*Contains language not suitable for children.
Everyone was up before 8 in the morning. By nine, I was out with the rest of the Strasbourg boys and was told to slide through the mountain of snow to get to the Tourist Office. Slide through the mountain of snow, I never knew that’s a real-life command!
“But where are the stairs, Couz?”
“There are no stairs.”
“What do you mean there are no stairs?”
“It’s okay, let’s go!”
I told him my legs are too stiff, I couldn’t move, I’m paralyzed, I’m shaking, I will die – in this exact order.
He laughed and took a photo of me, instead. Priceless or heartless?
I focused on my breathing to avoid being in a state of hysterical panic. Coupled with an escalating embarrassment from my inability to walk down an (ironically) angelic slope while everyone flew me by in their skis and snowboards, I gave myself no other choice than to brave this snow ordeal one step at a time.
So… I would slowly put a foot forward to descend into the base of the mountain where the Tourist Office was. And each step would feel like I’d roll down nonstop ’til I die. You hear? Non-stop, roll down, each step, die.
Putain /pyutah/ (“fuck”). What’s so strange is how the utter whiteness gives this weird illusion of falling forever. Me and my ski-virgin ass, I know. But the million dollar question is really this: will I do it again?