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Tahoe
First, a picture:
On January 1st through 4th, I learned how to ski. This sounds like a process that took several days, but in fact the skiing was only a few hours. The rest of the time was preparation and recovery. Daniel and I researched cabins, emailed cabin owners, mapquested, borrowed ski jackets/hats/gloves/cars that we can trust from various people (i.e., his parents), and although I was not ready to leave by the time we got there, it sure does sound like a good way to end the sentence rhetorically, doesn't it? Actually, I was thoroughly psyched, so much so that by the time I actually got on my skis I wasn't even nervous, despite their disturbing propensity to slide backwards whenever I was on any sort of a slope. The beginning class that I took was split into two groups: the group with experienced people ("I learned how to ski five winters ago and have forgotten everything") and the group with timid people. I was not timid, so I went into the "experienced" group, which turned out to be the right choice, because by the time we were skiing down the bunny slopes the other group was learning how to walk in the skis, and by the time we were going down a real slope (A "green circle," which is the easiest kind of slope there is, but it's still a real slope!) the other group was beginning to go down the bunny slopes.
After my lesson, Daniel met me for lunch, and then he spent the rest of the day with me, going down the same three easy slopes over and over and over again, like the sweetie he is. The hardest part of the slopes were really getting from the chair lift down to the beginning of the slope, because that is the steepest part, and usually the most crowded. Also, there are very, very steep right-hand turns between the chairlift-to-slope part and the slope itself, and when you combine these characteristics with a beginning skier who is not very comfortable turning to the right (left-hand turns are no problem), you end up with a kind of frenzied, vain attempt to ski down the first part with some modicum of control, followed by a most undignified skid to a stop, before the beginning skier can manifest any evidence of ability. These slopes are also the places where very small children do not look where they are going, and where beginning skiers are too busy trying not to lose control to look out for small children, so collisions are not unusual. Fortunately, the beginning skier who has been the subject of these past few sentences landed on top of the small child during her collision and so was not hurt in the slightest. The small child started crying, but its mother assured our beginning skier that the small child was fine, so all ended well. Here is photographic evidence that I was there:
The next day I was covered all over with bruises, and so sore that I was barely even exaggerating when I groaned with every movement that involved a transition from standing to sitting or from sitting to standing. The evenings were spent with hot cocoa and the West Wing (another example of what a sweetie Daniel is; for some unfathomable reason he is not thoroughly engrossed in the TV show, so after about 10 episodes I have decided he gave it a good try, and backed off with the pressure. But in Tahoe he watched West Wing with me every evening.) And the next day I was feeling well enough to give it another try, but we had to drive home, so naturally that day there was a humongous blizzard to cover all the slopes with up to 20 inches of fresh powder. Perfect ski conditions, said Daniel, as we got in the car and drove home. In fact, there was so much snow that we had to put the snow chains (which his father had insisted that we bring) on the tires, a learning experience for all of us. I am now an expert at snow-chain application, and here is photographic proof of the success of my labors:
In fact, here's some more photographic proof of the blizzard; it's something pretty remarkable, even for someone who has lived through Massachusetts, Indiana, and Chicago winters:
We are now at home, with our (once more) non-functioning heater, but we're back at work, we have clean laundry and groceries, and Daniel met me at work this evening with flowers. Life is good. And before I stop typing, I will share a little exchange that prompted Daniel, who knows from smelly experience how well connected are the air vents in our building:
Certified CRACKPOT male downstairs neighbor (to nice female downstairs neighbor): Hey, baby! Wanna get stoned?
Nice female downstairs neighbor: Yeah, snookie-woogums*!
And that is that. Good night.
*Actually, Daniel did not quite catch what she called him in return, but her response of "yeah!" could not stand alone and still pack the same punch.
On January 1st through 4th, I learned how to ski. This sounds like a process that took several days, but in fact the skiing was only a few hours. The rest of the time was preparation and recovery. Daniel and I researched cabins, emailed cabin owners, mapquested, borrowed ski jackets/hats/gloves/cars that we can trust from various people (i.e., his parents), and although I was not ready to leave by the time we got there, it sure does sound like a good way to end the sentence rhetorically, doesn't it? Actually, I was thoroughly psyched, so much so that by the time I actually got on my skis I wasn't even nervous, despite their disturbing propensity to slide backwards whenever I was on any sort of a slope. The beginning class that I took was split into two groups: the group with experienced people ("I learned how to ski five winters ago and have forgotten everything") and the group with timid people. I was not timid, so I went into the "experienced" group, which turned out to be the right choice, because by the time we were skiing down the bunny slopes the other group was learning how to walk in the skis, and by the time we were going down a real slope (A "green circle," which is the easiest kind of slope there is, but it's still a real slope!) the other group was beginning to go down the bunny slopes.
After my lesson, Daniel met me for lunch, and then he spent the rest of the day with me, going down the same three easy slopes over and over and over again, like the sweetie he is. The hardest part of the slopes were really getting from the chair lift down to the beginning of the slope, because that is the steepest part, and usually the most crowded. Also, there are very, very steep right-hand turns between the chairlift-to-slope part and the slope itself, and when you combine these characteristics with a beginning skier who is not very comfortable turning to the right (left-hand turns are no problem), you end up with a kind of frenzied, vain attempt to ski down the first part with some modicum of control, followed by a most undignified skid to a stop, before the beginning skier can manifest any evidence of ability. These slopes are also the places where very small children do not look where they are going, and where beginning skiers are too busy trying not to lose control to look out for small children, so collisions are not unusual. Fortunately, the beginning skier who has been the subject of these past few sentences landed on top of the small child during her collision and so was not hurt in the slightest. The small child started crying, but its mother assured our beginning skier that the small child was fine, so all ended well. Here is photographic evidence that I was there:
The next day I was covered all over with bruises, and so sore that I was barely even exaggerating when I groaned with every movement that involved a transition from standing to sitting or from sitting to standing. The evenings were spent with hot cocoa and the West Wing (another example of what a sweetie Daniel is; for some unfathomable reason he is not thoroughly engrossed in the TV show, so after about 10 episodes I have decided he gave it a good try, and backed off with the pressure. But in Tahoe he watched West Wing with me every evening.) And the next day I was feeling well enough to give it another try, but we had to drive home, so naturally that day there was a humongous blizzard to cover all the slopes with up to 20 inches of fresh powder. Perfect ski conditions, said Daniel, as we got in the car and drove home. In fact, there was so much snow that we had to put the snow chains (which his father had insisted that we bring) on the tires, a learning experience for all of us. I am now an expert at snow-chain application, and here is photographic proof of the success of my labors:
In fact, here's some more photographic proof of the blizzard; it's something pretty remarkable, even for someone who has lived through Massachusetts, Indiana, and Chicago winters:
We are now at home, with our (once more) non-functioning heater, but we're back at work, we have clean laundry and groceries, and Daniel met me at work this evening with flowers. Life is good. And before I stop typing, I will share a little exchange that prompted Daniel, who knows from smelly experience how well connected are the air vents in our building:
Certified CRACKPOT male downstairs neighbor (to nice female downstairs neighbor): Hey, baby! Wanna get stoned?
Nice female downstairs neighbor: Yeah, snookie-woogums*!
And that is that. Good night.
*Actually, Daniel did not quite catch what she called him in return, but her response of "yeah!" could not stand alone and still pack the same punch.
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gorgeous photos!!
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