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Falling for London

Page 25

by Sean Mallen


  The next morning, baggage now complete, GPS led the way out to the highway and got us on the road to Austria. I welcomed Europe’s sensible decision to drive on the right side of the road, but on the highway was always conscious to stay in the slow lane, having heard of Germanic lead foots. The time passed quickly and the scenery grew more and more spectacular.

  As we approached Serfaus the road became a winding series of switchbacks headed up and up.

  “Are we going to the centre of the earth?” asked Julia.

  “I think I’m getting dizzy,” said Isabella.

  My hands gripped the wheel, knuckles whitening.

  Then, there it was: a picturesque Austrian village, surrounded by mountains. If I was not concentrating on my driving I might have been tempted to step out, spin with outstretched arms, and croak “the hills are alive.”

  I had been warned that cars were not allowed inside Serfaus. In fact, we were allowed to drive to the hotel, the Drei Sonnen (Three Suns), but then the car stayed parked for our week. Serfaus was the definition of quaint Austrian, with cute alpine architecture, snow piled high on either side of the road, and impeccably dressed skiers clumping along in their ski boots.

  It was already late afternoon, and after checking in I was immediately keen to start exploring. My ladies were less enthusiastic, even though I was the one that did all the driving while they relaxed.

  Our compromise was to allow Julia her requisite swim time in the hotel pool, after which she reluctantly agreed to hike fifty metres down the street to the Patscheider ski store, where our equipment rentals had been arranged.

  It was a model of friendly Germanic efficiency: within minutes all three of us were set up with our gear, which would be delivered to a satellite operation at the base of the hill where we would be catching the cable car up the mountain the following morning. It was the first in many lessons on how the Austrians know their skiing.

  Dinner was in the Drei Sonnen’s homey restaurant where I predictably ordered Wiener schnitzel and loved it. We all slept a little too soundly.

  The first day of skiing is inevitably awkward and stressful. In an unfamiliar resort, there are the logistical issues: finding where to go to pick up the gear, getting it on, and negotiating unknown runs.

  With that in mind, I asked Isabella and Julia to get up a bit early. Vainly.

  “I’m tired,” moaned my daughter as she tightly pulled the covers over her head. I asked sweetly for her to get up, then cajoled, then moved onto dire threats of withheld treats. I told them we needed to leave by 9:15 a.m. At 9:45 they dragged themselves out the door.

  Serfaus has a permanent population of about 1,100 people but the ski trade allows it to have what they bill as the highest, and shortest subway in the world: the Dorfbahn. It runs a mere 1,280 metres through the centre of the town, ending at the base station.

  We arrived at the height of ski hill rush hour. The Dorfbahn station was packed and when the train finally arrived, the crowd surged forward to get aboard, skis, poles, and elbows askew.

  “Stop pushing!” screamed a man behind me. “There are children here.”

  Curious that he would shout his warning in German-accented English, given that we were likely the only native English-speakers in the station. All was well, however, and there were no casualties.

  The ski depot was easy to find and our equipment was indeed waiting for us. But the boots that slipped on so easily at our leisure the night before were now unbending slabs of plastic that refused to accept our feet. I helped Isabella first, mindful that her bad back makes it difficult to bend over. Then Julia, jamming her feet into the boots and struggling to close the clasps.

  Sweat was pouring down my face before I even attempted to put on my own. Now drenched, we lined up for the Komperdell cable car that would carry us up to the main ski area and the school. These kinds of transports are not for the laggards. The car slows down slightly as it swings through the station and you are required to promptly slide your skis and poles into the racks outside and step aboard. I carefully scrutinized the veterans doing it ahead of me in line so that I would be prepared, but still managed to crack under pressure and fumble the skis. The observant attendants calmly, with patient smiles, lifted them out of my hands and slipped them expertly into place.

  We were aboard.

  Julia’s class was to begin at 10:15 a.m. We stepped off the cable car at 11:00. I asked a resort employee the location of the ski school and he pointed to a series of huts about fifty metres down the hill.

  All the way en route to Austria, Julia protested that she did not really need lessons because she had already studied the sport back in Canada, and she brushed aside my warning that those lessons happened when she was four years old and were on the pimple-sized hills of Ontario. These were real mountains, the land where the sport was born.

  Now I asked my expert skier daughter to snowplow with me the short distance down to the school area. She travelled approximately eighteen inches before tipping over. I picked her up. Fall. Pick-up. Fall. The weeping began.

  “I DON’T WANNA SKI!”

  I took a deep breath, reminded myself that she was only seven and that I was her father. Off came her skis and mine and we walked down to the school, with the gear over my shoulder.

  There were literally hundreds of children from toddlers up to teenagers at the school, all expertly organized into their own outdoor classrooms. More Austrian ski efficiency. A couple of quick questions led me to her instructor, Peter. Her tears were now dry, but the lip was still slightly quivering as I handed her over.

  Peter knew his stuff, cheerfully calling out advice and instruction in both German and English.

  “We try to make it fun,” he told me. “The kids learn much better.”

  By this time Isabella had joined us and we agreed that she should stay in the school area for a bit to ensure Julia was okay while I took a couple of quick and easy runs to warm up. When I returned, we would ski together, presuming our daughter did not want to get on a plane back to London.

  My skiing abilities are modest at best. A few lessons as an introduction, coupled with sporadic excursions over the years meant that my skills were at a low intermediate level, allowing me to swoosh down easy hills with only moderate fear of disaster, while managing to enjoy the scenery.

  I quickly learned that the rating system for difficulty in Austria is somewhat higher than back home. An easy run in the Alps looks much more like an intermediate in Ontario. The difficult ones appeared suicidal.

  With shoulders clenched and technique shaky, I managed to make my way down to the two easiest runs adjacent to the ski school, while managing only one ungainly fall — more like a humble tip-over than a spectacular tumble.

  Breathless and thighs tingling from the effort, I made my way back over to the ski school, only to see an ashen-faced Isabella trudging back up the hill, toting her skis in a tangled mess over her shoulders.

  “I just had a horrible experience,” she puffed, dropping the gear in the snow.

  It seemed that rather than waiting for me, she decided to try a run on her own. Isabella was at best a novice, with the added complications of a chronically bad back, which limited her exercising. Predictably the “easy” runs that I found challenging with my modest skill level were disastrously hazardous for her. She fell repeatedly, was terrified by the slope, and reasoned that it would be better to just take her skis off and walk back uphill to the school.

  Thus concluded the first morning of invigorating alpine sports in the Austrian Alps. We were both exhausted, and she was borderline traumatized.

  Meanwhile, the kids were ready for their lunch break. Julia bounded over to us with a broad smile, telling us how much she loved ski school and could we extend the lessons to a full week? Another reminder of the resilience of seven-year-olds.

  I learned later that there were approximately eighteen thousand people skiing in the Serfaus-Fiss-Ladis region that day. But the area is so massive, the ru
ns so numerous, and the transportation so efficient that the hills did not seem crowded. By contrast, it seemed that all eighteen thousand people decided to have lunch in the various restaurants at the same time.

  We were supposed to be eating with Roxane and Dave and their kids. But finding seats was next to impossible, and we ended up at separate tables. While Isabella and Julia held the seats, I trudged through the mobs to line up for food. Balancing it all on a tray while clambering in ski boots through the crowds, I managed to deliver our meal without mishap: a burger, a plate of spaghetti, and a couple of soft drinks that cost a mere €28.

  “It’s the wrong kind of sauce!” carped my daughter. I ended up with the pasta while she ate my burger, and Isabella contented herself with some salad and whatever was left over from the rest.

  With Julia safely and happily delivered on time for the afternoon session at ski school, Isabella and I headed out onto the slopes together, with me insisting she stick to the bunny hills to avoid further mishap. Given the challenges for a beginner of riding lifts, we opted for a T-bar up the shorter hill. Approaching the top, she asked how to get off.

  “Just let go,” I advised calmly.

  “HOW?” she demanded frantically.

  At the designated drop-off spot, she hung on grimly, fearfully; body writhing as the spring pulled farther and farther out. She only released her grip when she was dumped face first into a snowbank. The T-bar snapped violently back into place, swinging around crazily in a lethal arc that would have concussed anyone unlucky enough to be in range before continuing on its journey back down the hill.

  As I helped her back to her feet, she looked at me — a failure as a T-bar instructor — shooting daggers from lasers flashing beneath her snow-encrusted eyebrows. A woman who had followed us on the lift, expressed concern for Isabella’s condition, and then gently but pointedly observed that her dismount technique was a hazard for anyone in the immediate area.

  Chastened by our alpine incompetence, we headed warily out onto the bunny hill. With five-year-olds zipping by, adept and unafraid, she managed to make her way carefully down the run a couple of times without mishap. Then, another mistake: I suggested if she used similar caution she could probably handle the easy run that I had tried earlier.

  Seeing her level of fatigue, I immediately regretted it, reversed my position, and strongly advised that it would be better if she just called it a day and signed up for a lesson the following morning so that she could get instruction from someone who knew what they were doing. By this time, though, she was determined to try. Nothing I could do or say would dissuade her.

  It was instantly clear that it was far beyond her capabilities. I advised her to snowplow in a zigzag back and forth across the hill to control her speed, but she was too tired, too inexperienced. Every few feet she would tip over. Fall. Fall. Fall. After the umpteenth tumble, she was so exhausted that I had to haul her back to her feet, with a gentle remonstration: “Fuck, you are a maddening woman!”

  When we finally reached the bottom, drained, sweating, and sore, she observed, “I hate skiing.”

  We picked up Julia from her lesson and her comment was, “I love ski school!”

  Ah, the Alps.

  The best part of the day was the swimming and the most welcome sauna back at the Drei Sonnen.

  Day Two saw more morning torture with our daughter, who, despite the professed love for ski school, loved staying in bed more. Once again we did not leave the hotel until 9:45, but given that we now knew the routine we were able to get up the hill somewhat faster.

  Still, Isabella was late for her lesson and the instructors had to ferry her up the hill in a snowmobile to join the group. Her teacher was Czech — there were many East Europeans at the ski school, the money being much better in Austria than in their homelands. Gradually she started to get the hang of things.

  I tried skiing with Dave and Roxane on supposedly moderate runs, but found myself regularly on my ass. He was expert and she was more capably intermediate than me, but both showed typical Canadian patience with my uncertain performance.

  As I got my ski legs under me, I became more ambitious and rode the Planseggbahn chair all the way up the mountain, ears popping, lungs struggling ever so slightly for breath in the thinner air even though the high point, called Plansegg, was a mere 2,376 metres.

  The view was glorious — truly alpine. I’d consulted the piste map in advance and was going to take a long, long blue (easy) run called Zanbodenabfahrt, which Google Translate tells me means “Zanbodenabfahrt” in English — although the fahrt part could be read as “run,” as in ski run.

  It was easy only in the Austrian terms of reference, the first part being fairly steep with me being forced to sit down a couple of times as a defensive measure. But then it opened up into a wide and gentle run that could not be more perfect for my limited skills. I liked it so much I went right back up the lift again.

  The second time around I handled the steep parts better, but my legs were already tiring, and by the time I reached the bottom the technique was growing ragged with thighs screaming and skis wobbling.

  It was a good time to break for lunch. Now forewarned, we arrived earlier at the eating area and all managed to get a table together. With the help of an expert teacher, Isabella was feeling better about the sport but wisely decided to recognize her physical limits and only ski a half day, saving the remaining part of her lesson until the next day.

  Meanwhile, Julia was thriving, and was on her way to surpassing us both in skill level before graduating from grade school.

  Although I was slowly starting to look more at ease on the hills, my wife informed me that my appearance was crap. Having done little skiing in the past few years, I had no proper ski jacket. Appearances meant little to me, as I was content to wear an old muddy-green thing that I had had for years. It had the benefit of being paid for.

  Isabella shook her head at the sight from the moment we knew we were going on a ski vacation, regularly advising that it needed to be replaced rather than have her face the humiliation of accompanying a low-life bum in an Old World resort village.

  I did not really want to spend the money on a new jacket but did not resist heavily when she hauled me into a shop on the main street of Serfaus where we picked out a dandy black number with green trim and I rang up €299 on the Visa card.

  “Don’t you dare say ‘feel better?’” she warned as we stepped out of the store.

  The words were already in my mouth, so I wisely demurred and just said, “I’m glad you finally agreed to let me buy this.”

  Although my old green jacket did have much sentimental value and I really did not think I could afford €299, I had to confess that I felt somewhat less like a slob in my new one and wore it endlessly for years to come.

  I was a whole new man in classy alpine skiwear the following day. It was snowing a bit at the base of the hill when I dropped off Julia and Isabella for their lessons. Dave and I rode up the Planseggbahn and were dropped off in a whiteout. He, being a former ski patrol guy in the Rockies, was unconcerned and advised me that the trick to negotiating fresh powder was to keep the skis closer together. Had I been able to stand up with my skis close together I might have tried it.

  Not wishing to hold him up, I bid him farewell as he disappeared into the white haze en route to a red run. I pointed my boards down my old faithful Zanbodenabfahrt. Within seconds the winds picked up, the marginal visibility declined to zero, and I was in trouble. This must be what it is like to be trapped in a blizzard on Everest.

  I slowed right down, not wishing to blindly ski off a cliff. My breathing became laboured, my quads were burning. Traces of fear crept into my gut, but I kept going, minimizing the speed. Whenever the whiteout lifted slightly I could see other skiers doing the same.

  I realized that I still had my backpack, having foolishly neglected to hand it over to Isabella, who had already wrapped up her day. In my struggles I started falling again. A bottle of i
ced tea flew out of the pack’s mesh holder. In one awkward tumble, I managed to do a face plant, leaving my skis uphill of my head — an impossible position for regaining your feet. I rolled over on my back, trying to get my skis downhill, remembering partway through the manoeuvre that our $2,700 camera was in the backpack that was now beneath me.

  It was with no small relief that I reached the bottom, resolving to take a lesson myself at the beginning of our next ski vacation.

  With our free lift tickets and rentals now at an end (and our bodies feeling their age after three intense days on the slopes), Isabella and I resolved to spend a leisurely day in the village. Not having to worry about dragging Julia out of bed, I slept in blissfully, awakened only by booms resonating throughout the valley — avalanche removal crews, I guessed.

  We strolled over to Murmli Park in the centre of Serfaus. Murmli the marmot is the mascot of the region. Throughout the ski school, loudspeakers would play an incessant ditty celebrating the friendly rodent. A guy in a marmot costume was working the crowd of kids all day long, a Teutonic version of Mickey Mouse on skis.

  In my interview with the Serfaus tourism representative, I asked why they chose a marmot, hoping there would be some ancient legend from the time of the Visigoths of a heroic rodent who saved the valley from imminent disaster — something to enliven my travel article.

  “Because we have lots of marmots,” she responded cheerfully. Okay, so Murmli would not be part of my story.

  The eponymous park, however, was a charming celebration of winter, with a little toboggan run for the kids. We met Roxane there, who had already thoughtfully rented a rodel for her kids, which she shared with us. It was a ball riding down the gentle and neatly groomed slide and a pleasure to stand aboard the magic carpet for a free ride back up to the top — much as I enjoy the Canadian tradition of trudging up a frozen slope, dragging a toboggan, lungs exploding, feet slipping out from underneath you.

 

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