Thursday, February 5, 2009
Ski Trip (Day Twentyfive, Paragraphs 26 & 27)
Aside from falling, my most vivid memory of my first time skiing is curly fries. My dad took us skiing, my brother and I. The three of us bundled into the car (I feel like it was our orange Beetle but maybe I am just being overly nostalgic? somehow 1983 Nissan Sentra doesn't have the same magic to it and the heat worked well in that car and I remember being cold) on the drive to Hunter Mountain. My dad had been skiing only once in his life and, according to his version of the story (which is corroborated by my mom) he spent the whole trip at the bar in the lodge. My experience skiing that first trip left me with the notion that future ski trips would be spent much the way my dad liked to spend his. I did put on ski boots and skis. I held ski poles. But I could not stay vertical. I fell. And fell. And fell. And fell. My brother skied like an expert right from the get go. My dad waived to us from a bench on the sidelines. When I couldn't take it anymore, we went to the cafeteria and had hot chocolate and the curliest curly fries we had ever seen. They were the kind of fries that look incredible - curlicues galore, golden brown, glistening, steaming - yet taste like cardboard. We ate them anyway because they looked amazing.
Several years later, I tried skiing again on a family trip to Vermont. The conditions were terrible - the instructors and ski patrol people were telling us that it was the coldest winter on record and that even hard core skiers were staying away. Not being one to like failing I gave it a go again. I put on ski boots and skis. I held ski poles. But I could not stay vertical. I fell. And fell. And fell. And fell. My brother skied like an expert right from the get go. My dad wived to us from a bench on the sidelines. When I couldn't take it anymore, we went to the bar and had hot chocolate with Baileys. Who needs curly fries.
Photo credit: Leo-setä on Flickr