John Butleron justice on the slopes
As far as I can tell, American ski holidays are more ribald and democratic than those in Europe. I found this out a few years ago on my first European skiing trip, to Cortina d'Ampezzo in northern Italy. This five-star resort is the jewel of the Dolomite mountain range, nestled in a valley of jaw-dropping beauty. One of the Pink Panther movies was filmed there, and our lodge was in the classic old-European style of bearskin rugs and Glühwein. You could easily visualise Peter Sellers expiring on top of Britt Ekland in one of the rooms while Kato hid in the armoire.
Cortina is quaint, with chintzy, hideously expensive boutiques lining the main thoroughfare. Every evening the town observes the Italian custom of passegiatta. At around the hour of six - after skiing, before eating - the Italians dress up in ankle-length mink overcoats and ermine muffs and parade their crimped miniature dogs up and down the main street. Their wives accompany them, and these perfectly assembled couples window-shop, natter and feed minuscule hand-crafted chocolates to their pets, which later expel them in equally exquisite form upon the virgin snow.
Until Cortina d'Ampezzo, all I knew about snow holidays I had learned on the mountains of Lake Tahoe in California. In Tahoe you can gamble and eat unlimited shrimp for 99 cents all night, and go boarding the next day. Boarding means high-fiving louche, stoned dudes who cruise past you on wide, wide runs, and following in the languid curves these athletes have carved in the snow, from one side of the slope to the other.
I learned to snowboard there, without gloves, with the bulletproof confidence of youth. The expansive runs were made for learning, allowing space for every bleary-eyed Californian practitioner, regardless of ability. The occasional skier would whizz down the middle of the run, eyes fixed ahead. It looked joyless, as if they were using their skis to commute to work, and they stuck out like Mennonites in Manhattan.
Standing on top of the mountain in Cortina, on the morning of day one, it struck me that the ski and the snowboard may have been perfect metaphors for the respective characters of Europe and the US. As a European recently repatriated from the US, I looked down at my fat snowboard. Europe was made for skiing.
Below me the narrow run snaked between trees like a two-lane country road in Co Wicklow. Skiers whizzed directly down it because they could. It was day one, yet I had already been made to feel an interloper in Cortina, twice, by the same person. The previous evening there had been an unfortunate incident in which I was photographed attempting to ride a tiny ornamental wicker bicycle in the hotel lobby. A passing blond waitress had fixed a steely glare on me and duly marked my card. Next morning I encountered the Teutonic waitron at breakfast, where she served everyone but me a bread roll. When I pointed out the injustice she stalked away.
Sitting on the slope, I strapped my feet into the board. I could feel the previous night's sambuca in the back of my throat, and my goggles were misting over. I seemed to be experiencing some kind of vertigo, a feeling that I might fall off the mountain. Yet there was no other way down, except for taking the chairlift - skiing's equivalent of wetting your pants on your first day at school. I looked at my friends, both of them skiers. They were impatiently waiting for me to push off so we could begin our holiday.
I stared back. My stomach rumbled. If we stayed up here for the week we would probably have to eat each other to survive, unless a rugby team crashed their plane nearby, in which case they would eat us first. Which among us had the leanest haunches? Would Tara agree to let me eat her leg on Wednesday? Would Ben? Perhaps sensing that I was appraising them in this way, they pushed off and skied down expertly.
I pushed off. Within an hour I was schuss-in-boots, deftly avoiding the autobahn of skiers. At one point a US snowboarder saw me pass and shouted: "What's up, shredder?" The sun shone brilliantly, and the beauty of the resort revealed itself at the summit of every new peak. We ate lunch in a log cabin atop of the most remote mountain, and at 5pm made our way home.
There's nothing to fear but fear itself. I had now straightened my runs to match the pace of skiers. We three had pressed ahead of the others, and had shot through five consecutive runs, from the top of the largest mountain down to the beginning of the final run, without stopping.
At the crest of the final run, three events coincided to present me with a memory of almost celestial ecstasy. Firstly, I overtook the two skiers. Secondly, I made a jump over the crest of the hill, gaining mythical "air". Thirdly, as I landed successfully, I could see two other friends approaching on the chairlift above me. They had definitely seen it, and were waving as I shot downhill like an assassin in a Bond movie.
I looked up to see them stick up their gloved thumbs and roar approval. I looked down and, now, barely 15 metres in front of me, were two women, schussing gently from side to side, hand in hand, in the snowborne equivalent of a Sunday drive. I aimed for the point of least resistance, slammed through their linked arms, and we exploded on to different snowdrifts.
I got to my knees and clasped my hands together to say sorry in Italian. Laughter drifted from the chairlift. I could see from the way the women were gathering themselves that they were unhurt, and when I saw my victim's face I was so relieved I hadn't hurt an innocent skier. Not innocent, no. It was, in fact, the waitress.
John Butler blogs at http://wordpress.lozenge.com