I lace my hands around the cup of creamy hot chocolate and look around at the coffee. It was 10.30 in the morning and the place was deserted, just me and behind the bar, a waitress cleaning glasses and happily singing a duet with the German pop star on the radio.
Sitting behind the tall windows at the front of the cafe, I gazed dejectedly at the children’s slopes packed with skiers, the snow the perfect backdrop for their brightly colored ski suits.
We’d arrived early, on the first hotel bus, full of excitement for our first day of skiing, but here I was, barely an hour later, nursing my drink and wounded pride after one too many falls.
This was only my second ski trip and my enthusiasm to get back to the Alps and put on my skis had started to dissipate as soon as I found out how icy the slopes were. And maddeningly, I seemed to be the only person who couldn’t control his skis. As the little ones brushed past me carelessly, time after time I lost control and fell clumsily onto the ice-hard snow.
Embarrassed by my lack of basic coordination, I retreated to the warmth of the bar and a large hot chocolate, certain that I would never face the ascent again. Lost in thought, I didn’t hear the elderly couple enter the cafe until they took their place at the table to my right.
I noted with interest that the woman was in a wheelchair. The man, her husband, I assumed, was helpful and made sure she had everything she needed before sitting down. They settled in, like me, to watch the skiers speed down the mountain one at a time and two at a time, expertly executing their ‘snow plows’ to stop by the ski lifts. Many of the skiers were young children and she hoped they had come to proudly watch their grandchildren progress through the crowd.
As they conversed in German, pointing and smiling at the energy and passion of the skiers just a few feet away, I had a good chat. Despite their disability, this couple was clearly having fun. How dare I feel sorry for myself just because, being a complete beginner, I had not yet mastered my team or my sport?
So the conditions weren’t the best, so what? Without a fresh snowfall the night before, the ground had hardened into a sheet of ice, making it even more difficult to practice my turns and parallel stops. That didn’t mean I should give up.
Comparing myself to that poor woman next to me, I realized how much I took my health and fitness for granted. My drink finished, I knew I had to go back outside, put on my skis and keep trying until I mastered my craft.
So I did it. Funny how helpful the more experienced skiers were when I got back there. They yelled advice at me in a language I didn’t understand, held my poles in lifts, and gave me a wide berth as I zigzagged down the mountain, gradually discovering that I was spending more time on my skis than on my butt. .
It took me the rest of the morning, but as the snow fell softly around us, I realized that not only were conditions improving, but so was I.
But the point of my story is not to say: keep trying; count your blessings; give thanks for what you have.
No, something much more wonderful happened that day and I learned another lesson.
As the day progressed and the season got busier, two people stood out among the skiers: a man and a woman, always skiing together, their wide smiles and sparkling eyes telling all who saw them that they were madly in love. or going through moments of madness. their lives, I suspect it was a bit of both.
They never tired of their sport. As soon as they reached the bottom, they were back at the ski lifts, attendants carefully helping the husband fasten his wife’s ski wheelchair each time to the ropes so they could once again ski down the mountain together. her chair and he behind her, bringing her safely to the base of her each time.