would be lost into the snowy abyss and nobody would hear you land. I looked down and found my feet still attached to the skis but twisted in uncomfortable ways backward and to the side.
I tried to sit up, but the heavy breathing made me dizzy and I fought for each breath with difficulty. Once I finally found my way to an upright position on my rear end, I attempted to stand.
“Just walk your hands up your ski pole,” said my chaperone, who had come to a stop nearby and who had clearly skied before. I grunted and huffed and wheezed the thin air, but lacked any upper body strength whatsoever to complete the task. I gave up and instead found the ski binding releases and applied more strength than I thought I could feasibly muster to try to escape those death planks. I was now certain that I did not enjoy skiing. It would take me a number of years before I would try it again. But what could I expect? You strap skis onto a novice (from Florida no less!) at the top of the Alps and wait and see what happens. Does someone take to it that fast? If so, I was not one of those super skilled people.
Once I hiked my way back to the top of the hill under the burden of the equipment that had tried to kill me, I promptly dumped the skis and joined another group who had started sledding down the hill on sacks. That was much better. Now when I overexerted myself with laughter and excitement, I just laid my head down on the sack until the dizziness passed and I could hike back up again. I noticed some other people skiing, people with actual skills, in a winding fashion all around the mountain, even in places with no holy red plastic protective barrier. One misstep and they would have disappeared forever. I had to cover my eyes. I can tolerate that kind of thing in movies, maybe James Bond, but not in real life. I had vertigo just watching them and prayed that they stayed on whatever was considered the path.
Needless to say, since this account has now found its way to print, I survived. I felt my sanity and breath return, my dizziness subside and my blood pressure decrease with each click of the train back down the mountain. I sighed when we hit bottom, happy to be alive and exhilarated by just how alive I felt. I bought a Swiss watch to celebrate, and maybe a little Swiss chocolate. After that adventure, we walked through the fields at the base of the mountains and decorated our hair with wildflowers. Considering I was tethered to a large group, I’ve never felt such freedom. And now that my heart rate was back to normal, I could really let myself go and enjoy the beauty all around me. I savored a bite of Toblerone.
Yes, Europe gave me everything I asked for and more. In Amsterdam, I ate Gouda and wandered through tulip markets and saw windmills and tried on clogs. I also strolled by the windows in the Red Light District and saw all the ladies for sale, like moving mannequins, with actual red lights. I didn’t expect the literal red lights. I didn’t try any drugs, so I’ve been told I missed out in that regard. But that wasn’t really my thing. If you haven’t noticed, I was already high enough. The drugs would have made me intolerable.
Despite having an innate fear of London airports, I managed to make it without accusing multiple people of sheltering a bomb. I had my suspicions, but I realized I might be wrong about them, so didn’t voice them. I refused to embarrass the group. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I had no more fear whatsoever. I mean, I practically had to disrobe every time I bought something, which was frequently, because of my special travel wallets that I kept under my clothes, and had secret zippers and compartments. It was something special to watch me in a store. Thieves, perpetrators, small children and their pets knew what the girl with the strange bulge at the waist was hiding. I was thick around the middle with travelers’ checks and loose change from various countries. Very chic, and not subtle at all.
Despite the anxieties, and largely because of the adventures, I ended up leaving Europe just as I had arrived; elated, excited and ready to travel to Europe. Thank goodness it wouldn’t be the last time I would make the trip across the Pond, as we jet-setters like to say.
Hypochondriac Travel Tip #5
You can’t see the entire world unless you fly. Medicate if necessary, but get on that plane- it’s totally worth it.
5
What Goes Up, Must Come Down
I’d like to take a minute to discuss methods of travel. I spent my entire childhood taking road trips or cruises, so flying maintained a level of novelty for me for quite some time. After I went to college, though, I was in the air more frequently, since I often had no choice but to fly home. I would post notices on campus ride share boards, but that only worked some of the time. I was twelve hours and three states away from home by automobile. It was inevitable that I would have to fly the friendly skies. I had to suck it up and deal. I couldn’t stay in one place forever. The problem was that, no matter how much time lapsed between flying experiences, I would often have the nerves again of a first timer. I was a flying virgin, over and over again.
Here was, and often continues to be, my ritual for flying. First, I make the reservation. At that point, I look up what kind of plane I will be flying. If it’s a propeller plane, I cancel the reservation and find an alternative reservation. Now I try to look in advance, to avoid the cancellation and rebooking step. Second, even though the trip may be months away, I fixate on the impending flight. It’s healthy, really, to consider a fireball of death and steel for months on end. Third, I contemplate whether I really need to go to my destination. Should I cancel? Are there other ways of getting there? Inevitably, I always decide that I will go. I may be terrified but I won’t let it hold me back. Fourth, in the days leading up to the flight I have severe intestinal distress that allows me ample time to discover the beauty and wonder of various bathroom facilities. Fifth, the day of the flight, I dry heave, and alternate between not eating or eating fried mozzarella sticks (if I’m going to die a fiery death, I want to enjoy a little fried cheese beforehand). Finally, sixth, I board the plane, grip the arm rests and take shallow breaths while sweating for the entirety of my voyage. I am usually tired and headachy when I arrive at my destination and loaded up on Ginger Ale. If there are bumps in the flight, or a delay for “mechanical difficulties,” all of my symptoms are exponentially greater. The thing is, from the outside, I look relatively normal, if not a little constipated, which, of course, is never the case before a flight.
I would like to say that I’ve improved with age. And I have. With the help of medication. But that’s only been a recent development. Now I would like to focus on the most memorable flight of all time, which happened fairly early on in my flying experiences.
I was a junior in college and coming home for the summer. I had put most of my stuff in storage but still had way too much to take on the flight and was about to have to pay extortionate rates to check my additional luggage. I had a kind family behind me who had no carry-ons, took pity on me, and decided to each take a piece of my luggage as their lot so that I wouldn’t have to pay. The snooty ticket agent huffed, “Well they will have to carry those pieces on their own. You can’t help them.” The kind mother agreed, defiantly. What a nice family. I already felt better about the flight, because I had made friends. And they had kids. I always feel better when I see kids and military people on flights. Both groups are so brave when it comes to flying that I automatically breathe easier.
We took off. The flight was scheduled to last less than two hours. Oh, if only. Here’s a bonus tip for you: Don’t EVER fly into central Florida in the summer time between the hours of four and six p.m. Chances are you will be caught in the middle of a massive electrical storm. The heat and humidity build all day, then burst violently wide open into massive thunderstorms between those hours, which finally subside but then create a sauna-like ambience during the evening that makes my hair super big and pretty.
On board the plane, as we approached central Florida, the flight started to bounce around a bit. It was approximately forty minutes before our scheduled landing, so we were in the area. The “fasten seat belt light” beeped on. The captain’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker.
“Ladies
