All A Commie Flop

"But why should they care?"

"Because now that the minister has arrived," said Olga, "the ski lifts will instantly start to work."

She was right; when the news spread around the hotel there was a great rushing about and fastening of ski boots. Again, I was caught up in a wave of excitement, for I was off myself to my first, and last, ski class. I was punctual, of course, and immediately looked around for Romeo, the gorgeous ski instructor I'd heard so much about. The other beginners had told me how kind and helpful he was. "It's marvelous—if you're in any trouble you just lie there waving your legs in the air and calling, Romeo, Romeo...."

Our instructor turned up. He was called Gustav. He was 50, balding, with sticking-out ears. Romeo had gone to Bucharest. Gustav didn't really present the same incentive, but I did my best. I bent my knees and fell down. I snow-plowed and fell down. I traversed and fell down. I did a kick turn and fell down. In the end I lay there crying, "Gustav, Gustav," but it wasn't quite the same, somehow. After a time I discovered the easiest way was to wait till he wasn't looking, remove my skis, stand upright and put them on again.

Schussing gently down the beginners' slope in brilliant sunshine, I waited for the explosion of joy I'd heard about. It didn't happen. I tried to remember I was a joyous, arabesque-drawing lone falcon gliding along a glittering carpet, sipping powder snow like vintage wine.

I'd been waiting all my life for this. I'd paid a fortune to Sobadjeff. I'd been practicing and exercising hard for weeks. I'd traveled 1,500 miles, clambered icy mountains, gone to Asia, drank disinfectant—all this, and plenty more, just to achieve one heavenly afternoon on skis. Now I discovered something.

I didn't like skiing.

All afternoon we slogged across the slopes to Gustav's harsh commands. It was quite a relief when I sprained my ankle, returned my gear to Room 13, bade farewell to Olga, Doina and Ion and took the train back to Sinaia.

"You make excellent progress, no?" said Madame Anna, looking approvingly at my bandages.

I flew home the next day. I was quite satisfied, though, that I could face all my skiing friends. They could come back from Obergurgl or Grenoble and try to impress me with tales of the gaiety of resort social life, with talk of stem turns and Christies, or even with their beautiful tans. But, really, could they match me? For I had gone schussing behind the Iron Curtain and glimpsed the Bolshie Vita, and I knew that there is far, far more to a successful skiing holiday than the absurdly minor consideration of learning how to ski.