I have discovered that in order to survive in Switzerland, there are only 2 things you have to be able to do. First and foremost, you need to become comfortable with people staring at you. It's not the polite American stare that ends the minute you make eye contact with the starer. No, the Swiss stare with no hesitation and hands down would take home the gold if staring contests were included in the Olympic games. At first, it made me a little self conscious. You know, is there toilet paper hanging out the back of my pants? Are my American children behaving obnoxiously?(Never happens). But I've come to accept that they just like to stare. Initially we were bold and actually grabbed our camera a couple times and snapped pictures of the unwavering starers. Oddly enough, they weren't phased by us taking a picture so it would last longer. So now we choose to accept it, occasionally roll our eyes at them, and usually don't even notice.
The second skill you need to manage in order to survive in Switzerland, is not nearly as easy as letting people gawk at you. When living in the Alps, if you don't strap skis on at the first sign of fresh powder, you are for all practical purposes, a complete freak of nature. I am very sad to inform all of you, that not only am I a freak of nature, but my three innocent children share this stigma with me. Somehow Bryan managed to learn how to ski while living in Wisconsin. Yes, Wisconsin. His family never skied, but apparently when he hit adulthood (I use this term loosely), he and his buddies somehow managed to find a hill in dairyland, and he taught himself how to ski. Not only did he manage to learn how to ski, he managed to get pretty good at it.
Twelve years ago, when we were newly dating, Bryan whisked me away for a day of skiing in Devil's Head, Wisconsin. I think by Swiss standards, this is a bunny hill for the 3 and under set, but for me, the uncoordinated newbie, it was a mountain. He started me on the bunny hill and I recall taking out a little kid on the towrope right off the bat. As you might imagine, Bryan realized I was the woman of his dreams when he saw me take out a small tot for my own self preservation on the bunny hill. Not one of my proudest moments.
After a couple hours on the slopes, I could turn, occasionally stop, and often fall with gusto. No big surprise. Everyone falls when learning to become the next Picabo Street. But one major issue kept me from attaining my dream of becoming a master skier. When I fell, my ass couldn't get back up. Seriously, I could not physically figure out how to get my back side out of the snow and back to a standing position. It's really hard to be cute and alluring with your new boyfriend when you are grunting and flailing on the ground with ski poles dangerously flying through the air. At one point, our love story almost came to an early end when Bryan uttered the words, "This is like skiing with my Grandma Marge". I didn't know Grandma Marge at the time, but I had a hunch that she probably wasn't hitting the slopes with a vengeance at the advanced age of 87. When I did have the pleasure of meeting her, God rest her soul, I learned that she was wheelchair bound and suffered from a serious case of cankles. I would have been proud to be compared with Grandma Marge in many arenas, but not when it came to athletic prowess.
Needless to say, we didn't do a lot of skiing after that first ski date. Otherwise I might be blogging about my life as a single 30-something trying to find love on the internet. But now that we are amongst the staring, fondue eating folks in Switzerland, we've decided it's time to really hit the slopes. The Swiss are so ski crazy that when February rolls around, they shut down the schools for a week and everyone heads into the Alps. So we booked our February trip to a ski resort, got the boys signed up for ski lessons with their friends, and bought all the accessories to look the part of a ski family. I quickly learned that looking the part was MUCH easier than getting from the top of the slope to the bottom with any kind of dignity intact.
The first members of team Mjaanes to take lessons, were the boys. We signed them up for four group lessons with 2 of their friends. Aside from being crammed with all of our ski equipment, our crappy little Opel Zafira was filled with excitement and anticipation as it climbed up towards the mountains through the sleet for the first lesson. We met up with the 4 other families who were skiing that day and despite the icy rain, everyone was in good spirits. Bryan decided not to ski that first Sunday so we could keep an eye on the boys and make sure we got video footage that we could embarrass them with when they are older. Considering they had never been on skies before, the boys did great. Z even unintentionally learned the fine art of skiing backwards down the bunny hill. He practiced that move several times that first day.
After their lesson, we all headed across the street to a little Swiss restaurant and our party of 20 had lunch. Everyone was excitedly talking about the skiing they had done that day and I was naively swept up in the whole idea of becoming a ski bunny. At my age, you would think peer pressure would be a thing of the past. But no, by the end of lunch, I was ready to sign up for my first ski lesson, put my almost 3 year old on a pair of skis and let an instructor work his magic. It's amazing what a few friends and and a couple glasses of wine can convince you to do.
Fast forward 1 week, and team Mjaanes is back at the bottom of that same ski hill. E looks adorable all slipping and sliding in her tiny little skis, and since she is the bravest and most daring of the Mjaanes kids, I don't think twice about handing her over to her cute little blonde ski instructor. At this point, my nerves have kicked in and I realize that I may be in over my head. My friend Stacey offered to take a lesson with me, and despite the fact that she had skied as a teenager in Switzerland, I agreed. The poor thing had no idea what she was in for.
We met Patrick, our friendly Swiss ski instructor, and he kindly led us over to the bunny hill. There were 2 other adult women taking lessons, but everyone else was between the ages of 2 and 6. I don't have a lot of faith in my ability to ski, but I figured in no time I'd be whizzing past the boys on the bunny hill. Maybe even taunting them with a little, "Later Suckahs!" as I headed towards more challenging runs.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
Things went terribly awry right off the bat. I'll preface this story by telling you that I'm generally not a fearful person. I don't get scared easily, and I don't worry terribly about getting hurt when trying new activities. I've gone skydiving, parasailing, mountain biking, and even hosted a birthday party for 10 kindergarten boys in our little apartment. I'm no chicken. But my one true fear in life, is looking like a complete ass by myself. I've had LOTS of experience facing this fear since moving to Switzerland, but this embarrassing moment may require some inpatient therapy. Patrick led us to the magic carpet which was filled with kids. I stepped onto the magic carpet and gracefully began my 10 second ascent up the hill. I felt a little silly being a grown woman on the magic carpet, but Patrick and Stacey were ahead of me and I'm not opposed to looking like an ass, so long as I'm in good company. About 1/2 way up the little incline, the magic carpet stops. No big deal. As one of the ski instructors hops off to get it going, I figured this would be a good time to adjust my footing. (Insert cringe here) Yes, this is when my own little personal horror takes place. My close friends reading this can now prepare to pee themselves. As I adjusted my right ski, the magic carpet started up again with a slight jerk. The rest is kind of a slow motion nightmare. You know that moment when you begin to fall and realize there's no stopping? That moment seemed to take about 3 minutes. I don't think I actually screamed out, but in my own little off balance head I was screaming, "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!" The rest was just a flurry of skis and limbs. Picture a giraffe on skis falling off an escalator. Yup. That's pretty close to what it felt like. Since Stacey and Patrick were ahead of me, they didn't see my display of anti-athleticism. Another ski instructor stood over me with a look that said, "THANK GOD you don't belong to me today" and hollered for Patrick. This is when Patrick and Stacey looked down to see me lying in a heap next to the magic carpet. I have to admit, as I write this, it was hysterical. At the time? Not so much. You might think that was enough embarrassment for me. But if you recall, getting up is not a skill I have mastered. So after a few flailing attempts to stand up, poor Patrick had to claim me and help me up. Good times.
Fortunately, for the next hour, I managed not to humiliate myself further. We stayed on the bunny hill and I finally got the hang of snowplowing. This is when Patrick decided we were ready for the T-bar. I don't know a lot about skiing, but you don't hear a lot of people talking about the challenges of riding the magic carpet. You do, however, hear people mention that the T-bar can be a bit tricky for a new skier. Seriously, did this guy already forget the heap of alpine disaster he had to retrieve off the bunny hill? He must be a glutton for punishment.
To my amazement, I made it up the hill on the t-bar without (further) embarrassing myself or my family name. Coming down the bigger hill even went pretty well, until I was about 10 feet from the bottom and suddenly lost all control. Rather than careen into the line of children waiting for t-bar, I opted to fall in such a graceful manner that the sound of my helmet cracking against the ground was heard by a friend standing about 100 feet away. Thank God I hadn't opted for fashion first and worn my cute ski hat with the ear flaps. I probably wouldn't have looked so cute when I was being dragged unconscious on a sled past the skiers who had business being on the slopes.
So my initial entry into the world of skiing left much to be desired. I started to think I should just embrace my "freak of nature" status and learn the finer points of drinking hot totties in the lodge all winter. But after a couple post-skiing cocktails, the public humiliation didn't seem so bad and my throbbing head had been numbed to a dull ache. I may have humiliated myself beyond comprehension at one ski area, but dammit, there are hundreds of ski areas that haven't yet had the pleasure. And if the Swiss are going to stare, well, I might as well give them something to really stare at.
