We returned from our France / UK vacation trip yesterday. “What was the purpose of your trip?” we were asked by various immigration officials with various English accents in various countries. “Visiting family,” I said gravely, making the trip sound exponentially more chore-like than it really was. Poor me, visiting my in-laws, who just happen to live 50 feet from a ski lift in the French Alps, and in England, in charming Kent county.
Today was my buffer day between vacation and work, an essential limbo phase to reduce the impact of jetlag grogginess, to tend to post-vacation errands, and to savor the relaxation just a little bit longer.
So all day I’ve been mentally writing this very blog post, floundering as I typically do after a vacation hiatus. Which of the past 10 days’ adventures should be the pivot on which the vacation hinges? It needs to be of general interest and hold the potential for wit, creativity, and literary merit. It needs to convey a gamut of emotions, from spiritual satisfaction to rip-roaring fun. And it cannot involve cheese.
Possible contenders include:
1. Returning to where I first learned XC skiing 4 years ago and totally ripping up the trail, then moving onto technically and physically more challenging routes…
2. Relaxing in the cozy confines of our new condo after a hard day of skiing, to drink beer, eat chips, and turn zombie-like while watching French game shows.
Here’s Mr. P, rocking his one-piece skiing outfit in the condo.
3. Going Alpine skiing with Mr. P and his father, and making them proud of my nascent ability to downhill ski as well as amazed that I survived that incident in which I took off straight down a slope, Bode Miller-style, as they both yelled at me in alarmed French. Like I understood them.
4. Being approached by a precious young French girl, 6 years tops, on a beginners slope. She apparently had enough of trying to get her ski instructor’s attention, and so asked me something about helping her ski down a hill. Sweetheart, you’re asking the wrong adult. I barked nervously “Je ne comprends pas. Je ne parle pas francais” (“I do not understand. I do not speak french”). The surprise in her blue eyes was already turning into trauma by the time I fled the area.
This picture has nothing to do with the little girl, but I totally loved the pure Frenchness of these skiers and feel compelled to post the picture.
5. In England, watching my “Terrible” 2-year old nephew in the throes of repeated crying jags and tantrums, and feeling guilty for thinking how cute he was when he sobbed uncontrollably.
I will not post a picture of him, but here’s us at Leeds Castle in England…
6. Doing biathlon at the nordic center in Peisey-Vallandry. Is there anything cooler than saying I fired a .22 caliber rifle in a championship biathlon stadium in France? How about I fired the rifle after XC skiing myself into exhaustion and still managed to hit the target?
I can’t decide which experience was the defining one. So I bring you… cheese. Here is the cheese from our raclette party, before and (sigh) after.
