Learning to ski in the Alps: Part II

This is the Part II to this post. 

With one ski precariously placed in an ice-crusted track from an earlier skier and my leg shaking so badly that I couldn’t get my other ski on, I was as certain as I have ever been that I was moments away from falling to my death—or at least something similarly painful.

It was the second day of my first backcountry ski trip, and things had been going moderately well up to this point.

This was taken in the very beginning. I can tell because I'm still smiling.
Poor naive little soul

Well, that’s not entirely true.

British guy had already had to come back and rescue me at least once, but as I looked across at the slope we now needed to traverse and then down at the rocky drop-off below, my stomach churned and my legs were shaking so violently that it seemed physically impossible to take even one step forward. I didn’t see how British guy could get me out of this.

Seeing as how I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown,
I didn't take any photos of what we went down. This is the side we went up.

I looked over my shoulder at the mountain hut we had just left. I could just go back there, I thought. I can stay there until the snow melts in approximately 4 months and then I can hike safely down.

At the mountain hut

It sounded like a fantastic plan to me.

British guy didn’t think so, but then British guy thinks being on a drop-off and about to fall to your death is something akin to fun so I seriously question his judgment.

Turning around with a graceful kick-turn, he skied back down to me.

I was crying, shaking, and I only had one ski on.

He leaned down and pushed the front of my boot down, snapping it easily into the binding.

Now I had two skis on. But I was still shaking. And crying.

Any degree of dignity I had left was shrinking as rapidly as my courage.

I didn’t care.

I just wanted my mom.

Who, thankfully, had no idea that I was halfway down a slope in the middle of the French Alps. Otherwise a minimum of five search and rescue helicopters would have already been circling around.

Still standing next to me, British guy tried to offer some words of comfort. If British guy is any indication, the British aren’t very good at this sort of thing.

British guy: You’re not going to die if you fall. You might badly injure yourself, but you’ll live.

Me: How badly do you think I would hurt myself? Like on a scale of 1-10. 10 being death and 1 being a blister.

British guy: Look, I’ll ski right alongside you. If you fall, I’ll stop you.

Me: No, you won’t. I’ll fall and then knock you over and then we’ll both fall to our deaths.

British guy: We’re not going to fall to our deaths.

Me: We might. Anything is possible.

British guy: Yes, I suppose --in theory-- anything is possible.

Me: So you do admit that it’s possible?

He evaded this question by suggesting that we continue skiing down, as the snow conditions were only getting worse.

If you’ve ever watched a child wobbling alongside its parent, taking small uneven steps and occasionally toppling to the ground, then you know exactly what I looked like trying to ski alongside British guy.

I shuffled my skis, sliding one carefully in front of the other, and then repeating this motion. Utilizing this technique I found that I was moving, and not falling. This was good. Very good.

But then I started going faster.

Muscles I didn’t even know I had tensed as my skis teetered over bumps and contours in the snowpack, launching my body weight anywhere but over my skis.

British guy suggested that I bend my knees a little bit more and relax my body.

I told him to shut-up.

As the slope evened out and I began to breathe again, I felt guilty for telling British guy to shut-up. Promising God, the Universe, Buddha, Zeus, and anyone else with any kind of influence up there that I would apologize for my actions if I made it down alive, I slowly skidded across the slope in a series of awkward and uneven turns.

Approaching British guy with all the grace of a giraffe wearing roller-skates on ice, I noticed the camera in his hand.

He had been filming the last half of my descent while waiting for me at the bottom. 

As I crash-landed at his feet, he slipped the camera into his pocket and smiled.

I told him to shut-up. Again.

(For the record, I’m rude and irrational when in danger of falling to my death.  I also break promises to deities.)

Helping me to my feet, British guy scowled at the snow.

“It’s just getting heavier, and it’s a pretty gentle slope from here on out,” he commented. “The rest of the descent is going to be quite slow.”

My spirits lifted. Slow? I like slow. I tried to appear disappointed for British guy’s sake, but joy radiated from me.  

We spent the next hour pushing ourselves through sticky snow. My arms ached from the exertion, but I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. I had survived. There was no way I could fall now, and my skis stuck so well to the snow I might as well have had my skins on.

As we rounded a corner, I caught a glimpse of the road below us. With the car now in sight, the relief I felt was palpable. The terror of a few hours before was now simply a memory to fold neatly in the recesses of my box of “terrifying life experiences.” I’m running out of room in that box.

As we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road home, I turned to British guy.

“That was really fun. We should do it again.”

British guy

I heart Grenoble

I've heard it time and time again: Grenoble is not a pretty city. It's industrial and well...ugly. 


The first time I visited Grenoble was in winter. British guy and I had just finished a week-long skee* trip in Switzerland (*I'm leaving that typo to illustrate how French is ruining my ability to spell).  He skied. I tried. Hard. I probably cried a few times. If you ever go skiing with me, you will see me in one of three positions: 1. On the ground twisted in an awkward position. One of my skis will likely be somewhere up above me on the slope and I will be whimpering something about how I am from San Diego and I think snow is stupid; 2. Snow plow. This is when you position your skis in a V shape and inch slowly and unsteadily down the slope while at least a dozen 3 year-olds zoom past you; 3. In the bar with a beer. My skis safely in the ski rack. 

Bier! Switzerland, 2010

Snow plow. Somewhere in the French alps. 2010

I don't have any pictures of me on the ground in an awkward position. And it's not because British guy isn't amused by taking pictures of me twisted in awkward positions on the ground with my skis and gear strewn about the slope. It's because I usually have the camera. 

Anyway. After spending a few days in Zinal and Hasliberg and dropping my stuff off at my new place in Geneva, we continued onto Grenoble. 


I was excited to see it. I had wanted to visit the French alps for years, and British guy had spoken so warmly of Grenoble that I was convinced it was paradise. 


Except that when we got there it was cold and grey and I was in a lot of pain and eating ibuprofen like candy and I had to go to the emergency room and I didn't know any French and I didn't know how to ski (everyone in Grenoble knows how to speak French AND ski). And I was having to meet so many new people and I don't like strangers. I remember walking into a room full of people and everyone stopped talking and turned to stare at me and I had no idea what I was supposed to do so I just stood there awkwardly (always a solid default option). Turns out I should have gone around and kissed everyone in the room. Going around and kissing everyone in a room has got to be at the top of the "10 most awkward things for Americans abroad" list. My preferred method of entering a room full of people is as follows: [waves] hiiiiii everyone! I'm gonna go get a beer and then we can all stand around awkwardly staring at things in the room and sipping beer!" 


And I was so nervous around British guy. He's cute and British, and I like cute British guys. Except that they make me nervous. And when I'm nervous I transform into the most awkward human being ever. Also it was cold and I'm from California. And I missed my mom. But I'm an independent and competent young woman who handles everything maturely and doesn't wish her mom would send her the stuffed animal she has had since she was six (his name is Kavik. He's a wolf.) 


So Grenoble and I didn't get off to the greatest start. Because of all of the above factors (recap: in pain, no French, can't ski, socially awkward, cold), I thought Grenoble was nice, but I probably wouldn't have recommended the city itself to anyone at that point. 


However, over the next few months I spent many weekends in Grenoble and the surrounding area. I got to know it better, and by the time summer rolled around and I had decided to stay in Grenoble for one month to study French...I was practically in love.


British guy was sailing (check out this project) and I was on my own in Grenoble. Left to my own devices, I began taking long walks. I walked everywhere, I explored every street, took frequent coffee breaks at various cafés and spent many evenings having a picnic dinner in one of the numerous parks around town. I love walking along the river or wandering through town in the evenings. I would often hike up to the Bastille and sit for hours just staring out at the mountains, and I spent a lot of time alone. Which, incidentally, tends to happen a lot. Either because of my tendency to live inside my head or my cute habit of moving to a new country every 6 months. Or my social awkwardness. 


At any rate, I fell completely in love with Grenoble. I've been here almost two months now, and I really don't want to leave. It's such an amazing place. Grenoble is unpretentious and laid-back. The Grenoblois are almost always clad in climbing, cycling or skiing gear and are usually on their way to or back from the mountains. 

And the mountains, oh the mountains. Every direction you look. To the north, the Chartreuse. To the south and west the Vercors, and to the east the Belledonne range. You cannot look anywhere in Grenoble without seeing mountains. Craggy peaks towering in every direction, and it makes me feel safe and inspired. Every morning I ride my bike to class and feel like I could just reach out and touch them, and it makes me want to abandon everything and go spend the rest of my life exploring them. And you could. If you're not into mountains Grenoble probably wouldn't "make your skirt fly up" (in the words of Ree Drummond, thepioneerwoman), but I can't stop walking into things because my eyes are always looking up, trying to drink in as much of the French alps as humanly possible. 

On the way to class. Grenoble, 2010