Skiing in America

       Loyal readers will recall a blog a few months ago, when I pointed out how nice Americans are. I am, as it turns out, an American, and so I really do like to be nice. I therefore didn't really want to start this blog, because I thought that I might come across as spoiled, ungrateful, complaining, and kind of not-nice. I especially don't want to come across as a ski snob. I'm not even that great a skier. I am not one of those people who schuss down the mountain with neat little turns, my skis perfectly parallel at all times. My family tells me that I am a slow skier, but I prefer to think of myself as "controlled." I think maybe, when people watch me ski, they might think things like, "Well, she might make it to the bottom in one piece." So I am certainly not a ski snob. (I'm not a snob about anything except for jam, and that is my mother's fault for being so talented in the kitchen.) With trepidation, however, I have decided to go ahead with the ski blog. So here are a few important disclaimers to preserve my niceness.

        First of all, whatever I say about skiing in America vs. Europe is purely my impression, based on my experiences and, as they say on Car Talk, unencumbered by the facts. Secondly, my experiences on the ski slopes are pretty limited. Our Christmas ski trip was to the Pocanos. I have never skied in Utah, Colorado, or Montana -- or even New Hampshire or Vermont -- all of which routinely make lists of the best places to ski in the U.S. (not to mention in the world). To be fair, however, most of my European ski experiences were not at world-renowned resorts, either. I have skied a few times in Chamonix, which makes most top-10 lists. Usually, though, we headed to the less ritzy French Jura, which someone might well term the Pocanos of Europe.

Here are our piles of ski clothes, ready for the trip. Skis and poles (and snowboard, as Luc
continually reminds me) are already in the car. There is nothing quite like packing for a ski vacation.

       Things That Were Better in Europe

       Okay, as nice as I want to be, I have to be honest. For a skiing purist, skiing in Europe is better. The snow in the Jura, and of course in the Alps, is real. I never heard of any resort in the Geneva area making snow. I never saw a snow cannon. This is, of course, because the elevation in the Jura is higher than in the Pocanos. At Col de la Faucille, where we usually skied, the telesiege started at 1,330 meters and went up from there. At Jack Frost, the highest point was 2,000 feet. The runs in France were much longer; even at the little resorts we frequented, I felt like it was a good day if I went up and down the hill six or eight times. In the Pocanos, I could do that in an hour. As soon as I felt like I was getting into a good rhythm, the hill was over. Strangely, the lifts seemed slower in Pennsylvania, though. I can't explain that one. I also don't necessarily consider that a drawback, as riding in the lift is a perfect opportunity for a chat with teenaged children or my husband, or for some quiet reflection and enjoying of the scenery. The last major drawback to skiing in the U.S. is the price. At around $40 - $50 per person, per day, we were not at expensive places, but in the Jura, we could ski for around 20 euros each, with kids after the first one free. Even places in the Alps were less than 40 euros a day, which I know is more than $50, but come on, it's the Alps. I did a check of prices at some of the premier resorts in America, and paying $100 for an 8-hour lift ticket wasn't unheard-of. To sum up, it seems that we were paying more for less in the Pocanos.

Skiing on man-made snow didn't seem that different from skiing on the "real" stuff. It did mean that the surrounding landscape wasn't quite as winter wonderland-y, though. That's Luc and Eric in the lift ahead of me.

        The price, I think, has to do with the place of the sport in the culture. In Geneva, the first question one gets asked as an expat is, "How long are you staying?" The next is, "Do you ski?" Everyone in Geneva skis. Babies, Octogenarians, people who live under bridges. With a steady stream of customers, resorts don't have to charge as much. And with the sport so pervasive in society, people won't put up with high prices. Maybe it also has to do with the cost of making snow in the U.S. That gets passed on to the skiers. Perhaps this also explains the relative skill level of skiers in each location. In the Jura, I felt  like the slopes were overrun with people who really didn't know how to ski. They were always falling right in front of me. Not being an incredibly skilled skier myself, I found this disconcerting. In the Pocanos, it seemed like most people on the slopes could ski pretty well. Except for the guy who barreled into me from behind, sending us both flying and earning a stern lecture from my husband (Eric is so nice that the guy probably didn't realize that Eric was being stern with him, but I can tell when my husband is angry). As a side public service announcement, the accident made me very glad that we had adopted the Swiss custom of always wearing ski helmets. But really, other than that guy, most people seemed competent. It's kind of like running in the U.S. versus Switzerland -- in the U.S., everyone runs, and so there are a lot of slow people out there (making me feel more comfortable with my own speed -- or lack of it). In Switzerland, only runners run, so recreational joggers like myself may well find ourselves in last place in a road race. 

That is Lucas under there.

Eric looking cool in mirrored goggles.

       Things That Are Better in America

       So in the Pocanos, we pay more and get less: Shorter runs, less snow, less beautiful scenery. It may sound like there is no upside to American skiing, but don't be so sure. Where we skied in France, hills were -- easiest to most difficult -- green, blue, red, and black. I never went on a black. They scared me. Frankly, even most reds made my heart palpitate. One day, we went to the Alps with friends who were the kind of people who have skied every weekend for decades. I spent the whole day in a cold sweat, failing to keep up. In the Pocanos, though, this was my favorite hill:

There's something to be said for the American "everyone's an expert" philosophy.

           

Of course, if everyone is an expert, then the people who are actually competent have to
be something even more expert.

       Another advantage to the American ski resort is the terrain park, which probably exists in Europe, but which I never saw. Lucas spent a whole day practicing spins and jumps; there were just a lot more options for snowboarders and trick skiers.

Approaching the jump.

This is the only decent picture I got after several tries. It's not easy to capture live-action with a cell-phone camera.

       And even though it's hard to beat the view of frosted treetops poking though the clouds at the top of Mont Rond in the Jura or the sight of Mont Blanc from Saint Gervais, the scenery in the Pocanos was really pretty.

The view from the top of the hill at Big Boulder, looking down on the lake and the town of Lake Harmony, I think.

    Finally, I found it reassuring that there was not a single place at Jack Frost or Big Boulder where a person could ski off the side of the mountain and die. That kind of thing is common in France -- even on green runs.

    I would be lying if I said that I didn't miss skiing in France. We could get up at 8, be on the slopes before 10, and do it again the next weekend. We had endless options for resorts, groups of friends to ski with, and some of the most breathtaking beauty in the world to gaze at as we rode the lifts (some people also enjoy the scenery as they descend the mountain. I, however, am focused on staying upright). For me, though, the best part about skiing is being outside, doing something active, and spending the day with the people I love most. For that, I don't need Kandahar. Mittelweg at Big Boulder in the Pocanos is just fine.

Happy skiers.

I made the kids give me a head start so I could reach the bottom of the hill first and take pictures.

I am embarrassed to tell you how long a head start they had to give me.

Tacky

      So see if this doesn't date me: There was a time in my life when my fondest dream was to have a truly elegant Christmas tree. The kind with white lights and coordinating Victorian ornaments of beige lace and dusty rose silk. That would be the height of class.
      Unfortunately for my dream, but fortunately for my fashion sense, I married Eric. When I suggested that all-white lights -- and perhaps a theme -- might be good for our first tree, he told me that he really wanted colorful lights because they are "more joyful." Who am I to mess with joy?
       Later, I thought maybe we could have really tasteful outdoor decorations. Like evergreen wreaths on each window, big burgundy bows (I had, thankfully, outgrown the pink phase, but was still not ready to embrace red -- so plebeian), and white lights, in understated icicles, perhaps, hanging from the eaves. The guru of Christmas decor, however, again somehow ended up bringing home strings of red, blue, green, and yellow. He was supported in this by the children, who were by then old enough to think that white lights were boring.
       Deep in my soul, I am not a decor person. Thus, the battle for the white lights was hardly a skirmish. Frankly, if someone else was going to hang the lights and help trim the tree, he/they could choose the color scheme. Once it's up, I hardly see it.
      I did notice, however, the lack of Christmas lights in Geneva. The Swiss do not, I think, traditionally use strings of bulbs, white or colorful, and I had a suspicion that the few decorated houses in our Onex neighborhood probably belonged to Americans -- or to the Spanish, who would use any excuse for making things look like a party. (I say that with deepest admiration.) I missed the lights, and looked forward to being back in the land of holiday illumination this year. I was therefore disappointed when it seemed that Baltimore was turning out to be somewhat subdued in its electrical celebration of the season. Our neighborhood has a few enthusiastic homeowners. Two houses down, they even have the very swags of white lights, evergreen, and bows that would have fulfilled by deepest wishes of yore. We did our part, with a display made up of several years' worth of collected decorations -- those that survived the move and the stint in storage, that is. In general, though, Towson is on the subdued -- not to say dark -- end of the spectrum.

The Admiraal contribution to Stevenson Lane's Christmas decor.

       We actually have the perfect location for something really big -- half the city uses our road as a cut-through to Target. I suggested a live nativity, but Johanna and I argued over who would get to be Mary (No, I am not old enough to be Elizabeth!), and we didn't know what we would do with the animals come January. Nonetheless, I do think our house expresses a certain amount of Christmas spirit -- of the perhaps tacky, but undeniably joyful, variety.
       The folks in Hampden, however, really know how to embrace Christmas decorating. This neighborhood, located about five miles south of us, produces a light display that they call Miracle on 34th Street. We drove down to see it, and, though it wasn't even a weekend, found ourselves in the middle of a crowd of gawkers. It was worth a look, for sure. Inflatables, yard ornaments, and lights, lights, lights. They even managed to make white lights look garish. My former, elegance-seeking self might have deplored the marked lack of restraint. Classy, Hampden's 34th Street is not.
       Yet, the spirit of fun and festivity in the neighborhood is unmistakable. It's creative. It's loud and exciting. It's joyful. It's the kind of tacky that America does so well, and that is something I love about this country. And I think Eric is right -- the fun is Christmassy. After all, the Star of Bethlehem was probably tastefully lovely, but the shepherds and donkeys were hardly the height of refinement.

Don't miss the hubcap Christmas tree and the bicycle-wheel snowmen.

The whole street from inside the car, taken when I thought we weren't going to be able to find a parking place so we could get out and take pictures. We actually didn't find a spot to park, but Eric kindly drove around the block a few times so I could take some better photos.

More glitz.

People were lined up to go into this house. We probably should have waited our turn as well to see what the draw was. They had the right motivation, anyway.

No need for a theme.

And a nod to the digital age.

I do love that hubcap tree. It's recycling, art, and kitsch all rolled into one.

     

Home Improvement

        It was two days before Thanksgiving. Two days before our house was supposed to be filled with family, delicious smells of turkey and pumpkin pie, and tasteful autumn decorations. Right then, though, our house was filled with tile guys chatting in Spanish, a painter putting the first coat on the kitchen trim, a plumber fixing the leaking refrigerator, and a furnace repair man draining all the radiators. With food shopping, baking, bed-making, and house-prepping to do, I marched around grimly, feather-duster in hand, wiping away tile dust that would be replaced with dropcloth dust the next moment. What is that old line about doing something over and over even though you know it’s futile?

The dining room the day before Thanksgiving.

The kitchen.

The driveway -- not our Thanksgiving company.

Ah, home improvement. Our last project was having the basement painted and retiled. Although it took weeks, we were mostly undisturbed, since the work took place on a floor we didn’t really need. Somehow, I imagined that the kitchen would be the same. I didn’t even consider, until the night before the work was to start, that I probably wouldn’t be able to get to the refrigerator or stove. I should have been wiser; they were both unplugged for the better part of two weeks. I learned three important lessons from this latest project, all of which should have been obvious and are doubtless well-known to all home improvement veterans.

The Time Factor: The actual length of any home-improvement project can be found by multiplying the contractor’s estimate by 9/5 and dividing by the square root of 2. Or, if that math is too much work, just take what the contractor says and add SEVERAL MORE DAYS (weeks, for a long project). Thus, when Juan told me that his guys could certainly finish our kitchen floor a good week before Thanksgiving, I should have known that it would take a miracle to get the project done by the day itself.

The Money Factor: We are blessed with a contractor who has tended, so far, to be both honest and accurate. That does not mean, however, that his estimate of the cost of a project is anything like what we will actually spend. I never considered the extra heating costs when people are going in and out constantly, nor the extra cost in Swiffer and Mr. Clean products for cleaning up afterward. Not to mention the fact that we had to eat out twice a day for a week. (The hospital bills incurred by our poor nutrition over that time are yet to come.)

Both of these factors, however, are negligible compared to lesson number three, which we will call

The Stress Factor: The workers who invaded our house were very nice. They didn’t play loud music, even though I told them it was okay. They didn’t drink our coffee, even though I offered. They didn’t have annoying conversations -- not ones I could understand, anyway. They didn’t track unnecessary dirt on the carpet. They did their work well. But for days on end, they were there, right in the middle of the kitchen. The most stressful part of the stressful situation is that I kept remembering that the whole thing was entirely self-inflicted. Voluntary. One hundred percent my own fault. 

When I lived in Geneva, my friend and I would snark about the American fixation on home ownership and home improvement, and how boring everyone was with all their talk of new carpet and new countertops. Be careful what you snark about. I had not been on American soil for a month before I was in it with the worst of them. What is this obsession with enhancement? 

According to an HGTV poll, 61 percent of Americans would prefer to spend money on their home than on a vacation. The Globe and Mail posits that an infatuation with decorating may reveal self-image problems: People see their homes as an extension of themselves, and it may be easier to control the look of our home than the look of our aging bodies. An article in the Economist suggests that the American dream of home ownership has become a controlling obsession, and that for many people, owning a home may not be the best option.

In Europe, lots of people rent. We didn’t mind renting there. It is relaxing to not be ultimately responsible for a place. If the refrigerator is leaking, someone else will take care of fixing it -- and take care of the bill. On the other hand, there is something about investing time, money, and thought into a house that personalizes it. It doesn’t matter if it’s paint on a wall or an entirely new kitchen, the point is that improving a house makes it yours. We can look at this as a shallow and materialistic desire to have more, newer, and fancier stuff, and that may certainly be part of it. On the other hand, isn’t the drive to create and beautify part of what it means to be made in God’s image? 

Thinking so sure makes me feel better about the new kitchen floor.