Hannes is airborne!Ahh, the mountains of Switzerland, lightly covered in a new dusting of Easter snow. Blue sky and sunshine. A lake high in the Alps, surrounded by snow, with a gorgeous greenish blue color so improbably Mediterranean that I can’t describe it—can it be cyan? And then—skis?! Yes, they fit into the surroundings, but on my feet?! After 25 years?
It was true. Hannes had persuaded us all (all but Jost) to give it a try. The car was in the shop, so we took the merrily tooting Post Bus from the village of Brienz around the lake and up the narrow switchbacks to the Axalp, the mountain directly across the Brienzersee from Mom and Dad’s Swiss apartment. Here the locals bring their toddlers to learn to ski—changing their diapers and searching for pacifiers between sending them off for daring sweeps down the bunny hill. We felt a little sheepish about our awkwardness as we watched them careening down the slopes—but it’s a lot farther down to those long, ungainly skis when you’re more than two feet tall!
Hannes was a patient teacher after his instruction in the Czech Republic, and I was pleased to find that it’s a bit like riding a bike—it all came back quickly to me, all except for the muscle tone and strong knees I had when I was 20! The girls could probably have benefitted from a more professional instructor—and one who wasn’t related to them—but they got a taste of skiing that Hannes hopes they’ll want to refine in the Cascades next winter.
