Autumn in a ski resort is a strange experience for anyone, especially if you are a ski virgin. I recall my first visit to La Plagne - with and without snow.
Wide-eyed and naïve, I collected my room key
from a pile that had been left on the desk of the closed reception. The dormant
hotel had been closed for the last six months and we were its first occupants
of the winter. I felt like I was reliving The Shining in the French Alps.
During the winter months the hotel would be
buzzing with families debating who has the best ski technique. Right now, in
November, it stood large and cold and musty.
A few weeks earlier, I had logged onto my
computer and applied to be a holiday rep. Images of a sun-soaked Ibiza flashed
before me as I entered my details.
During the holiday rep interview, the
interviewer had said: ‘We still have vacancies for ski reps, have you ever
thought about that? It’ll get you a better job in the summer if you work the
winter first.’
Eager to get away from my mundane sales job,
I jumped at the chance. Never mind that I knew nothing about skiing. I was sure
it would be just like Ibiza, just a bit colder.
With all my personal possessions packed into
two cases, I boarded the coach to the Alps full of nervous anticipation. When
we pulled up for a rest stop in the valley, I realised my naivety. It was
morning and getting light, but outside was cloudy and grey. I stepped onto
French soil and shivered. The fresh, cool air reminded me that this certainly
wasn’t Ibiza.
At that moment, the clouds parted and I
looked up, searching for a glimpse of that warm Mediterranean sun that I had
been so desperate to find. With alarm my brain had registered a strange mottled
grey thing in the sky behind the clouds. What on Earth was that? What was it
doing so high up?
I struggled to comprehend how something
could be there. I had never seen anything like it. And then it dawned on me
that it was, in fact, a mountain. Large and looming, it towered over me like a
bouncer at the door of a nightclub. And that’s where we were heading, right up
to the very top.
After a snaky ascension of the mountain we
arrived in La Plagne. No snow anywhere, the road looked dirty and the buildings
monolithic and ugly. Ski lifts stood empty and motionless, littering the
mountain with their cables. It was a world apart from the glossy holiday
brochures.
The monstrosity of a hotel we were staying
in looked more like a large brown prison than a luxury retreat. The brass sign
‘Terra Nova’ glinted against the brown fascia. Apart from our group, there were
no other signs of life.
The extrovert next to me had spiky brown
hair and a stud in his lip. Wearing branded jeans and Cat boots, he spoke in an
unfamiliar posh accent, regaling the rest of us with wild ski stories.
‘Last year, we went skiing in Zermatt. The
Matterhorn was simply divine, I did a 360 on my first day but the rest of the
week was a sheer white-out…’
What was he talking about? I had no idea.
I kept my head down and dragged my two heavy
cases up to my room. Sharing my room with me was a blonde girl, pretty and slim
and super-confident. I unpacked and we chatted. She seemed nice and friendly.
Perhaps things would work out all right after all.
A strong black coffee and a croissant later,
I joined the smokers that were huddled under a fug of smoke outside the hotel.
Snow was on its way. I thought it odd that people would be so excited.
Our room looked out across the valley, not
that there was anything to see. Thick grey clouds hung all around. I felt that
we could be so high up that we could be inside them.
It was a room that during high season would
cost an absolute fortune. The following morning, when I opened the curtains, I
understood why.
“Quick, come look at this!” I signalled to
my roommate and we both stood in awe and wonder at the majestic scene in front
of us.
The clouds had lifted and it was like Mother
Nature had turned the light on. Fresh white snow had fallen overnight and coated
the magnificent view in front of us. My eyes drank in the jagged ridges of the
mountains with their freshly iced tops. The bright blue sky provided a vibrant
backdrop. I could see for miles, I now understood why the smokers had been so
excited.
We ran out into the snow like excited
children. There were already a few people out enjoying the overnight gift. The
snow was icy and cold and cleaner than I had expected.
Smack! A snowball landed right in my collar,
its icy residue dripping inside my warm coat. I looked around and there was the
extrovert - the snowball had certainly originated from his direction.
“Get him!” I shouted and we started our
attack. We returned fire and laughter filled the air.
I stopped for a second to catch my breath. I
looked up to my new friends and my new life and I knew that I had made the
right decision. Even if I never made it to Ibiza, I was sure to have a good
time here.
The next day we were loaded onto a coach and
taken across to Tignes, the only ski resort open. We were kitted out with boots
and skis and packed off to a ski lesson. As a beginner I was nervous, but as
soon as I was on the slopes I realised just how invigorating mountain life can
be.
The wind rushed through my hair as I hurtled
uncontrollably down the nursery slope. The ski instructor shouting after me to
‘bend ze knees’. What a rush! So fast! But how to stop?
Then came the crash… I tumbled over in a
whirlwind of skis and poles, my goggles and hat flying off in opposite
directions. Luckily the snow was soft and the bruises I gained dotted my arm
like badges of bravery.
I clambered to an upright position using my
poles to help me stand still. I brushed the snow out of my hair, dug it out of
my sallopetes, and persevered. Muttering the mantra ‘I will learn how to ski and I will
learn how to stop’.
With the ski instructor’s help that day, I
took my first steps into another world by mastering the art of snow ploughing.
It is, after all, all about bending ze knees!
