FOR PHOTOS FROM THIS VACATION, CLICK HERE.

My vacation journal is very long, but hopefully it's a fun read!

My adventure began several weeks before my actual vacation. Buying my first set of ski clothes, especially since I’ve never skied, and only even seen snow twice, was an ordeal in and of itself. Then the week prior to departure was carefully planned and filled with last minute preparations. Unfortunately, despite attention to every conceivable detail, things did not go exactly as I’d planned. Things started out easily enough. Everything I wanted to pack did indeed fit into one duffel bag (with careful space management), even if it does weigh over 30 pounds, and as Will pointed out several times, has no wheels.

Thursday, March 8th

Will picked me up from work and we were at his house waiting when Shon and Bill (Will’s dad) showed up, Bill was kind enough to drive us to the airport. Thankfully we’d given ourselves plenty of time, because I275 was apparently a parking lot. Our alternate route put us at the check-in desk with plenty of time to spare. We attempted to check in via an annoying automated machine which kept counting down from 30 seconds every time you touched the screen. Apparently those who wrote the software felt that 30 seconds of inactivity meant you were no longer interested in boarding your flight. And despite the best efforts of Shon, Will and myself to appease the god of half minutes, the kiosk still died before we could complete the final steps. Thus we began the process again with a human this time, while an airline representative rebooted the kiosk. And I do quite literally mean “rebooted” as, upon opening the machine, we saw that the software was actually just running on a p.c. with windows XP. We were even greeted with the familiar windows startup noise. The human check-in process was mostly painless, and we were soon on our way to the terminal. It should here be noted that I am rather spoiled. The Tampa airport is consistently rated among the top airports in the world. Everything is easy to get to, no terminal is ever far away, even the security checkpoint (with a deceptively long line) moved rather quickly. We were, however, forced to watch several minutes of commercials on the plane before they’d take off.

Our flight left on time and we were in Philadelphia within a scant 2.5 hours. The airport at Philly? Not so much. The Philly airport has five concourses: A-D and F. I don’t know why they skipped “E” unless they are trying to match the equally absurd American grading system. Even more irritating is the distance one must travel when one is changing planes. We landed in concourse C. The poor folks who had connecting flights in concourse F had to take a shuttle bus. Keep in mind the outside temperature in Philly was 35 degrees F. We were slightly more fortunate to connect in concourse A, a measly twenty minute jaunt down what seemed to be an endless hall. Will and Shon insisted on going to smoke, willing to brave the insane security checkpoint to come back in. I went ahead to our gate and read. It took them a full hour to catch up to me, a testament to the length of the security line. My choice of reading material was excellent if I do say so, Bill Bryson’s Walkabout. It’s actually two books, the first being his recount of hiking the Appalachian Trail. I found it interesting that throughout my adventure so far, his own tale seemed to be mirroring mine, though my journey was filled with far less hardship and peril. We had managed to secure buffalo chicken strips in Tampa, but I was (of course) hungry by the time we were in Philly. My dinner was comprised of bruschetta (with what must have been an entire bulb of garlic) and a couple of shots of apple rum. Just as we were about to board, Will realized he’d misplaced his boarding pass. After a slight panic, the staff assured us that his e-ticket was easily replaced. Crisis averted.

We’d expected the flight to be nine hours. Then the pilot announced that we’d be in the air for six and a half. Of course, we took off thirty minutes late, and were in flight for another additional thirty minutes, so we finally got off the plane at close to 4am eastern. I’d never been on a plane for so long. Will and Shon were able to doze, however the only parts of me that managed to stay asleep for more than twenty minutes at a time were my ass and my feet. Will kept commenting afterward that I was not only fitful, but I was also vocally portraying my malcontent with sighs and grunts aplenty. I did get some reading done, but the going was slow, due to the fact that most of the lights were dimmed so that people could sleep. When once I accidentally turned on my overhead light I quickly decided that I’d better read without it, unless I wanted a dozen sleepy, angry passengers throwing blunt objects at my head. (It was bright.) We landed without fanfare and disembarked, noting that it looked as if a tornado had scattered the plane’s contents onto the floor. Courtesy blankets and pillows, trash, magazines and more were strewn about on nearly every horizontal surface. Customs and baggage claim were quite uneventful and we soon found Lance waiting to pick us up.

Friday, March 9th

There are so many reasons why I’m very happy to not have been in the list of people expected to drive on this trip. Chief among those reasons is my fear of driving a manual… the last time I drove stick I was rear-ended in a very messy accident. Other reasons include (but are not limited to): It’s a foreign car (as in, not mine), I’ve never driven on ice (there wasn’t much around at that moment, but that changed on the mountain), and Europeans drive like maniacs on very narrow streets. Now then, once we got to Lance’s house, all my careful planning jumped summarily out the window. The Euro power converter apparently corrected for amps but not volts, or something, and so my laptop’s power cord, already slightly damaged by doggy teeth, began to smoke and spit flame in a startlingly violent manner. Oh well, I needed to spend $80 to get another power cord anyway, but that simple act rendered dragging my laptop across the Atlantic completely moot. Also, my $10 bottle of Cassis Rose shower gel decided to spew its contents all over my toiletries bag, also creating two large goop-marks on my duffel. I gave up and took a shower. Quite nice to wash off the stink I was quickly building. Luckily Lance has an exceptionally effective drying rack, so I was able to wash my toiletries bag and my pullover and in short order they were dry.

The next order of business was to secure food. At least enough for the next day or so. I was happily amused to learn that in Holland you can actually still go to separate stores for different items. The butcher, the produce market, and so on. I was even able to get a curry. I vaguely remember stuffing my face before wandering upstairs to pass out. Finally I got an honest two hours of sleep in a horizontal position. Lance called us down to dinner after a couple of hours. Lance’s wife Ivanka was home and there were positively piles of Chinese food on the table. Will insists that he doesn’t like Chinese food. I understand disliking MSG, but he wouldn’t admit to liking the Chinese food on the table, so he just insisted it wasn’t Chinese food. The discussion turned to what music we would be listening to on the eleven hour road trip facing us the following day. The tastes around the table varied from urban to country. Suddenly we realized there was a snag of some importance: What music could we play that wouldn’t drive one of the passengers to stab themselves repeatedly? Through quite a long discussion we discovered that I use the term urban to encompass far more music than Lance, to include quite a lot that he liked, and he was using the term county to cover a far broader spectrum, including quite a large amount of music that I love. We were soon listening to bluegrass and Gaelic/Irish folk (neither of which do I place in the category of country). Unfortunately Lance’s computer vehemently refused to play any of the urban that I tried to share, randomly refusing to load pages from both Yahoo music and Amazon. We continued listening to various forms of music for several hours, and then settled in to watch Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Shon and Lance only made it perhaps half way thought the movie before beginning to drift in and out of consciousness. At several points Will and I were treated to stereo snoring. Even more amusing was the gusto with which they slept, calling their names and smacking them (on the knee, of course) was often not enough to wake them. Once the movie was over, Lance declared that we had three hours to sleep, for we were to depart at 5am. ***

Saturday, March 10th

I didn’t know this vacation was going to be so regimented. Apparently my ski lessons were to begin every morning at 7, according to Shon and Lance. Granted, I wake up at 6am every day, but usually on vacation I like to sleep in. And to top it off our eleven hour drive was to be accomplished in a small Italian car. It was on this drive that I finally started to break down from fatigue. It started out well enough, as things always do. However you must remember I’d been awake since 6am eastern on Thursday the 8th. By this point it was just after midnight on the morning of Saturday the 10th, and all I’d had was a few naps totaling perhaps 5 hours of sleep. You can live on it, but it wasn’t long before I snapped. It had been cramped on the plane, but the car was ten times worse. I fidgeted and fretted and tossed and squirmed. When Will finally poked fun at my restlessness I broke down into tears. Luckily reason took back over fairly quickly, but Will didn’t poke fun at me again. It was Will’s turn to drive when we got to Metz, France, around 11am Holland time (six hours ahead of eastern). This meant it was my turn to be the navigator (and sit in the front seat). It was our duty to get us to Nancy, then Dijon, where someone else would take over to Lyon. Some interesting things I noticed while navigating the French countryside: If I’d been drugged at home, flown over to Europe, plopped in a car and then woke up, it would probably take me a while to figure out where I was. The houses are closely spaced and quaintly old, which combined with the bare trees and hilly terrain reminds me of New England. The large open fields with cows grazing is much like Florida, if not for the rolling hills, and the open farmland is like nothing I remember driving through, but I’d suppose they were reminiscent of the Midwest. In fact, the only thing that suggests you are indeed in another country are the oddly shaped speed limit signs, and the distance-to signs all list French cities. That’s it. Even the clouds remind me of the kinds of clouds I see at home; they just seemed a bit closer. (To clarify, different regions in the States have different clouds that are typical for the region. Florida gets great fluffy clouds that are flat on the bottom. New England’s clouds are flat and wispy. Los Angeles just has one big smog cloud.) So I didn’t really start with any expectations about what Europe would look like, but I didn’t think it would look so much like home. Even Will looked out across the great green fields and chuckled, “Looks like Windows.”

France also lists the cities backwards on most of the signs. In the States, signs list the cities and their distance with the closest city first, that is, on top, farther cities then get put below. This makes sense: we start reading at the top of the page, and you’d want to be able to see which city you’re actually approaching. In France, the farthest city is listed first, though not all the time. I just can’t imagine why they’d do this. And as much discussion as was devoted to music for the journey, we didn’t start listening to anything until seven and a half hours into the trip (everyone had been trying to sleep). Will and I tried to convince everyone that we should remain up front for more of the trip, but Lance took over driving north of Lyon as planned. Shon went up to be the navigator, and yet Will, Ivanka and I had to keep looking at the map from the back seat to explain where we were, where we were going, and how we should get there. We kept thinking we’d taken the wrong roads, but miraculously we remained on course (for a while). Unfortunately I learned that Lance and Ivanka are incapable of completing any kind of road trip without getting lost at least once, but more on that later. The discussion had turned o Paris, and whether or not the city still stunk. Shon pointed out that all of Europe smells of CO2. Will and I corrected him, both carbon dioxide and monoxide are odorless. Apparently this pushed the right button and so before we even got to the chalet, Shon was already upset.

We drove for nine hours before we saw the first mountain off in the distance. Then we hit a traffic jam. We stopped to stretch and change out drivers to Ivanka this time, because being a passenger in the mountains made her ill. Never mind that the mountains were still off on the horizon. An hour into the traffic jam we thought we’d found the source: someone on the other side of the road had broken down and was getting a push. He wasn’t blocking traffic on his own side of the road, let alone ours, but that’s rubbernecking for you. We barely made it back up to a respectable speed when traffic again came to a stop. And I literally mean “came to a stop.” People started getting out of their cars to stretch and smoke. Traffic intermittently crawled and parked. We saw several ambulances and security vehicles drive by, and wondered if someone had set off a bomb in the tunnel we hoped we were approaching, or if perhaps France had gone to war with Italy. We made it up to a good clip a few more times, and slowed again, until finally traffic cleared at Chambery. We never saw signs of an accident, only emergency vehicles coming back the other way. We were also getting bewildered looks from nearly every car in the vicinity. This probably had a log to do with the t-shirt hanging out of the window. You see, the luggage rack on top of the car had somehow caused the driver door to become unable to close properly, thus high speeds caused a loud whistling noise. To prevent this, we’d drape a folded shirt over to top of the door and slam it shut. We all agreed that the flutter of the shirt in the wind was far more tolerable than the howl. We stopped near Albertville to stretch, and it was decided that I should sit up front with Ivanka, since I was as prone to car sickness as she. We wound up the mountain avoiding reckless drivers and finally made it to the lodge around 9 (Holland time), too late to get out skis, too late to buy liquor, too late to get a seat at the restaurant. Cold, tired, cranky, hungry and snipping at each other, we were directed by reception to the Igloo Shack beyond the pub for pizza, hot dogs, burgers and so on. The food was surprisingly fresh and well made, a testament to the French I suppose. However this is when my body finally quit on me. My stomach had been hurting, but I’d been attributing the pain to hunger. The pain built until, at the restaurant, I doubled over, tears streaking down my face. Will had to walk me back up to the apartment. Laying down took away most of the pain, and so it was that I went to bed some time around 11, and finally got a proper night’s sleep.

Sunday, March 11th

Lance’s brother Zac, sister Kellee and her friend Yvonne arrived sometime during the night. When I woke up the stomach pain had gone, though actually standing up brought its ghost back. Luckily this time it really was caused by hunger, and some bread and cheese chased it off. Then it was down to the ski shop to procure boots, skis and poles. My class was actually due to start at 9:15 (because Lance and Shon, and Zac and Will for that matter, feel the need to pull your leg before telling you the truth), but given that the shop didn’t open until 8:30, I couldn’t make the morning class. Think what you may, but forty five minutes is not enough time to get eight people’s equipment, let alone get on a bus and get down to the slopes. Luckily a second class was scheduled to start at 2:30 in the afternoon, so for the morning Will and I went up a small lift and then down the mountain. Will apologized several times for not being a good instructor, but he was an excellent teacher, he just taught me fairly advanced techniques. I was heading down what I considered to be a large, steep slope for a beginner. Mostly my problem was that I was unafraid. Zooming down the mountain at extremely high speeds didn’t intimidate me in the slightest, but that meant I had no control at all. Sometimes I could turn, much to the amazement of my more experienced companions. I even had good form. But just as often (or more) I fell instead. This would be the beginning of fairly large bruises on my hips, ass, knees and shins. All the muscle training I did before I left meant that my thighs were up to the challenge. My back, however, was screaming at me for the rest of the night. We met for lunch.

Let me relate a few more things about Europe: Ice is against the law. You may not have ice in your drink, ever. If you manage to get someone to give you ice, they will give you two ice cubes at most. Also, nothing in Europe (as far as food goes) is like food in America. Even something so simple as nachos or pizza is completely unlike anything in the States. So be prepared to have an open mind as far as food goes. And the bathrooms? Most public toilets don’t have what we’d call a “seat” - they’re more like what American women fall into in the middle of the night if there’s an inconsiderate male in the house. Also, Europe seems to dislike the levers and switches of which we’re so fond. Lights are turned on and off from the wall via a rectangular panel that you tap at the top or the bottom, and toilet flushers are buttons on the wall. There may even be two buttons, for varying levels of flush. So your food selection isn’t the only thing you’re going to need to be open minded about. Now then, the lessons. Kellee and I decided to stick together, since our skill level seemed somewhat compatible, that is, we fell a lot. We started out with the beginners’ class. The instructor said that he would explain how to walk in skis, put them on, et cetera. Well, maybe we should move on to the level one class, we thought. This instructor sent us up a small hill and then asked us to “snow plow” back. If you’re not familiar with skiing, snow plowing means pointing your skis in a wedge downhill to slow your descent. We then had to go back up and do it again, this time incorporating turns. Again I fell on my ass. Our instructor was thoroughly unimpressed, and passed me off to another instructor named Bruno. Bruno’s class was all about plowing snow. Bruno took us off to a small hill farther down the mountain. It was such a gradual slope that no one of any skill ever skis there, and we therefore didn’t have to worry about getting in the way of more experienced skiers. And thus, we snow plowed. Over and over. I understand the need to control your descent, however after a few times I’d gotten the hang of it. I started to get fairly frustrated, and wondered if the classes were going to be a total waste of money. Thankfully, Bruno tried to spend a little personal time with each student, and so in time he asked me how I was doing. I told him I’d been skiing on the larger slope all morning, and that I could go down the hill just fine. I could even turn right by that point, but I was having issues turning left. So he showed me how to turn by leaning my body as if I were reaching for something. Suddenly I could turn left, and the snow plowing had taught me a greater level of control. I continued to practice this technique, and the lesson actually seemed to have done a world of good. I wondered how effective this method would be on steeper slopes, though. I was exhausted by the end of class, right about 5pm. I could barely walk. I was panting and had to take frequent breaks. I also had to find the bus back to the apartment. In case anyone who doesn’t know me is reading this, I have a terrible sense of direction. When I pull off the interstate for gas, I have to be careful to remember which way I turn. I carry maps with me on any given regular day, so to be lead all over the slopes (I’d never been skiing before, did I mention that?) in a foreign country was disorienting to say the least. Combine that with total exhaustion and I was about to break down. I wandered in the general direction I thought might be accurate, trying to use landmarks I’d seen during the day. This task was made infinitely more difficult by the fact that I’d left my glasses in the room. I can’t read anything more than five feet away. I can see, but I can’t read at a distance. I managed to find the bus station, but then nearly panicked as we approached every stop, because I couldn’t read the signs. And at every stop I’d ask “What stop is this?” and people would just stare. I even heard some conversations in English, people just didn’t want to answer. I began asking “Alpages?” (the name of our lodge) and people still just stared. Finally a woman announced at the next stop, “Alpages!” and she pointed. “Merci!” I gushed, nearly to the point of tears. Finally almost home, I puffed and panted up the drive and made it to the room. I felt grumpy and betrayed, alone and achy. I did finally manage to take a hot bath and wash away the dirty day.

We had home cooked spaghetti (with a mixture of three canned sauces and other ingredients thrown in) and salad (unlike American salad, because apparently iceberg lettuce is outlawed right along with ice) and France’s version of ranch dressing. The food was welcome, regardless of it’s lack of resemblance to my beloved American food. After dinner it was time for Texas Hold’em. Will had been trying to convince me to play this game for weeks before the vacation itself. Texas Hold’em is one of the most tedious and boring games I can possibly think of being forced to play, so Lance, Zac, Yvonne, Will and Shon played, and Ivanka, Kellee and I chatted on the couch. I didn’t last long. By shortly after 9pm, thoughts of a warm, soft bed tempted me beyond resisting. Still I read for two hours until Will came to bed. Mind you, Will and I had out private fun on this trip, but I won’t go into details. It’s “private fun” for a reason.

Monday, March 12th

*** So, Monday morning went a whole lot better than Sunday. We already had our gear so we had time to eat a breakfast of bread and cheese and still make the morning classes. Again Kellee and I went to the level one class where the instructor, Kristoff, the same guy who had passed me off to Bruno the day prior, nearly tried to do so again. Perhaps it was the pleading look on my face, but thankfully he decided to let me try with his class again. We did some snow plowing and turns, my control was getting very good, and then he started teaching us to keep our skis parallel more often. You see, depending on how you snow plow, various muscles in your legs and ass start to burn rather fiercely. Running parallel will allow your legs, or at least one of them, to rest. My favorite part of the day was when we came to a relatively steep slope, which then sloped back upwards rather sharply. This allowed the braver among us to race down the hill with as much speed as we could muster, with plenty of uphill slope to steal the momentum. I think it was here that I finally impressed Kristoff. All of the other students, most far better and more skilled than I, remained upright and only built moderate speed. I waited to go last, bent my knees, tucked my poles and raced down as fast as my skis allowed. Kellee and I stuck with an English woman named Nikki, since the three of us were the only non-French speakers in the class (out of about a dozen students). By lunch time I was rather proud of my progress. Once again the eight of us gathered for food.

I actually managed to get the European equivalent of “a lot” of ice, i.e. about six ice cubes. You see, the drinks start out cold enough, but by the time you get to the bottom, they’re warm. I like for my drink to be cold the entire time I’m drinking it, hence the ice. After lunch, Will and I decided to ski one of the longest “green” (very easy) slopes called La Violette. He was too tired to ski anything tougher, and I wasn’t confident enough. However Will was so impressed with my improvement that he insisted we ski the blue slope (easy) named Boyes back to the lodge. I only acquiesced because he promised it was easier (and less painful) than taking the bus. Oddly enough, our shins were exceptionally bruised, and walking was terribly painful, but the pain went away as soon as we put on our skis. So I much preferred the idea of skiing back. We faced three of the hardest conditions on the slopes: slush, ice and crowds. However I still managed to do a good job of it, and we were literally able to ski right up to the ski lockers. Let me tell you, after a day in ski boots, whatever shoes you put on afterward will be the most comfortable shoes you’ve ever worn. We had a short dip in the pool, and then I took another relaxing bath, which I realized would become a staple of the stay. Also, most European showers don’t have shower curtains, so a bath prevented flooding the bathroom. After I’d washed the grime of the day away, Will and I walked to the small store above the ski shop. I picked up souvenirs for those who had asked for them (a postcard for my mom, a French newspaper for a coworker) and we bought foodstuffs, wine and other supplies. The apartment (as Europeans call the lodge or suite) came with one roll of toilet paper, one trash bag, and no napkins or paper towels. Obviously that doesn’t last long with eight people, especially when six of them are Americans and one is a defected American (Lance moved to Amsterdam to marry Ivanka). Lance and Ivanka set about cooking a traditional Dutch dinner called Stamp Pot, which sounds something like Stolmp Polt when pronounced by a Dutch woman. It is so named because you stamp (or mash) everything into a pot, in this case potatoes, endives, sausage and gravy. Unfortunately my stomach pain chose “right before dinner” to make an encore appearance. The food was certainly tasty, but I wolfed it down more out of a desire to go to bed. By the time I cleared my plate the pain had built up to about half it’s previous level, so I excused myself and went to bed. This was at 7:30. For two hours I drifted in and out of sleep to the sounds of Texas Hold’em. My stomach pain had finally stopped (and Will had lost his last hand) so I went out to join the crowd. I ate some red bell peppers and Tzatziki and watched Lance and Shon battle out the final rounds of the game. After Shon finally won (much to Ivanka’s relief, for she’d been trying to film the last moments of the game for thirty minutes) most people decided to go to bed. Here is where my night took an unfortunate turn for the worse.

Lance, Shon and Will had all warned me in advance that Zac possessed a remarkable ability to piss people off. In the two discussions I’d so far had with him, he’d proven two things: He states his opinion as if it was fact, and he will talk about things he knows little or nothing about as if he is an authority. On the previous two occasions I’d been able to walk away (or ski off, as it were), but this time his voice echoed through the apartment. I kept trying to walk away but he continued to go on and on as some kind of authority on lawyers and law. Keep in mind my experience with him up until this point left me with every reason to believe that he was pulling information out of his ass and expecting us to swallow it. I didn’t realize he was actually studying law. Why should I have given him credit? He’d already proven to have a closed mind and an open mouth. I’ll give examples to prove my point. If you start reading up on global climate change, one of the very first things you will learn is that global warming and global cooling are very intricately related. One can very easily (and nearly always does) lead to the other. Anyone who scoffs at the dichotomy between the two and declares that there is nothing to worry about is quite literally an idiot on the subject. The only real debate is whether or not humans can affect change in either direction. It was precisely of this conversation that I had no respect for anything that came out of Zac’s mouth. In another conversation he stated that Hilary Clinton was the only person with the slightest chance of getting the democratic nomination for president, because she’d buy out or silence any opposition, and that Barack Obama doesn’t stand a chance. All of this is moot conjecture at this point, of course, but he was vehemently demanding that his point of view was the only one with validity. Now, I enjoy having civil, adult discussions on a range of subjects. In fact I participate in such heated conversations on a regular basis with a wide variety of people. The difference between those conversations and this particular debate about the honesty or greed of lawyers is that most rational adults carry on an actual conversation. That is, all parties get to say their piece. The debate that takes place is based on a thorough understanding of the other person’s position. Zac, on the other hand, defends his position by interrupting you before you have a chance to say something intelligent. I literally didn’t get to finish one sentence, not one, during his oral diarrhea. (note below) He was very likely correct in most of what he was saying, after all he is studying law specifically, but since he obviously spits opinion and untruths as fact one can never be sure. What’s more, I prefer to be corrected when wrong, that’s the whole point of having any kind of discussion in the first place, however given that I couldn’t get a word in edge-wise, I was rather frustrated at being called “wrong” before I’d even made my point. I got more and more upset before storming off, muttering “self righteous sonofabitch” under my breath. This sent Lance down the hall after me, finger in the air ready to start blowing up on me (he was defending his brother after all) but Will stopped him in his tracks. Kellee tried to convince me that Lance and Zac were both just “like that” and she’d often been in exactly my position. Will was just disappointed that I’d let someone affect me so deeply. Fuming and very much wanting to be away from people, I grabbed my jacket and went for a walk.

Note: Will pointed out that I am passionate about everything, and Zac is anything but passionate. And when someone who is dispassionate refuses to acknowledge someone else's passion, they come off looking like a jerk. This is not something of which I was personally consciously aware, but perhaps that influenced me as well. It is also worthy to note that Zac was completely non-confrontational for the rest of the week, and regardless of the incident I do not think ill of him. I just guard myself against anything he touts as knowledge.

You will notice two things on the Alps at night, and probably every other ski resort though I don’t know first hand. The slopes must prepare for the next day’s skiing by producing snow if none has fallen. None had fallen, so large snow cannons shot frozen water into the air for several hours every evening. Then large snow plows, or Snow Tanks as we all called them, smoothed out the slopes for better skiing. We’d seen these monstrous machines, headlights beaming, traversing the mountains each night. Will insisted they were twice as big as tanks, and Shon stated that they stayed on the mountains without slipping via their weight and their tank-like treads. I insisted that weight alone was not enough to keep something from sliding down the mountain, and I wanted to see these machines for myself, so I decided to wander down the Boyes slope to see if I could get a closer look. Standing out in the open air was fairly chilly, so I kept running back to the outside (but covered) dining area of the pub. Finally I thought I heard one approaching so I jogged down the slope. The Snow Tank slowed and actually stopped and opened the door. I ran up, excited. “I wanted to see!” I yelled into the cabin. The driver motioned me for to climb up and join him. He didn’t speak any English, but I speak very broken French, enough to say “thank you” and ask some very simple questions. He went up the Boyes slope and then flipped a switch which swung a long arm from one side of the tank to the other. He then hopped out and jammed a yellow plastic tube into the middle of the slope. It had a blinking red light. I still have no idea what this was for. He then attached a winch on the end of the arm to one of the snow cannons, which allowed him to descend a particularly steep slope without danger of falling. The vehicle indeed had treads, however instead of being the treads of a regular tank these were made up of large paddles to dig into the snow. The entire machine was about the size of one combat tank. He dropped me off in front of the pub and I skipped happily back to the apartment. Everyone was asleep except Lance and Will, who were out on the balcony discussing the night’s argument. At Will’s behest I agreed to apologize to Zac for calling him a name, but it still took several dozen minutes of discussion before I’d finally been allowed to say my piece, at least to some audience. The three of us then spent a few more hours discussing politics. The basic gist of the conversation was: If a given method may or may not improve society, is there a duty to try to improve society anyway? There was very little common ground to be had. We went to bed somewhere around 1:30am.

Tuesday, March 13th

Tuesday morning, let me tell you, I did not want to go skiing. My muscles were aching in places I didn’t even know I had. I didn’t even think about the bruise in my right shin, a bruise which on any normal person would be the color of coal. (I have thick blood and bruises don’t easily show.) Will decided he’d wait out the morning before skiing, but insisted that since my lessons were already paid for, I should take full advantage of them. And so it was that, with possibly the worst bruise I’ve ever had in my life, worse than the bruises on both hips and both knees, I went skiing. Now, the day prior, if you’ll remember, putting my boot in the ski alleviated the pain in my poor, tender shin. This day, not so much. Pressing on the boot brought pain, but relieving the pressure brought even more. I went through the first two hours of class with tears streaking down my face and fogging up my goggles. Luckily, putting a bruise through constant trauma will eventually cause it to go numb, and I was able to complete the day’s lesson without much pain. We only learned something that Will had already taught me, that is, the ability to slide down the mountain while perpendicular to it. This allows you to descend slopes that are otherwise too steep to snow plow or ski down. It did at least provide practice, and I got a few more chances to go as fast as my skis allowed. Kellee was in enough pain and enjoying herself so little that she left the class early. This left me with a mostly French class. I spend the rest of the morning practicing my French. I’d really like to be fluent. Despite my desire to vehemently declare the class to be a waste of time and money and an unnecessary amount of pain, I once again learned an amount of control previously unattained. The eight of us met for lunch once again, this time at a restaurant at the top of the 3 Roc lift. Very good food, I had crepes! They also had friendly service, for France. That’s not a knock on the French, but it was our experience that they really just don’t care. You see, servers make good money and don’t rely on tips, and therefore don’t pay as much attention to you or try to be as friendly as servers in America. Will, Shon and I decided to ski La Violette again. My improved confidence allowed us to complete it in a much shorter time, and so we did it again. After a short rest we took the Boyes slope back to the apartment. *** I took a bath, accompanied Will to the pool, had Swiss cheese fondue for dinner, and watched the men play poker while I engaged them in a philosophical and scientific debate (and got drunk on Bacardi). I was finally forced to go to bed by Will, despite my desire to continue drinking.

Wednesday, March 14th

When I awoke in the morning, I wondered why the room seemed to be moving. I thanked Will for making me go to bed and leave the remaining shots of rum in the bottle. I got dressed and had breakfast, but really wasn’t in the mood to go skiing, so instead I went back to bed for a couple of hours. Will took my camera to get some panoramas from the mountain tops. For lunch we were to meet at a Tex-Mex place in the central valley. Instead of taking the bus down, I decided to try the ski route Will had pointed out on the map. The ski lift I needed to take was of a kind I’d not yet encountered, called pancake lifts. Long poles dangle from the line with flat circles on the bottom. You grab the pole and put it between your legs with your butt on the pancake. The first time I attempted to take this lift I fell off in very short order. A ski instructor behind me helpfully suggested I use a chair lift instead, which is all well and good except the chair lift didn’t go where I needed to go. There were two reasons I’d fallen off, the first being that the attendant made me hold my ski poles in one hand, which only gave me one hand to hold on to the lift. Also, the way Will had described the pancake, I thought one was supposed to put one’s weight on one’s ass. This is not the case. You have to stand on your skis and allow the lift to pull you up. The second try was successful, especially because I kept my pole straps on my arms and used both hands to hold on. I then managed to find my way down to the central valley without getting lost. (I was always fearful because the ski maps don’t always make sense, and without my glasses I couldn’t read any of the signs, and my goggles took away all color so I couldn’t tell if the poles marking the slopes were blue, green or otherwise.) Part of the slope down to the valley was steep and forced me to side ski down, which was still pretty hard. I thought I was going to have to descend on my ass. I still fell once. I did make it to the Tex-Mex restaurant without too much trouble, though, and sat in the snow to wait for everyone else. In front of the restaurant was something of a playground for small children, made completely of snow. A large hill with a slide was adorned with forts and moguls. At the foot of this hill stood a stroller (the occupant presumably up on the hill with a parent) and leashed to this stroller was a Schnauzer female. I love dogs. Many people around the resort had brought their dogs, and it was always a pleasure to see them. By this point I was also missing my own, so I sat next to her. Dogs in Europe, and probably everywhere, are far more behaved than dogs in America. She sniffed my outstretched hand and turned her attention back toward the hill. Undeterred, but knowing better than to intimidate her, I sat beside her and waited for her to come to be. Shortly she decided to give me a chance, and allowed me to start scratching her head and neck in the way dogs so enjoy. I found a good spot on her neck that got her leg going, and within a couple of minutes she was resting her head on my knee, thoroughly enjoying my company. When her family returned she greeted them with a fiercely wagging stub of a tail, but when I got up to leave she’d have none of it. She charged back over to me and was very reluctant to leave my side. I thanked the family and bid them farewell.

The rest of the my group was due to arrive within the next half hour or so, so I reserved a picnic table and draped my jacket over the railing as a flag to the rest of my crew. My ski outfit’s blue was something of a rare color on the slopes and always made me easy to spot. Now, the French can cook. They have some wonderful food. But they are bastards when it comes to buffalo wings. They appear on the menu, but be sure to read the fine print: it’s BBQ. For any non-Americans who may be reading this, Buffalo Wings does not just mean fried wings with BBQ sauce on the side. Buffalo sauce is a specific spicy flavor, and it is poured over the wings (and drumettes). Serving BBQ under the name Buffalo is like serving Marinara under the name Alfredo. They’re utterly, totally, completely, fully and uncontrovertibly NOT the same thing. I ordered a Hawaiian pizza, which was pretty good (nothing tops Pizza Hut, I’m sorry). I also got a full six ice cubes in my coke. I also spotted Kristoff during lunch, who asked me where I’d been that morning. “Hung over!” I replied, and he laughed. Once again Will and I set off to ski La Violette, this time armed with a camera. We tried to get action shots, and the typical touristy shots, and a few artistic shots as well. It’s also worthy to note that in the Alps, the grading system is somewhat different than in America. All slopes around the world are assigned a color: green (very easy), blue (easy), red (medium) or black (hard). However an American red is given the name blue in the Alps. That is, slopes in America are called harder when they’re the easier slopes in the Alps. So, while I stuck to green and blue slopes in France, I’d be perfectly comfortable on blue and red slopes in the States, or so I’ve been told. After La Violette, Will and I had little energy left, but we weren’t quite ready to quit. We skied the small green and blue area in the central valley, and then took the Boyes slope back to the apartment. We wandered around the area to take photos before making yet another trip to the pool (I only swam the first day, but Will swam every day, and I kept him company). We then came back and I took my daily hot bath. By the time I’d finished, the drama had begun anew.

Kellee had asked everyone to avoid conversations about what she called “quark physics” because such high-minded discussions left certain people out, and our political/scientific discussions were too passionate. If we had to talk about these things, she said, could we please go out on the balcony. We should instead be discussing people, in her opinion. Will, very sarcastically, suggested that we each write an essay about ourselves and share them after dinner. Her eyes lit up and she said “That’s a great idea!” until it dawned on her that he wasn’t serious. “You were joking, weren’t you?” Will gritted his teeth and said “Yes!” Well, when she’d made this request to Lance he’d taken offense and gone with Shon down to the pub for a drink. And so Will and I went off to console him. Regardless of the fact that Will and I enjoy discussing ideas and rather abhor talking about people, we agreed to try to keep Kellee happy to prevent any more drama. I have very strong opinions on censoring myself for people who can’t keep up, but for the sake of peace I kept my mouth shut. At the pub I ordered a hot chocolate and I must say it was the best I’ve ever had. I decided then that I’d have to get some good cocoa powder when I got home. In recent times, Swiss Miss had become cloying and undrinkable, so this was a very nice treat. The kitchen had closed, an unfortunate fact, because while we’d been taking photos that afternoon, much of the food had looked delicious. The dish of the day was Turkey Curry, but they were out. Still, because I was starving (and said so) the server offered to make me a ham and cheese sandwich. The plate came out with a wonderful side salad. The sandwich had cheese melted on top and was outstanding. The weather turned colder as the sun began to set, so we returned to the apartment in time for Ivanka to begin preparing dinner. She made pasta with chicken and broccoli in white sauce, which was very good. Everyone also split the several desserts we’d accumulated, including tiramisu, lemon pie, Crème Brule and a vanilla ice cream ribbon. I was very full, and went to bed early though I had to get up to eat again at 2:45am. (Thank goodness for the Tzatziki and crackers!) I also spent a lot of time awake from pain in my ass and legs. I’m not sure if the pain was caused by muscle fatigue or more from falling so many times, but literally the simple act of trying to roll over in the middle of the night caused me to cry out. I had to learn to move my legs very slowly and deliberately, otherwise it felt like I re-pulled the muscle.

Thursday, March 15th

Thus, in the morning I declared that I’d be skipping class so I could ski at my own pace, and stayed in bed for an extra hour and a half, though didn’t actually get more sleep. *** I took the blue slope to the central valley, skied La Violette, and by 11am was trying to decide what to do before lunch. I decided to go see if the dog from the previous day was over by the kiddy park. On the way there, Will flagged me down, pure chance that we were in the same area at the same time. And then the dog showed up. I got to pet her one last time, and then Will and I went off to ski down La Violette again (I was getting quite good by this time) and then made our way to the French restaurant from two days prior. For the first time in a week we weren’t the first ones to arrive for lunch. I had a pretty good salad with tuna and anchovies, eggs, lettuce that almost passed for ice berg, flavorful tomatoes and onions, and more. For dessert, crepes with warm chocolate and whipped cream. Will, Shon and I took La Violette again, and then took the Boyes slope back to the apartment. Up until this point I hadn’t fallen all day, but I fell three times on the way back, including once in front of Kristoff, who was instructing two people on the slope. By this point my muscles had just about given up on me, so every time I tried to slide to slow myself down my muscles just said “Nope!” and I fell instead. It didn’t help that the slopes were covered in slush and ice by that point. We got to the ski locker and realized none of us had a key. We’d all expected Kellee to be back at the apartment by t hen. We waited at the pub (and I had more hot chocolate) for about an hour. I tried to go up to the apartment but found Zac waiting outside, also sans key. So he joined us at the pub. Finally I got paper and tape at the reception desk and left a note on our apartment door: “We don’t have keys. We’re outside the bar. Please come get us. :P” It was nearly four before Lance showed up. At least I got yet another cup of hot chocolate.

I finally got to have my bath and Will got to go to the pool. After three shots of Bacardi (the rest of the bottle) I relaxed by the pool with him. Afterward we dozed in our room, for we all had late reservations at the pub. The food was excellent. I wish I had four stomachs so I could have kept eating. I started with a red herring and olive tapinade salad, and moved on to “chicken wok with crunched vegetables.” Unfortunately my stomach again started hurting, so I took all of two bites of my chicken. I’d really wanted the fruit kebabs with chocolate for dessert, but knew I wouldn’t be able to eat much of it, so I asked the server if it would be available for lunch the next day. She confirmed that indeed it would, so I decided that I’d have my dessert for lunch. Normally wrapping up food to bring it home is bad manners in Europe, however the server understood that I couldn’t finish my chicken because of an upset stomach, and so didn’t mind letting me keep the leftovers. This was good because it was nearly a whole dinner. We had a wonderful time, regardless. Lance and Zac split a dinner where they got to cook meats and veggies on a hot plate. Ivanka and Kellee shared a contraption that melted a large block of cheese, which they spread onto bread and potatoes. Will and Shon each got a “Butcher’s Plate” and Yvonne had steak. Even more fun was had as Ivanka convinced Kellee to flirt with the Brit she found attractive at the table beyond ours. I really enjoyed myself despite the pain. Kellee and Yvonne stayed at the pub for more fun, the rest of us headed back to the apartment for our last night in France. With an upset stomach I went to bed early once again.

Friday, March 16th

I decided early Friday that I wouldn’t be skiing. We had to be showered, packed and at the pub for lunch by 12:15, and I hate being rushed or pressed for time. I elected to stay behind and read. I had a relaxing morning, washed my hair and finished A Walk in the Woods (the first half of my two-book book). People started filtering back, we packed and cleaned, and went to lunch. Our lunch made up for my Buffalo Wings bitterness. We had cakes and treats and chocolate to celebrate Kellee’s birthday, and we stuffed ourselves. In short order it was time to trek back down the mountain, so Ivanka got behind the wheel, we shouted our goodbyes and we were on our way. And then…

Ivanka hadn’t yielded right of way on a roundabout not two minutes down, and the car we hadn’t seen to know to yield to was an international police van. Ivanka turned over her license and then we were ordered to follow the police to a station another minute down the road. Lance and Ivanka went into the station while Will, Shon and I waited outside. Twenty minutes went by. Lance came out and asked to borrow thirty Euro, and went back in. Finally they both came back out, muttering under their breath, and we were once more on our way. We had to explain to Ivanka how it works in the States: of course you get your ticket and you can dispute it (at which point you are assigned a court date) but this is all done through the mail, and so at a very slow pace. If you choose to mail in a payment you can use whatever method you desire, check, credit card, money order, et cetera. And they give you about three months to do it, in case you need to save up the money. In France the police expect cash, no credit, and they want it right then, or you go to jail. They may offer to drive you to the bank to withdraw the cash, but they may just tell you to call someone to bring the money while you sit and rot. This is for “failing to yield at a roundabout” and most assuredly we were only pulled over for having Dutch plates. We spent the next hour of the drive insulting the French and their police in every manner we could come up with. One French driver in oncoming traffic flashed his lights to warn of more cops ahead, so he earned a reprieve for his countrymen for five minutes (but not for the police). We also got lost in Luxembourg when the highway apparently ended suddenly. We drove around downtown, trying to find our way. The fact that our circumstances and surroundings were very reminiscent of a bad zombie movie escaped no one’s attention. Finally, in the middle of nowhere we managed to find the highway again.

All told the drive was about eleven and a half hours (a spot better than fourteen on the way over) and was mostly boring. We had our gas/pee/driver switch breaks, but mostly nothing happened. I got to climb into bed at 3am, wondering how I was going to fall asleep with all the dozing I’d done in the car. I passed out in under thirty minutes.

Saturday, March 17th

*** 9:50am, bleary eyed but ready to face the day, I stumbled downstairs to take my shower. My skin, which had cleared up on the mountain, was breaking out again. My leg and ass muscles hurt so much I couldn’t sit cross legged on the floor. The visible bruises looked terrible, those that didn’t discolor were swollen and tender. But all told I did very well, an “accomplished beginner” according to Will. I used Lance’s computer to catch up on all of the Livejournal entries my friends had made in the past week. And then we went exploring. *** Lance, Shon, Will and I piled back into the car (with much more room obviously) and drove to Amsterdam. (Lance and Ivanka actually live in Huizen, pronounced Houzen, which is about thirty minutes from the main city). We had lunch at a Heineken pub, bitterballen (fried gravy balls) and various finger foods, and chicken with peanut sauce. We walked around town so I could get pictures of some gorgeous buildings. It amazes me the sense of visual beauty as one looks around such old cities, where the very streets are older than all of America. We also walked through the Red Light District. Architecturally speaking there is little difference from the rest of the city, but as you walk down the streets and alleys you’re greeted by a different kind of store. Nearly naked women stand in shop windows, their bodies for sale in chunks of time. Some are pretty and smile warmly as you pass, others talk disinterestedly on their cell phones, others stare blankly into space. Unfortunately as much of 60% of the prostitutes are illegal and unregistered, and a large amount of the district is involved in human trafficking. Lance admitted sadly that the crime couldn’t be separated from the business.

We bought marshmallows to roast on the fire (which we never ended up doing), oreo cookies, and Will bought a small blank notebook for me to use as my next quote book. I picked a faux-leather bound renaissance style book. To touch it gives the same energy as a well-read volume of the Odyssey I happen to own. Will doesn’t feel it, he says his mind doesn’t work that way, and he can’t feel energy in things. But I feel it. Ivanka went up to bed and the rest of us watched Ocean’s Eleven, and then an episode of Voyager. The boys all fell asleep, so I dragged Will up to bed at 3am. ***

Sunday, March 18th

It stormed all night. The alarm went off at 7am. Will showered first, giving me an extra few minutes of sleep. I showered and repacked and had mini-pancakes for breakfast. I had to hunt down a few items that had wandered off (read: fallen into the wrong bag) which made me cranky, because I’d thought they’d been lost. It was a bad idea to be cranky this day, with 19 hours of travel ahead, so I tried to relax. The wind and rain continued all the way to the airport. We were once again reminded of just how bad most other airports are. It took us nearly an hour to check in and get to our gate, and nearly that again to get through security. And our 11:35 flight didn’t start boarding until 12:23. We passed our time either reading or staring blankly into space, and in either case listening to the tantrums of a remarkably undisciplined six year old. I was very tempted to shuffle over to him and say “Your parents may not punish you, but I will kill you if you don’t shut the hell up.” But I didn’t. He continued to make a hideous whining noise and screw up his face in poorly acted agony, and stop his feet and threaten to throw whatever object was nearby, only to be perfectly happy and quiet for the few moments it suited him. Switching back to Eastern time, which had jumped an hour ahead in our absence, we took off at 7:30am. We had an expected flight time of 8 hours and 28 minutes, considerably less than the eleven hours I’d been guessing. I slept for probably half that time, and killed the rest by reading or eating. I ate three times including a hot dinner, several bags of pretzels, and a sandwich snack pack, but never managed to get to “not hungry.” Initially we were going to have a whole four hours between flights, but this had been cut to two. I was a little worried about this because I knew we’d have to get through customs, get our bags, get through security, check in and get to our gate. In theory this was all possible in two hours, but again I hate being pressed for time. I also wanted enough time to fill the void in my stomach. Fortunately there were no snags and we got to our gate with a little time to spare, so I was able to get a salad and pepperoni pizza slice from Sbarro. (Still not as good as Pizza Hut.)

Then (of course) we heard over the intercom that our boarding was being pushed back by at least fifteen minutes. We took off around 6:30 and had an uneventful flight home. My love for Tampa is perhaps amplified by long absences, but I do love this City. As we landed, I looked out of the window over the Tampa Bay area. It appeared as a sea of calm black littered with sparkling gems. They shimmered white, gold, some red and blue, endlessly twinkling. We touched down at about 9:20, and I thought my adventure was coming to a close. Essentially it was, except we spent another two hours at the airport since U.S. Airways lost one of Will’s bags. Apparently storms in the Northeast had caused several flight cancellations, so two days worth of baggage was strewn about the baggage claim area. I’d like to point out that Delta seemed to be better equipped and had far fewer bags laying around. If I had a dollar for every person who swore that night never to fly U.S. Airways again, I probably wouldn’t have to make my mortgage payment this month. Will’s father picked the three of us up at the airport and drove us home, we watched about an hour’s worth of programming on Animal Planet, and when Will was falling asleep on the couch we finally crawled into bed. (Will was able to pick up his bag from the airport on Tuesday afternoon.)

Would I do it again? Yes, though I’d pick a different airline, and splurge for a rental car that can comfortably seat five people and their luggage. (Here is a map of the drive, for the curious.)