Alien in CH: Aliens on Skis

At least we looked the part!

     If you live in Geneva, you almost have to ski. During the chilly, gray, drippy winter days, everyone longs for the weekend, when they can head for the sun and the snow of the mountains. I approached the whole skiing thing ambivalently. On the one hand, I love to be outside, I love cold weather, and I love to be with Eric and the kids, particularly if it involves making them be outside in cold weather. On the other hand, while nearly every conversation I have with people here includes mention of the joys of skiing, just about every other conversation works its way around to bad knees, concussions, and broken legs.
     Nevertheless, we decided that we had no choice but to give the sport a try. In October, we drove over to Migros Locaski to rent the equipment (perhaps one day I'll write a post detailing the ubiquity of the Migros grocery chain in every corner of the market). In November, we bought season lift passes, and in early December, I called to schedule a ski lesson for us at the Ecole du Ski Francais. Aldi-Suisse had conveniently offered excellent deals throughout the authumn on gloves, coats, pants, helmets, and socks, so we were equipped with all the necessary gear.
    On December 17 we set out, with Grandma and Grandpa in the car to document the whole day in photos and provide cheerleading support for the team. We had decided to ski in the Jura mountains because they are closer, cheaper, and lower than the more prestigious Alps. We certainly don't need Alpine ski runs at our level of non-expertise. No one could give us an address for Col de la Faucille, the resort with the Ski School. Everyone told us to "go to Ferney, then Ornex, then Gex, and follow the signs." As pathetic GPS addicts, we are not fond of this kind of direction, but we had little choice. We wound and climbed, got lost at least once (what's a car trip without that inevitable sinking sensation when you know you've passed the turnoff and are headed down the mountain?), and arrived about 15 minutes late for our lesson, I'm sure helping to confirm all kind of negative impressions the French ski school people have of American laxity.

Waiting at the Ski School

Our instuctor, a model of patience

Our instructor wore a Stetson with his red ski school snowsuit and was probably in his 50s. I'm sure that his name was not "Jill," but it sure sounded like it. I'll call him Gill. We had asked for an English-speaking instructor. Gill's English was leagues better than our French, but still on the limited side. The way it worked was that he would explain a concept, we would fail to understand, and he would say, "look me." We would watch him effortlessly walk up a hill, turn, snowplow, or whatever, and then, just like little ducklings, we would try it one by one. I always went last, and was continually recieving instructions to (I thought), "Keep your head forward." Things went much better after Eric informed me that Gill was actually telling me to keep my hands forward. After close to two hours of instruction that included big turns, little turns, stopping, and falling off the pull-lift, Gill released us to try the pistes ourselves. He pointed to a gentle, tree-lined hill over to the right, informing us, "That one is possible for you." We set off to find the chair lifts.

Some ducklings

As it turns out, I kind of liked skiing. At least, I liked the chair-lift ride up to the top of the mountain, with its incredible views. I also liked the part after I made it past the beginning of the blue hill (which was kind of steep and croweded), and onto the green piste which branched off to the left. It wasn't so much that the green hill was less steep (which of course, it was), but that it was less crowded. Drew and I share a common fear, not of hurting ourselves, but of skiing uncontrollably and and great speed into someone else. Thus, the little-used green hill is just right for me. I understand that there is a very long green piste at a neighboring ski resort where our passes also work. It takes about 20 minutes to ski down, I'm told. Sounds just about right.