Do You ... ?

Traveling to a place our family hasn't been before brings a sense of wonder and excitement, reconnecting me to my 20s. A time when I lived in Rome, backpacked from country to country with various travel partners, returned a couple years later with a different travel buddy, then my parents, and meandered through life without a set agenda, without a lot of money in my account, and without the confidence that I was headed anywhere. I embraced bewilderment, learned navigation skills, and figured out how to stretch a dollar further.  

This month, for the kids half term, we decided to give skiing in the Alps a try. It's a choice that we and half of Europe made last week. Like our recent Italian vacation, we got the flight and Airbnb. The rest would be left to the whims and whereabouts of the snowstorm that was supposed to hit. 

The issue with reclaiming our 20 year old selves, is that we have five children now. And just about the time that our bewilderment and wonderment come alive again, say on the ascent from Heathrow to Geneva, they are met with the worry and anxiety of kids who are more comfortable with the familiar. On this trip, during the packing, boarding of the flight, drive to the mountains, unpacking, and first ride up the gondola, we were pummelled with nerve wracking questions that we couldn't really answer. 

Do you know how long it will take to get to our house from the airport? 

Do you know how many bedrooms the house has? 

Do you know if there is a bus to the slopes?  

Do you know where we will ski in the morning?

Do you think we will go out for dinner tonight? 

Do you know if the skiing in France is harder than Colorado? 

Do you think we will be able to ski here? 

Do you really think there will be an avalanche? 

They are asking if we want rescue insurance, do we need rescue insurance? 

Oh my goodness, no! At least I hope not. 

As much as I try to embrace it, escapism is never really an option on our family vacations. There is always a 'mom!, MOM!' and a question, or a hundred, that brings you back to reality, or at least a better laid out a plan that everyone can rally around. 

To my kids delight, the answers to their questions unfolded quickly. We made it from Geneva to Chamonix Centre in about an hour. We were driven there by Alps2Alps transfer. Peter's unposted review: worn out van, farting driver, Caroline going ballistic in the back seat. Our apartment (not chalet) was fine. There were four bedrooms. Mary had to share - the thing she was most concerned about. One of the toilets was connected to a sink, so when you flushed, the sink automatically started to refill the toilet. It was French engineering and plumbing at its best and reminded my kids to wash their hands every time. There were at least 6 shearling throws, thrown around the couches, that every day ended up on the floor. The stove didn't work, the oven didn't either, so we ate at Rose du Pont, right on the river, the first evening. And it was fabulous. 

On our first ski day, Margaret, the twins, and I took an Uber to the gondola. Peter, Mary and Bobby walked up Mt. Crumpet to meet us. Together ... one, two, three ... we pushed our way through a scrum of snow suited bodies onto the gondola. Lines don't exist in Europe. Only blobs of people fighting for each inch of movement toward the destination. Once on board, we breathed deeper, and soared up to the top of Mont Brevent. My nervous kids looked out the window fearful of the intense grade beneath us, asking one more time, do you think there are any easy slopes? At the top, with a near blizzard swirling around us, they started shaking in their boots. Unconfidently confident, I directed our group toward the sign that said easiest way down. 'ONWARD,' I yelled because the wind was so loud. But then someone ahead of us said there had been an avalanche, so turn around. But then the ski school went that way, right by us. So I charged ahead, pulling the twins along who were holding on to my poles, encouraging everyone to follow my voice through the white out. It took a run to get everyone comfortable, but they quickly were. And we skied on, hoping an avalanche wouldn't really come tumbling down the mountain. 

On that day, we also figured out there were no lodges on the mountain, just full service restaurants. With fondu, fancy chocolat chaud, gratins, and frites. Beaucoup de frites. Et biere. We figured out that you couldn't stretch pounds, euros or dollars skiing in Chamonix. We figured out that the only way down Mt. Brevent if you don't want to kill yourself is on the gondola. We figured out that walking back home is too far with skis. And we figured out that if you eat dinner around 5:30, you can get a table. Everything is booked by 7:00 PM though. And they definitely want you and your five kids out of the restaurant by 7:00 PM. Despite it being someone's birthday. 

On the next day, we learned that if it snows too hard, which it kept doing, many of the mountains close. Case and point, Brevent was closed. But Les Houches was open. Les Houches is always open. So we, along with everyone else in Europe went to Les Houches. We took two Ubers. Everyone else in Europe crammed on the free busses. And then we all waited together in line for the gondola. Peter being Peter figured out a way to cut half the line, and got us in behind some friendly Brits from the North, who happened to be elementary school teachers, and who happened to be mildly entertained by Caroline crawling forward in line because her legs were too tired to stand. No one else was entertained. 

After a 40 minute drive in traffic to Les Houches, 10 minutes in line getting tickets, 30 minutes in line for the gondola, and mounting stress because Caroline and Jacqueline might just give up and walk out of line any minute, we finally made it up the mountain. And there it was. Bliss. Escapism. Some great ski runs. Joy and gratitude. And then ... another long line at a different lift. And then the lift broke. And Caroline screamed in line. And the Europeans didn't help or care. They just pushed forward. So I pushed back. And then pushed Caroline ... and Jacqueline ... and then Margaret through the turn styles, and pushed everyone else out of our way. I will get out of this line, out of this hell, and on this lift. Only to be met with another one at lunchtime. The restaurant La Cha was adorable, and all of Europe thought so too. So once again, we queued and fought for food and a table, making me ask my own questions. 

Do you think the ski resorts in Chamonix are family friendly? 

If the Titanic sank in Les Houches, would women and children be able to board the boats first? 

Do you think Caroline's screams can be heard in Italy? 

Do you think we should head home now?  

Do you think that bus takes us home? 

Do you think this is our stop? 

Do you think we should grab that taxi because we missed our stop. 

Do you think 25 euros is a reasonable rate for traveling 1 kilometre? 

With the twins, sure. 

The next day, everything was easier. No traffic. Hardly any lines. Great snow. Great skiing. Sun and mountains peaking through. I looked up and said, thank you God for all of this. 

And right in between my wonderment and Caroline's anxiety, do you know what happened?

Noooooooooo!

Pop. 

Pop. 

Faaaaaaaaa! 

Mommmmmmmy ... I'm so so sorry! 

And ...  

Do you need a rescue? 

Yes. 

Do you have rescue insurance? 

Ugh ... no. 

Do you know where your kids are? 

At the bottom. Except this one. And the other two are with my husband. Who is at the top of the hill (I think.) 

Do you have cinq enfants? 

Oui. 

Do you speak French. 

Un petit peu. 

The next thing I knew, I was in a ski patrol evacuation bed, sledding head first down a steep hill in Chamonix on the back of a skier who was flying (FLYING) down the hill. Caroline, perfectly fine after our fall, was in the arms of another ski patrol woman. Peter carried Jacqueline. Margaret bravely skied down. And Mary and Bobby were thankful to be reunited with us at the bottom. I was then thrown in a French ambulance and brought to the hopital de Chamonix, which seemed to specialize in ski related knee injuries. Joe from America was in the same boat as me, but didn't want to talk about it. Meanwhile, Peter was left to battle the intense logistics of getting five kids and their skis off the slopes. Just the bewilderment that he was looking for. 

I got an x-ray and then the self described young doctor and old doctor both pushed and prodded my knee. Rien. They sent me on my way with a prescription for pain meds and the warning not to ski anymore on my trip.  

While not in any pain, something was definitely wrong. I couldn't bend my right leg correctly and the next day it started swelling. I scheduled an MRI back in London, and am still hoping that it will heal naturally. 

There was a whole lot that could have gone better or been easier on our first trip to the Alps. There were probably better houses to rent. The service at Josephine on my birthday irked Peter and he let it be known. Some of the lines were crazy. And I wish I had known how to avoid them sooner. It never stopped snowing and we missed the Alpine views that people gush about. On the slopes, Peter and I were always waiting for someone, making sure someone didn't fall, scooping someone up when they did, and not just free forming it down the mountain. I likely pulled my MCL while trying to help Caroline down the steepest part of a black hill that I never should have brought her down. And we spent a whole lot of money. 

But, there was a whole lot that went so right. 

Chamonix is just lovely. And I want to return. I got to speak French, including in a hospital when my knee's life depended on it. The food and the ambiance at Rose du Pont was heavenly. When the clouds cleared on the 17th and I could see Mont Blanc from the top of Les Houches, I held my breath. The last trail run I did, likely for awhile, along the river was epic. All of our kids skied so well and got better while there. And Peter and I once again, got to explore a part of Europe we hadn't seen before, teaching our kids a little bit about the lost art of navigating life, one new word, one wing it decision, one rescue, and one thank god it wasn't worse moment at a time.

Lo.