shaking due to how tightly I grasped the pole with my legs. Then I stare down the mountain and suddenly feel like I am in a tunnel and can’t breathe. Joe gracefully skis in front of me to where other skiers were preparing to go down, smiles and says, “Ready to go?” I couldn’t form the words to express my pang of fear, so I nod and slowly follow behind trying to remember how to move my legs in the skis. All the while, I am talking to myself saying “You can do this. You can do this.” Joe immediately notices my stiff movements and asks if I am ok. I finally form the words “I’m scared”. And before I know it, panic sets in and I can’t move. For the moment, all I can think about is “How do I get off this mountain without actually skiing down it?”
To be continued…
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