Why Skiing is Better Than Law School

Need I say more?

This is what you look like after three days of eating Swiss cheese, chocolate and meusli…

Possibly the most unrealistic looking push-off-the-cliff picture, but check out the background!

Dov and me being cool, Matan with his new friend

Yeah, but law school is fun, too – you get to read cases about people you don’t care about and see how people can write utter bullshit but get away with it because nobody understands what they’re saying! Just think about it – you have more boring things to read than you could ever have dreamt of! You can discuss the placement of a hyphen for three hours! You can have no friends! You can have a favorite spot in the library because you actually tried them all. You can look at all your anthropology-learning, meaning-of-life-pondering, party-going friends and say “Ha! You’re having fun now, but in three and a half years when I get my degree… I will still be more miserable than you!”

Okay, it’s not [always] that bad…

But skiing in Switzerland is just a tiny bit better.  

I haven’t blogged in months, so short intro: I went to Africa for a few months after the army and blogged about it and then I got upgraded to Aspen, Colorado and wrote about that, and just when I thought life could get no better, I started law school and never saw the light of day again. I stopped writing, which was probably a good idea, considering the most exciting thing that’s happened to me lately is getting caught sneaking a coffee into the library.

But now I am in Switzerland, pajama-wearing-exam-period is behind me and next semester is far, far away… in Tuesday-land…

Day one was what you might think of when you think of a family trip:

Pressure! How much did you pack?! It’s already 11:02! We’ve GOT to go!

Very mature and responsible me: “Did you guys take my passport?”

“Yes.” (this will be important for later).

Again: “You definitely have my passport?”

“Yes! Let’s go!”

Night: Discussing today’s new words: Ausfahrt. Placenta. Dog.

We go. We are way too many twenty-something year-olds sitting in the backseat, but regardless, Mom has packed an enormous bag of food for the plane. By the time we reach the airport I think one granola bar is left. I think about how great it is to travel with your parents: you don’t have to think about anything and everything is paid for.

As we’re making fun of something we probably shouldn’t be making fun of, Dad says, “Okay, now seriously. I want everyone to think”- quiet – “about what they can take out of their bags. Everyone packed way too much stuff.”

So we take out all of our bags and stand around thinking about whether anyone has a sock or two he can live without. Hmm… Nope. Dad, of course (this is the man who can spend an afternoon squeezing one ketchup bottle into another. The man who sees consolidation as an act of worship.) finds a watch that can go back (yes, watches take up a lot of space) and the whole bus waits for him to run back to the car.

We get off the elevator – wrong floor. We keep following the leader – wrong terminal. I begin to wonder if blindly following your parents is actually a wise thing to do. I receive an answer when we get to security.

Everyone’s name is called as each passport bearer smiles to the woman. Okay, that’s everyone, right? Hmm… Danya. Danya, where’s your passport?

I glare. “You know I don’t have it,” I say. “I asked you twice this morning…” and then we play the blame game for a few more seconds, stare stupidly into space for a few more seconds and then look a little harder. Nope. No passport. (But just think how much space we saved!)

Realizing I may not go to Switzerland. Look at Dad in the background

Pressure, running, phone calls, “this is the FINAL call for flight…” We’re on!

And then we’re off, we walk out to the freezing Basel air and pile into the too-small car with bags on our laps and under our feet and in between us. Everyone thinks very hard about that sock they should have gotten rid of. With every inhalation there is less air for the others to breathe. Dov farts.

And once again, we are bratty little kids in the backseat. Someone hits someone and we’re all laughing, Matan says something about a headache and Mom immediately tells him he had too much sugar today and blames Dad for letting him and Dad steps on the gas because we have to make it to the train by 20:30, it’s what we planned our whole day around and obviously we have to stop for dinner (meal number 35 that day) and miss the train. But we still get nearly killed trying to make it.

Me, very near my breaking point

After we all put on every possible layer of clothing we have (except Matan:”You’re going to freeze to death! Where’s your in-between-your-nose-and-lip-warmer?!”) we make it to the train, from there we take a shuttle to the hotel (followed by a boat, a spaceship and a teletransporter) and three years later I am in my bed in the hotel and I fall asleep.

But once we finally got on the slopes (that is, after a five course meal, trying on all our clothes and everybody else’s, renting equipment, making a plan, planning our plan-making and staring stupidly into space), it was stunning and white and we skied all over and I had an amazing time – as did my toes, at about 16:47 when I took them out of those boots.