Home for the Holidays Part 3: Skiing

On New Year’s day I flew to Slat Lake City to do some skiing with Charm and Jamitto, two friends from college. I’d last been skiing some seven years prior in Switzerland. We were in Switzerland for a month because of my Dad’s work and, while my Mom thought of skiing to be basically the opposite of everything she enjoys, my Dad and I thought it somewhat criminal to leave without skiing at least once, so we drove to a resort a few hours outside of Zurich, rented some skis, and asked directions to the easy slopes (my Dad learned to ski in college, but my experience was essentially zero). We were directed to a lift that ascended a mountain so huge and foreboding that I imaged I could see the remains of some of Hannibal’s ill-fated Carthaginians lying just beneath the snow. In my first five minutes of skiing I knocked over two people and almost went off a cliff, and so it was decided that I would walk the rest of the way down. This proved to be one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life. In a second attempt, we arranged for ski lessons from a Swiss lady who spoke English like the Nazis always do in World War 2 movies. This had the advantage of making her at least as intimidating as the slope I was asked to go down, so I learned pretty quickly. Still, there’s only so much you can learn in a day and skiing became more or less associated with fear in my memory. Thus, it was with some apprehension that I accepted the invitation to attempt the sport again.

It was night when I arrived in Salt Lake City. Charm and Jamitto met me at the airport and we drove to a ski shop to rent equipment for the following day. I sat down on a char and was immediately asked a lot of questions that I didn’t understand by some very energetic staff. My friends filled in the answers for me and soon I was in procession of a pair of skis, boots, and poles. We headed back to Charm’s house where her parents had prepared a gigantic feast for us. Some of the highlights included lamb ribs, king crab legs, and some kind of spicy vegetable with chicken. Also in attendance were a couple sweet potatoes which I avoided on the grounds that I’d been eating them nonstop for the past year.

Salt Lake City is build in a valley between two mountain ranges. The ranges in the western US are newer than those in the east and thus haven’t been exposed to the weathering effects of wind and rain for as long. This makes them jagged and steep as opposed to smoothing and rolling. Salt Lake City thus appears to be surrounded by row after row of jagged teeth, like the jaws of a shark. If one drives down into the city from the mountains during the night, the glittering city lights seem in danger of being swallowed up by a giant, gaping maw.

The advantage of living inside of a massive stony mouth is that it gives easy access to mountain sports. This, it was only about a 20 minute drive the following morning to the ski resort. We managed to get there around 10 o’clock, pretty impressively early for a group of twenty-somethings who tend to sleep until noon. We donned our ski gear and I immediately felt an awkwardness that can only come from having five foot long metal poles attached to your feet. I was heartily unconvinced that this was in any way superior to the more usual foot-sized shoes that had been serving me so well for so many years.

However, several things had changed since the last time I’d attempted skiing: I was bigger, stronger, more coordinated, and I had a vastly better knowledge of physics. Therefore, as opposed to being more or less scared out of my wits the whole time, I found I learned fairly quickly. After about half and hour of being coached through some basics on a small hill served by a tow rope, Jamitto and Charm decided I was ready for the real mountains. Midway through the day, I realized I was actually enjoying myself.

Towards the end of each day, it became apparent that, although I’d mastered the various mechanical principals involved in skiing pretty well, the principals of thermodynamics were still a little beyond me. That is to say, I was getting cold. Having not used my winter gear for quite a long time, a lot of it had managed to hide itself quite cleverly in various places around my house, and so I had arrived in Salt Lake City a little skimpy on the clothing. Fortunately, Charm’s family had a large box filled with extra winter clothing which I was free to browse through. Not so fortunately, most of these clothes were obviously meant to be worn by girls. And so I ended up hitting the slopes sporting periwinkle blue gloves and a hat crowned with a giant poof ball. I was quite alright with this. Much like pizza, there are two distinct styles of winter dress: New York style and Chicago style. New York style contends that the most important principal is looking good. This style is responsible for such things as the matching hat and gloves, the form-fitting coat that compliments one’s figure, and the designer sweater. It’s practiced by people who have never had to shovel snow out of their driveway or use de-icer on the car locks, people who have never REALLY been outside during the winter (ie: residents of New York City). People in Chicago have more sense. In the Midwest, it gets COLD. And not the cute it’s-snowing-out-let’s-go-build-a-snowman kind of cold, we’re talking I-hope-I-don’t-die-of-frostbite-on-the-way-to-the-mailbox cold. Winter is a struggle for survival, and in such struggles one cannot afford to be constrained by the frivolities of fashion, you just have to pile on every piece of clothing you can get your hands on. That giant down coat that makes you look like a sumo wrestler? At least you’re a warm sumo wrestler. Plaid sweater from the attic that smells kind of funny? Throw it on. One of those giant #1 hands they sell at football games? Do what you have to do. Thus is was with a degree of satisfaction that I surveyed the stylishly dressed skiers around me. I know their secret. I know behind those fashionable good looks you’re freezing your asses off.

Unfortunately, in the evenings, I was freezing my ass off as well. It became suddenly blindly clear why the resort shut down at 4:30: after that it’s just too damn cold. The last few rides up the lifts I cursed the slowness to the ridiculous machines and swore as the wind found chinks in my armor of warmth and knifed into my skin. Every stall of the lift became unacceptably long and I wondered why it was that, while I was in Vanuatu, I’d so longed to be cold. Each day it was a miniature blessing to call it quits and head back to the car, where I’d struggle to unclip my ski boots with my frozen and useless fingers, pack up the gear and get my hands in front of the car’s heater. Of course the nice thing about being out in the cold, is that it really gets your appetite up, which was good because Charm’s family was about as obsessed with food as mine is. Every meal was delightfully massive and over the course of the weekend we demolished steaks and oysters, sushi and barbecue (brought by me from Texas), hot-pot, and dim sum. All in all, an excellent vacation.