Last weekend I had the opportunity to ski in Kitzbühel, which is an Austrian resort between Salzburg and Innsbruck that has been featured twice in the Olympics. I woke up early after barely being able to sleep because of the excitement. I had been looking forward to this for so long. When people had asked me “why Vienna?” my go to response was that I wanted to ski the Alps. It did not disappoint. I arrived with my roommates at the resort around noon, after a minor train mix up. They went to find lessons and try to coerce someone to rent them snow pants, so I went my own way, anxious to get on the slopes.
Before I even got out of the gondola, the harsh beauty of the mountains struck me. The family I rode up with carried a conversation in German that I didn’t even attempt to follow because my mind was so absolutely captured by the landscape. When I had finally reached the top after transcending a remarkable distance, I viewed the map to determine how lost my horrible sense of direction could possibly get me. I concluded three things from the mountain map. The first was that I don’t actually know how to read maps unless they have an interactive blue arrow tracing my steps. Secondly, everything eventually connects so I could just start figuring the map out when it nears the time that the lifts close (look at me applying college skills to the real world- procrastination is key). My last valuable piece of information gleaned was that there didn’t appear to be any slopes above my skill level, so it would be impossible to get myself in too tragic of a situation. I promise this paragraph isn’t foreshadowing disaster- the plan was successful!
Now that my logic had deduced a strong argument for not worrying about where I was going, I chose a slope purely on aesthetics and started towards it. Standing at the top of the drop off, it hit me where I was. Although better in so many ways to where I usually ski, I was finally on familiar ground. Vienna is great- the people, the architecture, the history. But the people are those who take more interest in someone walking down the street in Nikes than those in a flounced ball gown. Running pants earn stares and I would be willing to bet my last Euro that the average male owns more tuxedos than sweatpants. The architecture is beautiful, but holds the “don’t touch it” kind of elegant beauty that I will never accomplish in any aspect of my life, nor do I wish to. The history is fascinating- the list of dead white men goes back substantially further than America’s. I love Vienna more than any city I’ve visited, but I don’t believe it will ever provide the comfort I found in the mountains.
I looked at a young man standing near me, and we exchanged huge grins. Irregular conjugations, verbs in second positions, and dative articles ceased to matter as the unrestrained passion I could feel light my eyes was reflected back in his, coupled with an understanding acknowledgment that we had to be standing on the best spot in the world. It was all downhill from there, because can this be a blog entry without at least one cliché?
Location: Kitzbühel Ski Resort
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