I'm standing on the platform of Granada train station and other than sweating in my light jumper, I have a wonderful view upon the white summits of the Sierra Nevada.
I can barely believe that two days ago, I was there, in a ridiculous 70's-style ski suit, trying not to make a total fool of myself while going down the ski slopes.
Talking about not making a fool of myself...
It is a universally acknowledged that things like skiing should be learned when one is young, because the older one becomes, the more difficult it gets. I mean now I'm 5'8“, the ground is much lower down. Also, too many scenarios were appearing in front of my eyes. What if I miss this turn? What if I skied there? In how many ways could I break my neck? Call me paranoid, but I just couldn't help it. Howver, thanks to peer pressure and some schizophrenic pep talk, I could gather enough courage to face the first piste.
As every fall was accompanied by laughter in the beginning, it wasn't too bad. Taking things with a smile usually gets me further. However, foolishness, recklessness or arrogance made me follow my two experienced friends onto the top of the mountain. The signs “Pista roja- Expertos solo”(red piste- experts only) really should have put me off, but for some reason they didn't.
There I was, standing on top of the Veleta, the second highest mountain in the Sierra Nevada, with a breathtaking view upon the Mediterranean Sea and the misty coast of Africa. But there was no way I could ski down the mountain, in snowplough that would have been sheer suicide. So there I was, all alone (technically there were people passing by, but that didn't change my condition). As I took off my skis to think of a way to get myself out of the situation, a couple of men stopped and asked me what I was doing. I was really lucky that they helped me, as I was really starting to panic. We first asked at the chair lift whether I could go downhill with it, but as chilled as some Spaniards might appear, this one was just not to be convinced. It was forbidden. Full Stop. Then one of the men had the patience to stay with me during the very long hour I went down the mountain in the most embarrassing way possible: step by step, sideways.
This taught me a great lesson of humility and also of thankfulness. My saviour didn't accept anything for probably saving my life. I was really amazed by this man. I will probably never meet him again, but I'll always be grateful for that.
After all these frights and emotions, a lunch in the sunshine was well-deserved. Then I actually realised in what danger I had been, because if someone fell down the steep piste, they would stop only some 700m downhill, broken ribs being the least of their worries.
Now it was time to do the right thing: go on the green pistes, the learner's section. I finally felt like I belonged there. I wasn't the worst skier for once! (yes, really!) At that point skiing changed from being totally frightening to actually being fun! Now, all I want is go back and try my best.
For now, I have a rather less glorious memory from our trip: severe muscle pain. Hence the title of this post, as I do look like a drunken penguin when I try to walk. There are days where I hate living on the 3rd floor without a lift!
Now I am in the train, the beautiful Andalucian landscape is passing by, the weather is just amazing. There has been constant sunshine for the last week and I look forward to some more sunny days in Seville, where I should arrive in a couple of hours.
I have indeed miles to go before I sleep...
