Flocon de Neige

The Alps were gorgeous. We arrived in Vallouise, a little alpine village, late Friday night. Saturday morning we were all up early for breakfast and a ride to the slopes. We went to a relatively small chalet, but it certainly wasn’t Afton Alps. The pistes (slopes) seemed to have no middle option—I went from a green slope (the bunny hill) to the summit (red or black slope options there). I was skiing with a group of French students that came on the excursion with us—they started calling me “flocon de neige” (“snowflake”) because I always seemed to be covered from head to toe in snow. I would be skiing down the slope and trying to make a sharp turn, and I’d just lean back a little bit too far so that my butt would grace the side of the mountain; once that happened, my body would pivot I’d flip over, my skis would be crossed behind me, my arms out front, and I’d slide down the slope on my stomach like a penguin until the steepness wore off a little bit. I never got hurt (probably due to a lot of pre and post ski stretching) so all of my wipe-outs were mostly a lot of fun.