Heck, my ego has also had a bit of a stroking. I signed up for ski-school (my previous education consisting of my first - and best - boss, Stef, wheeling me to the top of a mountain and pushing me off. I miss Stef.)
Anyhow, I signed myself up for the novice class (the one where they assume you know how to put on skis, do the erotically charged manoeveur known as the "snowplough" and fall over.) After a few slides down the slope, the instructor informed me that I was really in the wrong group and should move up a notch. My preening was negated somewhat by the knowledge that 'level 3' was going to involve the much feared blue runs.
The Bear visits a snow sculpture
Tired after skiing, and realising that I hadn't eaten or drunk anything in the last 36 hours I determined to try a recommended bar; the Amsterdam Cafe. Two beers with a crowd of drunken pre-pubescent snowboarders convinced me that this was a bad idea (although the barmaid was very cute.) I was hungry too, and didn't feel like eating tacos from the distressingly sticky bar. So I stepped outside, closed my eyes and span around in a circle. WHen I opened my eyes again I found myself facing the Araxi.
The Bear and the impressively camp waiters at Araxi
This was one of those restaurants that don't have the menu by the door. This means one of two things; either if you have to ask then you can't afford it, or its actually a McDonalds. Hoping it was the former, I strode in. I requested a table for one (the hostess heard it as a table for four - my crazy accent, I guess.) And although I was somewhat underdressed, I enjoyed an excellent meal, a bottle of native wine and some horrific liquer that was equally native.
The meal was somewhat spoiled by my neighbours, who appeared to be a table of chartered accountants. One had a joke he told time and time again "What does the Japanese economy have in common with opera? Die Fledermaus!" (meaning - deflationary) - after I heard it for the second time I wanted to take my knife and either open one of my veins or one of his.
But I felt a little uncomfortable in the plush surroundings. Not because I was dressed in jeans, t-shirt and boots. But because I was acutely aware of being alone. It had hit me on the slopes too, but I'd latched onto an unfortunate Australian called Adele and dragged her along on my chair-lift adventures. Adventures are great. But sometimes I have a yearnng for someone to share them with. Does that make sense?
The Bear and a distressingly fake black bear
