Lost in Translation

March 13, 2011

I arrived  home safe and sound from my ski trip yesterday. I have been skiing since I was 13 years old with my family. I absolutely love this type of holiday and some of my fondest memories are of ski trips in the past.

This year was slightly different as I went with my two friends. This gave me more socilaising maneuverability. Previously I have been on ski trips with my three uncles and a rake of their children so going out to bars etc.. was not top of their agenda.

In saying this, the two friends that I was away with are a couple so going ‘on the pull’ ( I hate that phrase) was not on the top of their agenda either. However if I’m honest, I really was not in the mood to meet any randomers while I was away. Sometimes I go through phases like this where I am just not that bothered. I was reading a brilliant book while there and I was happy to be engrossed in that for the week.

Not to sound like I was a total social recluse last week, you will be happy to hear dear reader that I did in fact manage to pull myself away from my book long enough to meet two guys who will serve to make this post slightly more interesting.

I met the first guy in a bar we went to on our second night there. Upon arriving we initially thought it was a gay bar. It turns out that just vast groups of European men like to go on ski trips together and decided to frequent this particular bar in the French Alps.

We had been there a while and the bar was playing incredibly loud European techno music (not my favourite genre of music it must be said). Yet another hoard of men arrived after about an hour of us being there. French men it seems have slightly more backbone when approaching women. A guy called Damien came to the table and asked could he sit down.

The conversation that ensued consisted of us screaming at each other over the music while also trying to contend with the fact that his English was not exactly fluent and my French is nonexistent. During this painful conversation  I learned that at 24 he had already moved in with, was engaged to and broken up with his fiance all in the last two months. Although I did feel sorry for the guy I couldn’t help but think, God I wish I wasn’t listening to this on holidays. However, a high point in the conversation came after he had poured his heart out for about 25 minutes. He stated in his best English/ French accent ‘Zo now I im ere zo go zkiing ind schzagging. In plain English, he told me he was there to get laid at which point I burst out laughing and excused myself from the conversation. However, not really taking the hint he mentioned that he could not remember where his apartment building was. God really has to love a trier and no men try as much as the French it would seem.

The next guy I’m happy to say was a little less obvious. His name was Pieter and he was from Holland. He joined out ski class late in the week where we got chatting. He had perfect English and goes back and forth to Dublin a lot with work so we had plenty to talk about. He worked in the financial industry and seemed to really love his job. Me being perhaps one of the least financially minded people around politely listened to his tales of banking, stocks and shares.

We ended up going to this crazy bar in the middle of two valleys where the rich and the beautiful of the skiing community go to dance on tables and drink champagne while gyrating up against one another on table tops. Hundreds of people gather by the bar to watch this spectacle.

As often happens when skiing, Pieter had never properly seen my face while I was skiing during the week as it had been muffled with a hat and sun glasses. As we were at this rather poser-ish bar I thought it may be an idea look less like the Michelin Man so I took off my hat and glasses. Pieter noted that I look ‘really different’ without them on. This comment must have been meant in a complimentary fashion because he text me later asking us all to come out for a drink.

For some stupid reason we ended up back in the the ‘gay’ techno bar. Again, more shouting ensued. By this time it was the last night of the holiday and I was wrecked. The night ended early with Pieter politely giving me three kisses on the cheek (must be a Dutch thing) and I departed. He is over and back to Dublin a lot so I mentioned I’d drop him an email on Facebook. Whether or not I ever see the financially minded Dutch man again is another question.. It’s all in the lap of  the great Facebook now….


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