val d'sure

And so this is Christmas, or Noel, or Julens as they call it in Danish. We are in France, in Val D'Isere, with some Danish friends. After a very long day of skiing ... on a cold bright sunny day ... we head out to a French restaurant. The place is warm and cozy with a nice big fire in the center of the room. But I have to laugh at the stuffed animals and birds so carefully displayed around the room. It's like these creatures are all still alive and they have just flown in for dinner. Any minute, one of the birds might swoop down and steal some of my cheese fondue.After dinner, the Danes drag me out to a night club called "The Little Denmark." The place is just hopping with Scandanavians all rattling away in Danish. The bartenders plays some real "oldie" Danish songs, then pops in a "I am Dreaming of a White Christmas" just for me. But the Danes all sing along, not missing a beat.

The real fun begins when Danes run around the Christmas tree. They sing Danish Christmas carols, holding hands, and running circles around the tree ... all at a pace that seems to be like an aerobics class gone out of control. And at the end of one of the songs, they all break off part of the tree and eat it. (I tell the bartender it was a good thing they only put the tree up a week ago ... with everyone snacking on this poor tree just how long could it last?)And then for the ritual with the presents back at the apartment... we eat German cookies, home made by a German from the US that are just great. We break open English "poppers", wear the silly hats that come inside, and drink British tea. And we swap Christmas presents. The Danes give me a present wrapped in aluminum foil, which makes me laugh. I guess it's an easy way to keep wrapping paper around the house.I tell the guys about the British lady ... about her standing in the middle of the only place I could really ski. Just a tiny little cat walk. Her poles, her skis were everywhere and from what I could guess at a first glance coming down the hill, this was her first day skiing. She didn't look like she was having fun. (Nobody has fun on their first day ... or their second... or until they figure out how to turn, how to not care if they are a bit out of control.) 

I could hear her husband just screaming, "Get out of the way." He was so mad. She was just scrambling to move, but those poles, awkward boots, and tons of bulky clothing were paralyzing her. I skied up to her and stopped. She started to apologize. I just smiled. "Look, new skiers have the absolute right of way. Have a very Merry Christmas." I laughed. She laughed. And her husband at first looked as if he was going to scream again, and then he laughed too.Days later...Before Christmas, we skied. On Christmas day, we skied some more. And the day after Christmas we skied again. I am exhausted from....Green, blue, red, and black slopes. Skis scraping on ice. Skiing on the glacier. Mogul fields that make my legs just burn. Zipping by gumby skiers who, with shaky legs, try to talk themselves into turning. ("Turn here, turn now.") Bright sunny days that are wicked cold ... cold fingers, cold toes, and a cold nose. Small drafts of cold air drifting into my ski suit through the seams, through small places I didn't seal off quite well enough. Soft powder that lets me float down the mountain. Endless "Kodak moments" ... views of mountains, of Mount Blanc (just a few mountains over.) 

The lifts, the lines, the train, the trams, and the rope toes that all drag you up the mountain so you can go down again. The ski lockers and the icy walk through town to get to the lifts. Hot chocolate, chocolate bars, and chocolate cookies in crowded mountain top bars with a real mixed bag of Europeans just jabbering away in languages that I can only laugh about. (I am thrilled if I can even pick them out.)And....The 52-degree black-diamond run that's on the way home .... It's so steep I can't look up; I can't look down. I find myself saying, "Turn here, turn now." But I don't turn ... I zip sideways until I run out of mountain. Until trees or ridges or icy bumps force me to point the skis down hill. I turn, finally, right before I land in the trees .... And the skis just zip back to the other side, again while I find myself saying, "Turn here, turn now." And the real good skiers, the guys that zip down the mountain, just go by like they are flying ... like they are on a "death wish" or a "I wanna break my leg" wish, which I don't seem to share. My boots, my poles, they go every which way. "Turn here, turn now."Merry Christmas....