Courchevel, Day Two: Hitting The Slopes

Skiing is hard. Really hard. I'm pretty sure it had something to do with my age, but even if that wasn't the case watching children as young as two running the nursery slopes wasn't too encouraging.

I immediately decided that the snow plough is a myth. Or alternatively, as I repeatedly called it today, a "piece of crap". It doesn't slow you down. It doesn't facilitate control. It just makes you tired quick.

It probably goes without saying that the whole day was pretty frustrating. I wasn't really understanding what the instructor was trying to tell me, and I couldn't see the subtle movements and positions he was so "obviously" making with his ski joints either. I decided to decline the offer from my friends of being chaperoned down half a green; I was in no position to fall down a proper slope let alone ski down one. This was lucky as it took those who did try over an hour to get to the bottom.

Right now I don't see the fascination with skiing. Black toes (my first pair of boots were too small, apparently), having to walk around with heavy gear and spending a lot of time on your bum didn't seem too appealing today and I didn't see my taste for it all improving either. Of course, I'll keep going, if only to attend the now clearly essential lessons. I'm hoping this is all toothing problems.

Courchevel showed off some amazing views from up the mountain. The resort itself was also pretty good, one of the best that my fellow experienced skiers had been to. This quality was reflected well in the expense and affluence about the place; this is where the Saudi Royal Family comes to ski, with Bentley's parked on the street and BMW X6's ten a penny. The rest of us chose the Spar across the road for lunch.