Courmayeur - Ski Trip
It’s 6 am. Dad and I are sat in an taxi to the airport listening to the news on the radio. The lady is explaining that the NHS is failing (people are waiting 3 hours for ambulances), the government is trying to introduce stronger restrictions on the sale and ownership of knives (specifically “Zombie” knives) and childhood obesity rates are skyrocketing in the wake of the pandemic. It breaks my heart every time I leave this beautiful country. Rule Britannia.
Anyway, Uncle Chris is hopping in with us now. The line up is the three of us and Uncle David. Theo went on a similar trip last year (I had 3 deadlines that week) and he’s too busy with his astrophysics course to join us, hence his exclusion. Unlike Theo, I’ve not been skiing since I was 14 so I’m a tad apprehensive about how long it’ll take me to get into it, but I have faith in myself. My honest to god hope is that there’s some stunning European twenty-something for me to charm in my ski school group. We shall see.
I can’t wait to feel immense sexual tension with every girl around my age in this airport. Boom, as soon as I wrote that I made direct eye contact with a red head. I love this game.
I’ve just seen a guy who looks exactly like Matthew Perry (of friends fame). He’s wearing a full black tracksuit and a blue demon jacket, it’s horrible. Rest in peace, regardless.
Matthew Perry has boarded our plane. He’s off to holiday in Geneva. I guess in a sense he really is resting in peace.
We’ve just landed in Geneva and I must say it’s beautiful. As we descended into the city, I saw the alps peak into the window of the plane, then looked down on the city nestled amongst them. It’s exactly how you’d picture Central Europe: quaint, mountainous, alpine, snowy, lakeside, dotted with wood beam houses and very cramped. I have the overwhelming urge to read a gothic novel set in Switzerland, which would be fairly apt given that arguably the best gothic texts of all time were the product of the Byron-Shelley circle’s trip to an alpine lodge here.
I haven’t had much luck with the ladies for the past few months, so a lot of my excitement for this trip is completed unrelated to the prospect of skiing. I’m sorry if that’s crude but it’s the truth. I really mean it. The trouble is that I’m sharing a room with my Dad, so it’ll have to be an away day. If I succeed in this task it might be the horniest thing I’ve ever done.
My apologies, I felt the need to log that because I think an account of my mental state is pretty central to understanding how I experienced a place. Clearly I’m experiencing Central Europe evily. Anyway, we’re in the transfer car now, which will be driving us two hours across Switzerland and France to the very north of Italy. The American mind cannot comprehend such a proposition; 2 hours is a trip to the local Walmart.
I told a lie earlier. There aren’t all that many wood lodges in Geneva. The houses are mainly a pastel colours with dark brown roofs, and many of them are apartment blocks– but it *feels* like there are lot of wood lodges. Do you know what I mean? Maybe not.
Oh god, we’ve just crossed over into France. I feel sick. Mercifully though, this is one of the few times in my life that I’m in France with the express purpose of leaving. Silver linings and what not.
I’m trying to get some pictures to send to Niamh since she was raised on the Swiss-French border, but the French appear to have designed their motorways with the sole purpose of obscuring any and all view beyond it. Nonetheless, Mont Blanc has just poked over the horizon. It’s no Grand Teton, but it’s still an impressive peak. I’m more enamoured by the little towns at its feet though. There isn’t a building taller than 3 stories, and they’re all the pastel/ brown combination I mentioned earlier. I can’t even imagine how idyllic it’d be to grow up here speaking French, skiing in the winter, sunbathing by a lake in the summer, eating the best cheese on the planet and importing the best beer. Man I’m jealous. The people living here seem to have perfected rural life. And the sun is bright! Like really bright, it’s stunning. Niamh just told me she could see Mont Blanc from her old house. How immensely jammy.
A football pitch in the fucking alps. Get Real.
The roads here lead through passages in the mountains. The rock faces are jagged and grey; but for the steepest faces, they’re covered in green-brown foliage. Naturally, the tallest peaks are dusted white. I’m particularly enamoured by the tiny settlements that work their way up the mountains, nested in the thick canopy of trees. I wonder what the people living there do. In my head they mainly milk cows and yodel. Great, now there’s a waterfall to my left. This is really quite silly.
Mont Blanc is particularly jagged; you feel as though the top could accurately cut glass. I wonder if that’s to do with how old the alps are. Maybe the wind has eroded them for so long that they’ve become incredibly aerodynamic. There’s also a giant glacier on it– vastly bigger than those I saw in the National park last summer. This is why Americans can’t have nice things.
We’ve arrived now, and our hotel has a pretty direct view of Mont Blanc. To be clear, though, I imagine it’s near enough impossible to find somewhere in Courmayeur where you can’t see the mountain. I’m already loving the aprés ski style; I’m only upset that I’m not wearing my own naughty outfits just yet. We’re waiting for food in a little bar and sipping morretti blondes. Not the only blonde I plan to sip this weekend.
I’m now sat with my dad on the balcony of the mini lodge owned by our hotel at the top of the mountain. The view is unbelievable; a shockingly hot sun beats down over snowy mountains that stretch as far as I can see. You can tell they’re old– not quite as angry as the Rockies. We’re here because my ski instructor failed to turn up for our 9 am lesson, so I’m waiting for another instructor to meet me at 12.30. Losing a morning of skiing is a real pain, but what can you do?
In the meantime, I’ll recount what we got up to last night. Picking up from the blondes: our food arrived and was a little mid. I didn’t care all that much because I was famished. In fact, I still am. I’ve had a voracious appetite for the past few days and I’m not all that sure why. Anyway, after we ate, we headed back to the hotel to unpack. My Dad and I are sharing a room with a gorgeous view of the mountains. My bed is luxurious; firm with just the right amount of give.
After unpacking we decided to take a trip to the spa, which looked awesome on the hotel’s website. In reality it was fairly cramped and the sauna wasn’t quite hot enough, but it feels a tad nauseating to complain about a spa with a half indoor, half outdoor hot tub with a view of the mountains.
Post-spa, we took a stroll into Courmayeur village to find somewhere to booze. The main strip is sickeningly rich; there’s a prada, a Gucci, a moncler, a Dior and pretty much any designer fashion store you can imagine. I have no intention of visiting any of them because I’m not a tosser, but I’d really like to steal something. Say what you want, a cashmere Gucci turtleneck would go absolutely nuts.
After gawking at the stores for a while, we chose a place to drink based on which bar had the most people in it. We ended up in a wood lodge type deal. It was decorated with portraits of Platini, Tevez and other ex Juventus players. Tevez was a rogue choice for me, but whatever. The bar served three kinds of Moretti: original, blonde and rossa. The rossa is quite bitter but tasty, while the blonde is much smoother.
We had two pints then left to get something to eat. Naturally, we ended up at a pizza place. Uncle Chris got a lasagne, Uncle David got a Calzone, my Dad had an anchovy pizza and I went for one with prosciutto and scamorza cheese. My first genuine Italian pizza did not disappoint. The dough was light, fluffy and flavourful even on its own; the sauce was just salty enough; the toppings as perfect as they come. We washed this feast down with two bottles of a very fine local red. Very much like a pinot noir, but even smoother somehow.
Rather than find another bar, we walked back to the hotel to drink there at around 9.30 since we were fairly wiped from the travelling. I expected a night cap and an early kip, but that wasn’t quite the case. You see, in the pizzeria we’d started to talk politics. My family love to talk politics with me because it gives them a chance to exercise their own views, in a sense. By talking to someone willing and able to challenge their opinions, they can shore up their reasoning. Often the conversation can get a little heated, but this time was different. I think that might be because my own utopian views have softened a little. In any case, it was an entertaining conversation. I was quite surprised that whenever my Uncles tried to explain something simple to me, my Dad would chime in and insist it wasn’t necessary, that, at least in theory, I know how shit works. The point that struck me most was my Uncle David’s observation that a key reason the country is failing is that our infrastructure is still reliant on structures developed in Victorian England, a time in which even the geographical spread of the population was radically different. Hospitals, sewers, all manner of things are in the wrong places. Much to consider.
By the end of the night we were pretty wasted as the leffe blonde’s had piled up at the hotel, so I feel asleep at midnight without much difficulty.
This morning I woke up with a very mild hangover and enjoyed a buffet breakfast. I’ll have what I’m having etc. The selection of cold cuts was as impressive as you’d expect, and I couldn’t help but think of Tony Soprano’s quip: “revenge is a dish best served with cold cuts.” Easily the best part of the buffet was the pastry selection. These guys really know how to work with wheat. The blood orange juice they served deserves a shout out too.
Post breakfast I changed into my first ski fit. For the record, my outfit last night was a pair of blue trousers, a beige jumper and my brown scarf. Today I’m wearing my black salopettes, a forest green thermal and a grey-black scarf and black sunglasses. The thermal makes me look snatched as fuck like a JoJo character, and the scarf indicates I’m a fashionable cunt. I’m very happy with how it has come together.
Rocking said outfit, we left the hotel and piled into an Armani-sponsored ski lift, headed up the mountain, picked up our gear and found ourselves in the predicament we’re currently in. It’s now 11.15 and I really can’t be arsed waiting until 12.30 to ski. Hopefully my Dad will let me try a little blue run or something. We shall see.
My dad got sick of waiting and left to ski. I’m now waiting for my lunch as I’m famished and my lesson will keep me busy until around 3, so this is my last chance to snack.
You notice the sun like crazy up here. It has just gone behind a cloud and suddenly I’m noticeably chilly sat in my thermal. As soon as it peaks from behind the cloud I’ll be borderline too warm again. Real fascinating observation there Poirot. Fucking idiot this guy.
Stushest guy omds.
In the end I just waited for my lesson. My teacher was a man from Leeds called Gaz. Top top guy, easy to talk to, funny and very good at his job. He teaches the British children’s ski racing teams, which feels like a pretty good credential. Gaz taught me how to ski again, but in all honesty it’s not very hard. You learn to turn and things are good from there. To turn you have to shift your body weight in the direction you want to turn, but lean your knees forward and in the opposite direction.
It’s fun but tough on the knees, hips and ankles, and it’s extraordinarily thirsty work. As such, I rewarded myself with a beer afterwards. The bartender was quite cute, so I was planning to ask her what time she finished work, but she disappeared before I could. What a shame.
The gondola up to the mountain stops going around 5, so we decided to head back to hotel to get ready for tonight. I wasn’t quite ready to head in yet, so I said I was going to go for a walk and grab some food. Honestly I was hoping to go drop some game, but the others, who very clearly wanted to go for a nap, seemed to pity me. As such, they’re sat with me now in the same bar as last night. I’m much less of a fan now as it’s playing absolutely insane, horrible European dance music. The main lyrics are “sex, love, I wanna rock you baby!” and “how do you say sexy? How do you say delight? How do you say lovely? How do you say… groovy!?” It’s not conducive to good writing, as they’re moaning the lyrics and it’s distracting me. It’s not even horny, just bad. The bar is still a very cozy setting, it’s just being ruined by this trash. I plan to nail this pint then leave. At least I updated this.
Post pint we headed home to shower and change quickly as City were playing Tottenham that night in the FA Cup and all four of us fanatic blues wanted to watch it. We needed to eat first, so after about 10 minutes of deliberation as we wandered the strip, we elected to enjoy another pizza at the restaurant from the previous night: Ancien Casinó. The front of house recognised us and tried his best to upsell the superior version of the local red we’d tried the night before (he succeeded). Over dinner we exchanged jokes– mainly uncle David– which gave me the opportunity to use my signature green man story. It did not go down very well, but that’s ok as it really isn’t supposed to. Anyway, we devoured the pizzas then walked down to a bar called American bar which seemed to be the only place in town screening the game. American bar seemed to completely misunderstand its own theme, as it’s décor primarily consisted of pictures of British rock bands like the Beatles and Rolling Stones. On top of this, the match stream was very laggy and the game itself was dull. Even the beer was slightly flat, though I tried Morreti’s IPA for the first time and was quite pleasantly surprised. The major upside was that city beat Tottenham away for the first time in years, breaking what many fans had called a curse.
It was a very boring 1-0, and none of my geriatric relatives had the energy to celebrate, so they went back to sleep, leaving me to my own devices for the first time since I arrived.
Side note: there are innumerable classic fiat pandas dotted around town and my dad seems to have been charmed by them. If I have the money I might buy him one in a few years.
Back to the narrative, though. Courmayeur is home to one nightclub aptly named The Club. Naturally, I had to see what The Club was all about, as people always seem to talk about being fucked up at The Club drinking x beverage, or in Alfie’s case, jerking they cock off. I didn’t want to do all that, but I was obviously curious, so I walked 15 minutes there only to discover it opened in 20 minutes. I had no intention of waiting that long, so I walked back to American bar.
Outside of the mid Atlantic boozer there was a group of twenty something women, presenting me with the perfect opportunity to practise my cold open. I ordered a beer, headed outside and then hyped myself up for 10 minutes before asking if they spoke English. I quickly discovered they were all from Geneva and were here for the first time on a spa weekend. This was a tad frustrating as I wanted to meet some skiing partners, but I thought a fun night might still be on the cards. Things were going well until a group of thirty ish year old Italian men strolled over and began giving it the biggun in broken English, since the girls claimed they didn’t speak Italian. They yapped away until it was clear the girls weren’t interested, then yapped a little longer and left. Once they were out of earshot, the girls explained in some distress that they did speak Italian, and the men had spent the whole time talking about which of them was the fittest, whether they’d get laid and how frigid the girls seemed. Immediately after this, a group of even older Norwegian men came over and started yapping too, though they got the idea a little sooner. When it was only me and the girls again, they admitted they’d been shaken by the experience, and in spite of my lyrical waxing on politics, economics, philosophy and literature, they wanted to call it a night. They said talking to me had restored their faith in men in the wake of the stinky Italian pricks. I think if I’d pushed back and offered to buy them a round they might have stayed, but I really am not just a feminist to get play. They were uncomfortable, through no fault of my own, so I didn’t want them to feel any pressure to stay. I stupidly forgot to get an instagram, so I hope to see them out later today (I’m writing this the following morning on the way up the mountain), but that seems like wishful thinking.
For now, I’m going to enjoy my first morning of serious skiing.
I’m currently sat in a pizza place on the mountain. All around me are happy couples, including one couple sharing my table who have assumed I don’t speak English and consequently talked openly about trying to conceive. Little do they know I’m fully aware he’s been dumping loads in her. Anyway, the beer here is good, the pizza is better and the sun is out. I still look handsome, though I’m feeling worse for ware after the events of yesterday.
In the morning, I went skiing with my Dad and Uncles, who seemed to think I was a better skier than I am (Side note: I think the couple next to me are allergic to an interesting conversation. However, the girl did just say drinking water makes her feel a bit gay, which cracked me up). So, I was taken on some slopes that I really had no business being on, and I fell painfully on both hips multiple times. Skiing is all in the confidence, so this ruined my technique and made getting down the hill even more difficult. Skiing is also vastly more tiring when your technique is poor, so after skiing sideways for five minutes straight down a particularly steep slope, I was close to death. My back was cramping, my ankles were bruised and my thighs were screaming. After a few hours I was seriously in need of a break, but my instructor was arriving shortly so I had to fuel up and lock in.
My instructor was, and indeed is, a twenty four year old man from Glossop called Eugene. I believe he’s the only likeable man named Eugene on the face of the earth, and a very good instructor. He gave me some slightly confusing advice, but once I understood it my skiing improved almost immediately. I’d been putting too much weight on the outside leg during my turns, which had preventing it following the inside one into a parallel position. This improvement, along with his reassurance, meant that I got my confidence back fairly quickly, turning the skiing from a chore to a hoot. We stuck almost entirely to blue runs since snow ploughing on reds is near enough impossible and the icy conditions were less than ideal. I didn’t mind though; I was sick of falling over and later discovered that I had a big red lump both hips. It now hurts to sit down, though I suppose there are worse reasons than skiing for that to be the case.
After the lesson I met up with the old timers, then headed down to the hotel to shower and change. We decided we’d visit our favourite bar again, but the pizza restaurant was unanimously rejected by the three of them. I had a feeling we’d end up there anyway, because hungry drunks generally aren’t fussy, but this didn’t materialise. Instead we drank and inordinate number of pints in the first bar then moved to a second, a bar called Roma. Roma offers a free buffet for anyone buying drinks, which allowed me to line my stomach with poor quality carbohydrates. I filled a plate whilst the others found a seat, then walked over to join them. Here I discovered that they’d ordered rum sours. Naturally, I asked if they were out of beer, which Uncle Chris found much funnier than the other two. I was and still am quite happy with this off the cuff one-liner, even if my proclivity for cocktails means it was slightly out of character.
We resolved to eat before we drank any more, as empty stomach boozing is a dangerous game. For the sake of simplicity, we said we’d eat at the hotel, but rather than visit the restaurant, the others insisted they only wanted some bar food. This was an insane decision, but I’d already eaten at the buffet so I didn’t much care. In the end they ate fries and more beer. This meant that the conversation became incredibly interesting: the topics were family dynamics and politics. Being the least drunk and the best read, I put on a tour de force of political musing, referencing Marx, Darwin and Hobbes. My Dad seemed impressed, but Uncle Chris was mainly frustrated. He insisted that I should cater to my audience, that intellectualising an argument wasn’t the way to influence most people. I responded by saying I wasn’t trying to influence anyone and that there would be no point trying to express my views without reference to theory. For example, I argued that “human nature” is social Darwinist idea that we take as gospel, ignoring the harmful ways Darwin himself applied the survival of the fittest to human society in the Descent of Man. How else could I put that? And more than that, if I could put it another way, why would I? Uni cost me 50k and I have every intention of making the most of what I learnt.
The conversation wasn’t heated, though, and I honestly enjoyed it a lot, especially the discussion of family. I’m always trying to know myself better and knowing the ins and outs of your family is crucial to understanding the forces that carved out the person you are today. It was so interesting, in fact, that I resisted talking to a group of beautiful young women in the bar for a solid hour.
When I did cave, I found out that they’d arrived at the hotel that day and were all from Brazil. They said that as a party of girls it’d be good to have a guy around to hang out with, and that’d they’d look out for me on the slopes, but wouldn’t have too much trouble spotting me because of my height. This was very horny, and I suddenly had faith again. They said they were going to bed as they were tired from travelling, so I elected to go for a solo wander into town after saying goodnight to the others. I grabbed a drink at bar that had been full of people every time we walked past it, but was now a little more sparsely populated as it was around midnight. Here, I got talking to two Italian girls who asked if I wanted to share a shuttle bus to a club that was twenty minutes away by car. I was tempted, not because they were all that hot, but because the club would surely be full of hot girls. However, it was late and I had to be up the next day for another lesson. In the end the decision was made for me as I went to the toilet and returned to find the bus had come and gone.
Walking home was my only real option at that point, so that I did. On the way, though, an Italian girl stood with a friend called out to me in the street. She spoke English and, funnily enough, asked if I wanted to share a shuttle bus to the club with her two friends. This felt like a sign, so I said I’d join them. She said they were waiting for the third friend who was arguing with her boyfriend. The friend arrived a few minutes later and started yapping in Italian before bursting into tears. I really could not be fucked with all that, so I resolved to give up the chase.
Just outside the hotel, I noticed a bar was really bouncing. It had a DJ, disco lights and loads of young people dancing the night away. The unwavering strength of the human spirit willed me to go in and buy a drink. What happened next was deeply unfortunate. A group of three girls were dancing with two guys, with two of the former necking on with the latter. This seemed to be the perfect opportunity, and the odd girl out was actually quite cute. I bided my time and when another man started chatting to her I worried I’d missed my chance. However, after a few minutes he seemed to lose interest and turn away. My response was to walk over and insist that guy was stupid (the implication being that you’d be an idiot to lose interest in the girl). Unfortunately, she told me that the guy, like with most people on the dance floor, was a friend from work and they were celebrating their last day on the job. He hadn’t rejected her, just finished the conversation.
I got back to the room at 2.30 absolutely wasted and very blue. I collapsed on the bed, then woke up at 10 the next day to do it all again. That morning (yesterday morning, as I’m updating this on the transfer to the airport), the four of us were very quiet; it was clear the trip was catching up with us. The immense amount of booze and the general lack of food and sleep the night before had left me feeling fairly ropey.
We arrived on the mountain much later than the past two days, and I only got in two runs with them before I had to get a pre-lesson solo pizza at a restaurant Eugene had recommended to me. I must say, there’s something to be said for hung over skiing, as the lethargy forces you to conserve energy by skiing casually, while the feeling that death might be a nice alternative to your current state makes you essentially fearless. Nonetheless, I needed to cure the hang over before tackling my lesson, so I ordered a beer and a huge pizza. It was here that I was seated by the boring, horny British couple that assumed I was Italian. The two of them, along with the Mountain View, kept me entertained enough and the food was quite delicious; as good as Ancien Casinó.
Post pizza I skied down to meet Eugene feeling a little refreshed and ready for a challenge.
I took a break from writing this as my head hurt, but I feel it’s important to note two things I witnessed in the airport. First, I saw an old man wearing a berserk t-shirt. Second, I heard a little international school girl complain that a lady was walking around giving everyone bombastic side eye.
I’m waiting in the line for a passport check right now, so I guess I’ll keep going. We started the lesson with a few blue runs that I’d struggled with the day before, though this time they were a breeze. Eugene had me trying some drills to improve my technique. The first was holding my arms out towards the bottom of the slope whilst I skied to ensure I wasn’t swinging my shoulders into the turn. The next was pole tapping, where you tap the snow to your side before initiating a turn in order to develop a rhythm. The rhythm aspect is hugely important as it stops you from overthinking your turns. After I’d proven blues were no problem anymore, Eugene sayid he wanted to try me on two reds. This scared me a little, so I asked if we could grab a coffee at the top of the mountain first. That we did, and we spent twenty minutes chewing the fat. He said that he has ADHD like a lot of ski instructors; the constantly changing scenery, mental stimulation and need to move around all the time are well suited to the ADHD brain, he explained. The brain struggles to absorb dopamine so even if it produces enough it feels like it doesn’t and is compelled to overcompensate. Skiing helps with that, he says. We got onto the topic of special interests so I rambled about anime for a while. He seemed to know a lot about Japanese culture, though to be honest he seemed to know a lot about everything.
As pleasant as this chat was, my dad wasn’t paying for a one to one infodump session, so I resolved to attempt the red. Red runs are much steeper than blues, but in the case of these reds, the slopes were very wide, allowing a lot of space to slow down by turning. I knew I’d be fine if I kept my cool because I’d nailed turning and Eugene trusted I could do it, so I repeatedly reassured myself that everything was chilled. I also counted my turns and pole taps, which, as I say, gave me solid rhythm. I had almost no trouble on the first run; it was fast and I almost lost my balance once, but otherwise it was smooth skiing. Eugene congratulated me at the bottom, then we went down again, with just as little difficulty this time.
Afterwards, I was reaching my limit in terms of energy, but my confidence was as high as it had been all weekend, so I agreed to try one last red. Eugene said it might be icy so I should be careful and stop when I needed to, but he believed I could do it. Unfortunately, he was dead right: the slope was pure ice and I came to a complete stop multiple times to regain my composure. I did it though– light work for a guy like me.
We met the gang at the ski lift, where my dad returned my skis and poles, and I changed out of my boots. Eugene got on the lift with us, chatting comfortably about this and that with the others. By this point I was exhausted so I sat in silence and listened. My biggest concern was that I’d be too wiped to hang out with my Brazilian friends, so I planned to Power Nap once we got back. Anyway, we said goodbye to Eugene– I hope his life continues to be as delightful as it sounds– and returned to the hotel.
As a rule of thumb I can’t really nap so I rested my eyes a while tried to refresh myself with a shower. I was still knackered but the plan that night was to go for a fancy meal. I put on my Sunday best– my cords, a navy Paul smith polo and a grey Hugo boss cardigan– then headed towards a nearby steak restaurant that my Dad had spotted. It was incredibly rustic, wooden log foundations with a wood burning fire for cooking pizza and steak. We ordered the same local red we’d been enjoying all weekend, which would be particularly suited to a steak dinner. To start, I had an incredible burrata with fresh pesto, cherry tomatoes and prosciutto. Like everyone else, my main was a sirloin with unimaginably soft baked potatoes. I had it rare, though the waitress couldn’t think of the word in English, so when presenting it she pointed to her inner elbow and said sangue, meaning blood. I thought that was a neat little trick from her, especially since I was the first to clock what she meant. Sangue, like sanguine. Galenic ontology remains relevant always. All in all, the meal was lovely and it was great value for money at less than 100 per head for two courses and two bottles of wine. My dad earned a metaphorical pat on the back for his choice.
Obscenely worn out, we headed back to the hotel for a final few rounds of leffe and I texted my Brazilian buddies. We talked films and music whilst I waited for a response. Three beers later, my Dad and Uncles called it a night, leaving me to my final attempt at an away day. Recently I’ve almost exclusively taken Ls in terms of women, so it came as no surprise when the apple of my eye revealed they’d already gone to bed. Oh well, you lose some you lose some. I attempted one final Hail Mary with a walk into town, but in reality my reason for the stroll was to see the scenery one more time. At the end of the strip I feared I’d wasted my time until I heard shouts coming from the way I’d come. I walked towards them to find two men fuming outside of our favourite bar. One was picking up chairs and tables, then throwing them at the window and screaming like a lunatic. His friend was angry, but more concerned with dragging him away before he did any serious damage. I think the madman might actually have punched someone. Again, my opinion of Italian men plummeted. The pair were blocking my way home and the madder of the two kept breaking free of his friend, wailing like a moron and sprinting back towards the bar. I think I could’ve taken them but we all know I’m a lover not a fighter so I determined to keep my distance and wait until they walked past me. The cretin ran back to the bar one more time and I seized my opportunity, slipping past unnoticed. I walked back to the hotel, followed at distance by the ominous wails of this creature, but I had no trouble in the end. As I came out of the strip, a police car rolled past, likely searching for the source of my late night entertainment.
Once I got home, I waited for my adrenaline to lower a little, then hit the hay. I woke up 6 hours later and have been in somewhat of a daze since. The cumulative hangover along with the intense exercise has battered me and my legs are screaming at me. Still, after a ski trip I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m on the flight home now and my Dad is already talking about squeezing in a second trip before the end of the season. He asked if I’d be up for it. An absolutely ludicrous question. Roll on Ski Trip 2.
