Skiing. Or not.

Well, all I can say is, "Thank god I didn't bring my camera". I was right to think it might get damaged. And I didn't need any photographic evidence of my incompatibility with skis and snow.

My first attempt at skiing on real snow (having once had a bit of a go on a 'dry slope' in Gloucester) went predictably badly, but ended up better than I'd expected, I suppose. I did spend about 50% of my time on my bottom, but at least I learnt how to ski across the slope, if not actually down it. Which, I know, isn't quite the idea, but then I didn't get to practise on a beginner's slope - I had the 'sink or swim' school of training methods. Otherwise known as the Czech, 'muddle through and hope for the best' method. They clearly believe there's no point in having an actual lesson or training area to learn in, especially as this is for something which is unlikely to lead to earning you a living. Goodness knows, they barely believe in having a good, well-paid teacher for learning something as useful and business-applicable as English, let alone something as 'natural' as skiing. 

The cowboy was as sympathetic as ever, of course, shouting at me to "listen!" to his instructions in Czech using vocab I'd never had to know before, and telling me off for not doing what he'd told me to. Things like not looking at other people and just going ahead and focussing on where I want to end up. Which resulted in my narrowly escaping a collision with a snowboarder, when I actually followed his advice. He also helpfully instructed me to watch the 3 and 4 year olds zooming down the slopes and copy them. As though just watching what a four year old does and copying it were perfectly manageable. To be honest, I had envisioned this. The cowboy, for all his other skills, isn't the best teacher. He hasn't quite learnt to do the 'being patient and kind' thing. And I happen to consider that part kind of vital in a teacher of any kind. 

Thank god for my new, warm skiing trousers and my amusing recollections of 'Ab Fab's 'The Last Shout'. "Snowplough, snowplough, I must. Snow. Plough", says Edina, struggling alone on a slope. I couldn't help but laugh at the thought that I was closer to Patsy in my attempts at skiing, and could easily have ended up 'going round again' on the skilift and asking, "now, Eddie, now?" until midnight like she did. (Instead, as 'the ground came up' at the end of the ski lift, I was thrust forward at considerable speed and felt that the only way to prevent myself careering into a nice family gathering at the top of the slope sitting on deck chairs (no, seriously) was to aim for the ground and hope I would stop quickly rather than continue to travel forward but on my bottom instead.) Thankfully, skis create drag very easily when at right angles to the ground.

Pity I didn't have a bottle of champagne to soothe my ailments, like Patsy in the Last Shout. That might've been more fun. Instead, I followed instructions, learnt how to turn around, first by purposely sitting on the snow and in a most undignified manner, raising my skis up one by one and turning them in the other direction and then slowly working my way up again. Secondly by learning how to use the sticks (poles?What are they called in English? I only ever learnt they were 'hole' in Czech) to push against almost directly behind me, as I shuffled my skis up and around to face in the opposite direction. Carefully avoiding sliding backwards. But these are two ways to turn around, neither of which are used by anyone with a modicum of skiing skill. But nevermind. 

I did learn to ski across the slope and then step down the hill for a while sideways to make up for the fact that going across hadn't got me more than a few centimetres closer to the bottom of the slope, which the cowboy found infuriating, but whenever I actually tried to ski even remotely in a descending fashion, I ended up speeding up beyond my control and the only way to stop was to desperately try to turn back upwards, which invariably meant I ended up on my arse again within seconds. But I did make it down the hill by the end of the day. I let the cowboy go down the hill and take a couple of turns going back up and skiing down again, in other words descending a slope that had taken me all day to get to the bottom of safely. Heigh-ho, we can't all be great skiers y'know. Some of us come from places where this skill is far from interesting, let alone useful.

Thanks to Ab Fab, I still haven't got the humming of Marianne Faithfull and the bassline that leads into the chorus, "we gotta get outta this place if it's the last thing we ever do. We gotta get outta this place. Love has a better life for me and you..." out of my head yet. But I don't suppose that's vitally necessary at this juncture. Indeed, it could be deemed rather appropriate.

Misery, mishaps and Le Meurice

I have been overwhelmed with a kind of existential crisis which has been building up for some time, but feels worse than ever since getting back from Paris.  (Though if you're going to have something as grand-sounding as an 'existential crisis' befall you, where better than Paris for it to occur?)  Some disasters started off the trip.  For starters, a two and a half hour delay, which ended up making me late for getting to the ballet, so carefully booked and planned by the faerie godmother trainee.  Then the realisation that my tiredness in packing had led me to supremely idiotic packing, which meant my old mobile, the one with the camera I had been taking photos on and posting too many of on here, was stolen.  (How ironic.  That'll teach me not to reprimand myself for taking too many photos.)

After all of this, plus a fairly horrible arrival in Terminal 3 (Charles de Gaulle would be horrified to have his name put to such a concrete warehouse of an airport terminal) I made it out alive and had the longest conversation in French of the whole trip with the cab driver who took me to 'l'hôtel Le Meurice'.

And then there was a kind of sublime calm that gradually descended over the course of Friday and even a little into Saturday, as I soaked up the ease with which one can live if unburdened by poverty.  My French didn't fare as well as I'd hoped, what with my lack of experience of using aristocratic-like levels of politeness, but nonetheless, I got by.  I "enjoyed" the banter with the audacious waiter on the street who tried to entice me and my friend to his cafe by calling out to my friend about how beautiful she was, and then when I responded, because she didn't speak French so didn't understand, he told me, "not you, her! I wasn't talking to YOU!  She's beautiful, not YOU".  All with the most delightful Parisian charm, of course.  (I.e. none whatsoever.) 

Thank goodness I have years of training in this kind of scenario, what with Madame Charlita and the times I went out with her and was totally ignored, to the point of people looking at her while I spoke, which must be what it's like to be the best friend of a supermodel or a celebrity.  No-one talks or listens to you, even when the celebrity is tired and has nothing to say, or, indeed, even when they don't speak the language but you do.  (In fact, this even happened a little bit in Prague, with my visitor, who was also rather glamourously dressed compared to me, and certainly prettier, and even though she remained silent during (my) conversations in Czech, everyone looked at her and not me, hoping she was about to say something devastatingly interesting.)

However, I got my 'French fix' with lots of books and magazines to read in French (now all I need is the time to read them...) and I even got some lovely postcards and took some pictures with my friend's camera instead, so all is not lost on that front.  The bookshop nearest the hotel had a picture of Jacques Prévert in the window, so there was no way I could avoid going in, 

unlike the Patisserie, which we gave a miss in the end.

And walks in the park and moments of quiet to sit and write at the kind of desk I would LOVE

in a most inspirational room filled me up on the 'rest and recreation' front, along with absolutely sumptuous food and even champagne.  So my doom and gloom should not have hit me so hard really, but somehow it crept up on me nonetheless.  I miss the double bed, the armchair and cushions,

the time to think, the opportunity to speak French and the delight of a companion almost as eccentric as me, who just needed a friend to accompany her this time.  By next year, she'll have moved on to have an entourage of friends and personal assistants and I will be a distant memory, but I hope I'll still get to return to Paris soon and do things the pauper's way and console myself with a glass of wine while I sit on my own in a bar in Montmartre and write forlorn poetry about being constantly overlooked.

Non, je ne regrette rien.  Ni le bien, ni le mal...tout ça m'est bien égal....

Hairdressers, phones and shoes

So this is the first long absence from writing and I'm feeling suitably ashamed about that.  But it was my birthday (the first to get through since ex-partner got settled into his new life) and I knew I had to make an effort to socialise and not be a miserable old so and so.  

First necessity: sort out getting my hair dyed again.  Not an easy task in a foreign language.  In fact, I used to dread every feeble attempt I made at getting a decent set of highlights and cut for a reduced price, i.e. one I could actually afford, because most turned out less than desirable, though one had actually been the best ever and that was totally free!  But no such luck here.

I bravely explained what I wanted with photos and my pre-looked up vocabulary, but even then, hairdressers always end up doing what they're used to and it really wasn't a terribly successful result.  I had an insane hope for the best when 'West End Girls' came on the radio, but about 30 minutes later it was Erasure (I think) singing "run away, turn away, run away, turn away, run away".  Not good.

Time to be ever so mature about things, as usual, and try not to burst into tears that I really don't have the confidence left to deal with another disappointment, but rather find another way to look at it.  So I decided to embrace the hispanic ghetto look and curled my hair and put on the ole' hoop earrings and dark lipstick.  Not terribly sophisticated, but on a salary like mine, maybe sophisticated is long gone and I should stop trying to cling to the champagne packaging that tried to help me feel otherwise.  (By god, I don't know what I'd do without the Faerie Godmother Trainee...) 

And one of my 'meet-ees' remarked that I looked 'beautiful'.  A linguistic error, but a rather nice compliment nonetheless.  And even though strange and unfathomable things befell me (mobile phone dropped on ground, switched off, naturally wants PIN number to reactivate, but PIN number is at home in a drawer, long trip home to get PIN number just to ring friend number 2 of the evening to find out where she is because her number was stored in my phone not in my brain...ach jo...) it turned out  kind of fun.

I ended up seeing in the beginnings of my birthday with Czech friends and Czech pop songs that I'd never heard before but could start singing along to almost immediately due to how catchy they were.  Then, home by 3am.  Then sleep.

There followed a box of chocolates, champagne and beautiful shoes!!!!  See below.

The evening of my birthday comprised a good Mexican meal with a glass and a half of red wine and some fine company.  For a birthday expected to be lonely and sad, I think I did pretty well actually.