Aaahhhh..... Winter time in Zurich. Grey skies, brown grass, mud, and a general population suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Really. It's amazing how the clouds just seem to settle over Switzerland and remain from November until April. This may be why the Swiss embrace a February holiday unlike anything we have in the States. The Swiss take a full week off of work and school for SKI WEEK! You can't blame them for creating a reason to vacate this dreary land and head for the hills for a little sunshine. Even if you hate snow, trust me, you'd take the cold white stuff over the oppressive grey cloud of depression we live under during the winter months.
So this year, the Mjaanes family embraced the tradition of ski week. Not only did we head for the mountains, we headed for a different country. We, along with 8 other families, took over a family hotel in Lermoos Austria for a week of skiing, laughing, and wine drinking. Not necessarily in that order.
With so many families heading out on holiday together, there was a lot of excitement and talk of all the fun we'd have. But before we could really prepare ourselves for a week of fun and excitement, we had to suffer through the hell of packing up a family of five for a week of acitivities that require lots of equipment. I thought packing for a beach vacation was a challenge, but add to that 5 sets of skis, poles and boots, 10 pairs of long underwear, 5 helmets, 8 sets of ski apparel, 15 pairs of ski socks, and 12 bottles of wine, and you've really got yourself a challenge. Our crappy little Opel Zafira looked like a clown car. The giant ski carrier was crammed full, and I envisioned the top flying off, when and if we managed to get our little diesel tin can up to 120 kilometers. I can only imagine what the Swiss Polizei would have to say as our skis, boots, long underwear, and wine bottles flew out the back and littered their clean Swiss highway.
We managed the three hour drive without any major catastrophes and rolled into "Das Bellevue Family Relax Hotel" around mid afternoon. It seemed unlikely that with 3 kids and 5 sets of skis that the word "relax" would be an appropriate word to describe our hotel stay, but who knows. With enough wine, anything is possible.
We all signed our kids up for 4 hours of ski school each day. They were expected to be ready to ski at the ski school by 10 a.m., then we picked them up for lunch at noon and returned back to the ski school meeting point at 2 p.m. for another 2 hours. This was a blessing, and a curse. When you find yourself in the ski storage room around 9:30 in the morning with 20 other kids and their parents, I assure you, all of the parents were very much thinking about cursing. The first day all the parents put on their happy faces and tried their best to talk patiently to their loving offspring. "Oh, your lying on the floor crying because your ski sock has a wrinkle? Why don't we take a deep breathe, calm down, and mommy will be happy to help you!". By mid week, you could cut the tension with a knife. " You want to lay on the floor and scream about your ski sock?!?!? Well, GUESS WHAT! You can ski down the hill barefoot if you want, because regardless of your footwear choice, mommy needs a break!!!! You think this is fun for Mommy?!?!? Do you?!?!?" Forcing 3 kids into the most ridiculously uncomfortable boots ever invented, and then making them trudge back and forth from ski school carrying a clumsy set of skis and poles, does not make for a pleasant start to your day. But we kept our eye on the prize, which was 2 straight hours of peace and quiet, and managed to make it to ski school each morning while clinging to a shred of our sanity.
As you may recall from my blog posts last ski season, I'm not what you would call a seasoned skier. I'm more what you would call an accident waiting to happen. And by "waiting to happen" I mean, give me 60 seconds and I'm sure to provide you with a laugh at my expense. I still have nightmares about last year's humiliating fall from the magic carpet and often question why I continue to attempt a sport when I am so utterly horrible at it. But in preparation for ski week, I had been taking lessons each week so I would be able to enjoy the trip and ski with our friends. My trusty ski partner, Crystal, was with us and we decided we were now experienced enough that we didn't need ski lessons. We'd just ease into it on the blue runs and by the end of the week, we'd be flying down the black runs impressing our husbands and friends with our much improved ski skills. Were we optimistic? You bet. Over confident? Of course. Clearly out of touch with reality? Hell, yes.
The first morning, while Bryan and the rest of the group headed up to the top of the mountain, Crystal and I hung back and skied the bottom portion of the hill. And I wouldn't say we were feeling cocky, but we were feeling like those early lessons were money well spent. Compared to last years ski trip, which included Crystal taking out an entire ski school on the T-bar and sliding spread eagle into a group of snowboarders enjoying their lunch, we had come a long way.
So rather than leave well enough alone, we allowed my loving husband to convince us that we were ready to go to the top of the mountain. Why do I continue to listen to him when he has led me onto ridiculously difficult runs in the past? Undying trust? Blind love? Who the hell knows. But somehow he has the uncanny ability to lure me to tops of mountains and then endure the ride down listening to me verbalize the emotional breakdown I am having. I'm not sure I can really paint a picture for you of what that 2 hours descent down the mountain was like. But there was a lot laying in the snow dropping F bombs, a fair amount of me ranting about how I would NEVER put skis on again IF I ever made it down the mountain. Followed by 2 separate instances where I sat in the snow and flat out cried like an unmedicated psych ward patient. Yes, I was THAT woman. It was humiliating.
I managed to make it to the bottom without requiring a search and rescue team, but it was touch and go for awhile. And after swearing off skiing for the rest of my life, it took about 2 glasses of wine and some laughs before I agreed to try again.
So Crystal and I decided to suck it up, and sign up for ski school with the rest of the schmucks who who can't ski. The idea of ski school sounded about as appealing as hot pokers in my eyes. But a friend of ours was already in ski school 4 hours a day and suggested we pay our dues now, so next year we might actually enjoy this ridiculous sport. This is a woman who each morning and afternoon, headed off to meet her instructor with the enthusiasm of a prisoner heading to forced labor camp. At night, while we were in the lobby consuming mass amounts of wine and whooping it up, her husband would come down to join the party while she went to bed early to prepare for her next stressful day of ski school. Based on her stories, the worst part of ski school was her instructor. He was a 70 year old pit bull who yelled at his students and made a grown Belgian woman cry. He made inappropriate comments and hand gestures to remind her to keep her legs together while skiing. She'd even taken to doing shots of Schnapps before the 10 a.m. start of ski school because he told her it would relax her and make her a better skier. He sounded like a ringing endorsement for NOT subjecting our selves to ski school. But we knew she was already a better skier than us, and I was confident we'd find ourselves with a good looking Austrian instructor that would enjoy our fun American banter.
The next afternoon we reported to ski school with a positive attitude and a nervous stomach. We were instructed to ski down the beginner hill so they could assess our skill level and assign us to a teacher. No problem. We climbed up the hill, put on our skis, and looked down at 4 expectant instructors waiting for us to swoosh down the slope. Call it stage fright, or choking under pressure, but neither us looked very graceful getting down the hill. Not our best performance, but not horrendous. No small children were harmed during our descent and we managed to avoid skiing directly into the waiting instructors. We figured there would be an intermediate group that would suit us well and we would be well on our way to becoming competent skiers.
That's not quite what happened. The next thing we knew, we were riding the magic carpet with 5 first time skiers and following the directions of a friendly ski instructor named Keith. Keith had a kind and jovial face and a great sense of humor. But within 15 minutes, Crystal and I realized that we were WAY too advanced for these novices. We'd watch them struggle down the bunny hill, trying to keep their balance, and we'd roll our eyes at each other and quietly discuss what a mistake they had made to put us in this group. Don't get me wrong, I had compassion for these poor people, but I wan't going to become the next Lindsay Vaughn by hanging with Keith and his newbie crew. So we sucked it up for the rest of the afternoon feeling pretty good about our skiing abilities, while quietly making snarky comments to each other about one of the women who had no concept of how to stop and almost took Crystal out.
After class, we cornered Keith and explained that we'd been placed in the wrong class and needed to be moved up to the next level. He was more than just a little hesitant and tried to kindly tell us that the next level up was much more advanced and that he didn't think we were ready. But after it became clear that we weren't going to back down, he agreed to speak to the other instructor and if he was willing to take us on, we could join the next group. Game on. We were one step closer to mastering this ridiculous sport.
The next morning, after suffering through the hell of getting the kids geared up and ready for skiing, we hunted down Keith, prepared to fight for our promotion to a more challenging group. Keith greeted us with a jovial grin and immediately let us know that the intermediate teacher had agreed to take us on and we should report to Freddy for our first class. We asked how we might find Freddy and he pointed several feet away to our new ski instructor.
Oh crap.
There next to our stressed out friend with the inappropriate pitbull for an instructor stood Freddy. I felt the cold chill of fear come over me as he sized Crystal and I up. He stood no more than 5 feet tall, had beady little eyes and appeared to have spent a lot of time weathering his leathery little face in the sun. As we made our way over to him, he started saying, "Come on! Come on!" with a thick Austrian Accent and not an ounce of patience. I had to fight the urge to turn and shuffle awkwardly back to Keith as quickly as I could.
Freddy proved to be a mean old billy goat who was easily exasperated by pathetic skiers. Two qualities that would seem to be an occupational obstacles for a ski instructor, no? At one point in the morning, he apparently noticed me skiing with my arms out to the sides while holding my ski poles, and screamed, "POOT YOOR AAAHMS DOWN!!! YOU AH NOT JESUS CHRIST!". Well said, Freddy. Excellent point.
As we skied behind him, he would point to one of us and order us to move to the front of the line so he could critique (read: ridicule) our skiing. Freddy would shout out directions to the pupil of choice, and if they didn't perform to his liking, he would shake his head with frustration while looking at the other 5 students as if to say, "Can you believe this idiot?". It's a real self esteem builder, let me tell you.
The first day with Freddy was actually kind of successful. At the end of the lesson, he looked at me and said, "I thought you would give me much trouble. But I think something clicked today." At this point, I probably imagined it, but I think the clouds parted, the sun shone down on me, and I heard angels sing. Really. It felt miraculous. After all my ridiculous moments on skis, I was FINALLY seeing the end of the tunnel!
Until the next day.
All I can say from this point on, is that it was degrading, humiliating and completely and utterly defeating. The next morning, I fell. Not once. Not twice, but numerous times. Freddy was not pleased. No, not at all. And for the record, neither were most of the other students in the class. When I would fall, they would all stand there and watch me flail around trying to stand up. And whenever I took an especially ridiculous looking fall, without fail, it was in front of a ski school of children. And usually, Grace, a sweet 9 year old girl that was vacationing with us, would ski up and look down on me with a sweet concerned look and say, "Are you okay? I saw you fall!". It was really remarkable, that with an entire mountain of runs to ski, she almost always managed to be within eyesight when I humiliated myself. The first few times she did it, I smiled and thanked her for her concern. But as the week went on, my answers became less and less friendly, until at one point I said in an aggravated voice, "Why are you ALWAYS here when I fall?!?! Go ski! There's nothing to see here!". Yes, I was reduced to barking at a sweet 9 year old girl. Good times.
Throughout the week, we would see sweet, wonderful, kind Keith and his novice kamikazes slowlyworking their way down the slopes. They weren't speedy or graceful looking, but damn theylooked relaxed. They didn't look like people who would become almost physically ill each morningwith the dreaded anticipation of a day with Freddy. Keith would look at Crystal and I with his kind eyes and give us wave. But underneath that wave and smile, there was a hint of, "Be carefulwhat you ask for, suckahs!". I would then look at Freddy and have to physical fight the urge to ski towards Keith and beg him to take me back.
And everyday, we would pass one of the ski huts and see a group of our friends sitting out inthe sun, enjoying a frosty beer. Each time I saw them, it was like watching a commercial for theworlds best beer. They would be laughing, smiling, and toasting each other with the look of pure delight on their faces. The slight bit of frothy beer clinging to the rim of their frosty goldenlagers........ Well, okay, maybe I've idealized it a bit, but when you're trudging past them listening to Freddy shout orders at you, everyone else looks like they've just won the lottery.
There were a couple of days when I trudged home after ski school, went straight to our hotel room, and had a pity party for myself. And for the 47th time since strapping skis on my feet, I threw in the towel and declared myself done with skiing. It just wasn't worth the humiliation anymore. Why wouldanyone subject themselves willingly to this kind of torture?!?!? But my flippin' husband stooped beyond low and played a card, I never thought he would be low enough to play. He said "Do you really want our impressionable children to see you give up? What is it you always say to them? Isn't it, 'A winner never quits!' ?" I assure you, I had a few choice words for him.
One afternoon, I told Crystal that I didn't think I could bear another afternoon of falling and being humiliated.The conditions on the mountain were supposed to be terrible that afternoon and I was ready to skip the afternoon portion of our lessons. But she convinced me to come and suggested I fake an injury and leave if I was having a horrible afternoon. We joked about how I could draw blood toget out of ski school and leave a trail of blood in the snow back down to our hotel. We laughed, butI really would have impaled myself on my ski pole if I'd felt the need to flee. But on that particularafternoon, I actually skied without falling. And the only other student that day, a young non English speaking German with a mouthful of crooked teeth, managed to steal our blood shed idea. While skiing back down the mountain, Freddy stopped to give us some instruction. The next thing I know, I hear Crystal say, "Oh my God!". I look over to see the sweet, but awkward German boy cramming an entire pocket pack of tissues up his nose, plastic wrapper and all. All around him the snow was splattered with blood, and while Crystal kindly yet frantically tried to pull more tissues out of her ski jacket, I stood on the verge of dry heaving, trying not to add vomit on the already bloodstained snow. All the while secretly celebrating that someone else would take the lead on Freddy's daily shit list. Yes, it sounds mean and selfish, but ski school with Freddy was all about self preservation. It was each man/woman for himself. And if this poor kid's hemorrhaging nose bleed cut me a little slack that afternoon, I was going to enjoy every minute of it.
So I'm really hoping the week of ski hell will be enough for me to pay my dues. As much as I dreaded every minute of it, I do have to acknowledge that my skiing did improve. By the end ofthe week, Crystal and I decided that we were going to skip Freddy prison for the afternoon, and meet the rest of our friends on the mountain for one of those beer commercial moments. Again,my husband convinced us to join the rest of the gang at the top of the mountain, and like amoron, I listened. But we did manage to make our way slowly down from the top, and I was able to do it without losing the little dignity I had left. When I looked at may watch and realized Iwas late for my date at the beer commercial beside the slopes, I panicked and picked up speed, because there wasn't a ski slope in the Alps that was going to deprive me of that moment. And when we met our group of friends at the ski hut, it was short, but just as sweet as I imagined. Maybe this ski stuff isn't so bad after all.....
