I Just Don't Get It - Part 2

Dear Boo and Bubble,

In 1997, Captain took me to Switzerland for the main purpose of watching your Aunt Bee compete in the Prix de Lausanne international ballet competitions, but while we were there, he arranged for us to go to Leysin and spend a couple of days skiing in the Alps. 

We took a train from Lausanne around a portion of Lake Geneva to a stop where we caught the cable tram that carried us straight up 4100 feet into the community of Leysin.  At first, we encountered fog as the tram lumbered along, but once through it, the views were stunning.  Our room at the hotel had a balcony looking straight across to an endless sea of snow-covered peaks. 

Captain disappeared for a while.  When he returned, he proudly announced that he had procured a private ski instructor for us with morning lessons on the next day. 

“He’s supposed to be one of the best….a native of Switzerland,” Captain boasted.  “And I made sure that he speaks good English.”

“FINALLY,” I thought to myself.  “I’m going to conquer this skiing thing!”

I went to sleep that night in great anticipation. 

The sun rose over the Alps the next day with an almost indescribable beauty.  The air was crisp and invigorating, but not too cold.  Although no new snow had fallen for a couple of day, the deep natural base still felt light and crunchy underfoot.

Captain and I enjoyed a good breakfast and afterwards walked over to the ski shop to rent our equipment and meet our teacher.  My mood…excited; my attitude….confident. 

François came out from the private instructors’ lounge. 

“Ahhh….’ello,” he said.  “My name ees François.  I theenk from vat yur hoosband tells me that you are hard to learn dis skiing, no?”

I’m sure my stare back at him seemed impolite, but my brain was trying to figure out what he had just said. 

“Uh…yes, that’s right,” I answered.  “But, you’re going to fix that today, I’m sure.”

We had a little laugh together.

He directed us to the ski lift and told us to take it to the first platform where he (miraculously) would appear to meet us.  As we moved up the mountain in the lift, skis bobbing below, John grabbed my glove-covered hand.

“This is going to be great, don’t you think?  Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.  You’re so sweet to do this.  I know it was expensive.”

Sure enough, as we dismounted, François swooped down upon us from somewhere unknown.  He planted his skis into a dramatic stop, dusting up some powder with flair. 

“I’ve beeeen tinking.  I tink we begin on de trail.  It vil be a must easy, okay?”

“Trail….trail…” I mulled the word over in my head.  What a pleasant, non-threatening ring it had to it. A subtle incline gracefully meandering through snow-dusted pines where one can comfortably negotiate the rigors of skiing without peril or embarrassment.

“That sounds great,” I replied.

With that, he whisked away in a direction toward one of the more severe slopes.  Captain pushed off behind him and I dug in my poles to follow suit.  François stopped abruptly at what appeared to be a path carved out of the side of the mountain.  When I looked to the right, I looked straight up; when I looked down….well, it was literally straight, unobstructed, hundreds-of-feet down.  A trail? You call this a trail?  Geeez.

Our lesson began.

“Now, de most veriest important ting ees dat you alvays keep yur veight on yur dowmnunt ski.”

“Okay….my dominant ski…let’s see…I wonder….I’m righthanded…maybe my right ski is my dominant ski.”

I pushed off and glided a few feet when the first bend in the trail appeared.  I bore down hard on my right ski which produced a very clumsy fall into the snow bank on the uphill side.  François raced to my aid.  He lifted me up and set me right.

“No, no, no….yur veight must be alvays on yur dowmnunt ski.  Vy don’t you try vunce more to make yur progressional, please.”

I started up, continuing around the bend.  Once I gathered some speed, I pressed into my right ski again – and crashed immediately - again.

“No, no, no….vat are you doing?”  François’s frustration became apparent.  “Dowmnunt ski, dowmnunt.”

I tried and tried and tried….all with the same result.

And thus went the morning until finally François looked at me and said –

“I tink et’s time you need to go on de ski lift up to de lodge and drink some beer vile I vork weeth yur hoosband.  It ees no use for you to be wid the skis.”

For what seemed like the hundredth time in my life, skiing had brought utter humiliation to me.  I did as told….unfortunately the only thing that François had instructed which I successfully executed.  It was the best beer I had ever tasted.

That night, Captain asked me what I thought François was saying.

“Dominant ski.  That’s what he was saying.”

Captain began to laugh so hard I thought he might pop.

“No, Beth….he was saying DOWNHILL ski….DOWNHILL ski.”

Aaaahhhhh…..THAT explains EVERYTHING.  It was not my clutziness or my ineptitude…..it was just a good, old-fashioned language barrier.

I went to sleep that night once again full of hope.  Just like Scarlett O’Hara, I truly believed that “tomorrow would be a better day.”

……to be continued.