I’ve always thought “paying for friends” was a silly
criticism of joining a sorority or fraternity. The University of Florida has
something like 50,000 undergrads. Please tell me all the ways in which it’s a
bad idea to try and bring that down to a less daunting size at the age of 18,
having come from a small, private school where classrooms totaled about 15 or
so students. Plus, for most of us, it was the only thing we paid for thanks to
Florida Bright Futures and Florida Pre-Paid. Sure, I guess we also paid for
parking tickets and boot removal once the number of tickets piled high enough
and the occasional $90 fee - a huge sum of money at the time - to get your car
out of a tow yard when you blatantly parked in tow away zones because you
couldn’t conceive of walking a distance that seems like mere steps after 13
years of New York-living, and you had that sense of entitlement only the 18 to
24-year old crowd truly can. OK, so looking back, along with my friends, we could
have sponsored a scholarship program with what we paid in parking-related
incidents over 4+ years. Oh my god,
someone give her an Adderall stat!
My point it was a good investment. I really, really liked
some of those bozos. Still do. And when I set out on my first, real solo travel
adventure as a proper adult, I decided to buy a friend in the form of a ski
instructor for three of my four days on the slopes. (He was unavailable the
last day on account of needing to jaunt over to France and purchase a motorbike?)
I figured it was a good investment not only in terms of
companionship, but also death prevention. The Alps have a different
classification system for their runs, or pistes as they call them. In many
cases, they’re longer, faster and harder than what I’m accustom to in Colorado.
It’s not lost on me that there’s a Freudian slip somewhere in there. And Vermont
doesn’t count. (Sorry!... not really... East Coast skiing is trash.)
Anyhow, I was right. Harry was British, impossibly charming
and a phenomenal coach. I skied better, smarter and faster than I ever have in
my life. Without him, I would have either been less adventurous and/or missed a
hairpin turn, fallen off the side of the mountain and died in the valley of the
shadow of the Matterhorn. If you’re going to buy the farm, it’s not a bad place…
Ma!
The Adderall. Fuck! Oh, also, Harry is a surf instructor in the summer and
his parents own a vineyard in the south of France. Describe a more attractive combo.
I’ll wait.
If you can believe it or if you’re even still following,
this is probably a good time to mention that this story isn’t about Harry and
me. Please. This isn’t a Disney movie and my life isn’t that enchanted.
Friday night in Zermatt, I went out to a place called Brown
Cow. They have a menu that doesn’t involve fondue, a smell you’ll wear the rest
of the night, but it doesn’t matter because it savages your stomach and you
have to go directly home upon settling the bill. They also have Aperol Spritzes that only
cost $9.50chf and a big, wrap-around bar which is great for dining out solo. While
I sat and ate and drank, I noticed a guy sitting catty-cornered from me who was
staring and half smiling every time I looked up and around the bar. He was
cute, but he never came over and introduced himself when the seats next to me
were occasionally up for grabs over the course of my dinner and drinks.
No big deal. I was satisfied with the evening so far and
ready to move on to Gees, so I asked the bartender for my check. He walked back
over and he told me, “The gentleman over there would like to pay for your
dinner.” Ummm, OK, the last time that happened I think I was 21-years old on
spring break in Lake Tahoe, watching March Madness with three of my best bozos,
and it was less that someone bought our dinners, but sent us a tray of shots. Probably because they wanted to get in our (much more forgiving at the time)
ski pants. It probably worked, too. What?
I walked around the bar to thank the man and en route, the
universe for the ego boost. Ricky was also flying solo, but as it turned out, only
because his friends had severe altitude sickness. They were visiting from
Scotland, so I understood maybe like 70% of what he was saying, tops. When I
told him the gesture was appreciated, but not necessary, he answered back, “well,
you were sitting there alone.” It took every fiber of my fiercely independent,
feminist being to not take his ginormous beer and throw it in his face while shouting,
“I was sitting alone because I chose to, motherfucker!” Plan B was to smile and
tell him I was on a solo trip. He thought that was super cool and asked why I
chose the Alps. I said I really wanted to ski and I really didn’t want to see
anyone in a distinct, red trucker hat, so I flew across the pond.
As an aside, I thought that would be glaringly obvious to anyone
who asked. As it were, “the screaming carrot demon in charge of the United
States is ruining the country and my life” isn’t everyone’s immediate thought
as to why an American might find herself in the Swiss Alps. Weird.
While we sat there talking and having another drink, now
together, a few things became apparent to me. First, Ricky was pretty darn
drunk – much more so than me, and I’d been drinking since my first A-Spritz at
2:30p with Harry. Adorable Harry... Second, I
would not be making a night of it with my new, Scottish friend. I wasn’t
feeling it. And lastly, I needed an escape plan because Ricky clearly thought
otherwise.
When he excused himself to the bathroom, I grabbed my phone
and made a point of being glued to it as he returned. He’d left his phone and
some money out on the bar and asked me if I was going to let someone walk off
with all of it. There’s my opening, I thought. I’m going to have to sacrifice
the fancy cocktail bar, but I have an out! I apologized and said I hadn’t
noticed any of it sitting there, but, well, you know how bad we Americans are
at vacationing and I was just catching up on some work emails as it’s only
about 5p in New York... and unfortunately, it looks like I need to go send something off to a
client in the next hour. Fake harrumph!
As he paid for all of this, I became even more confident in
my decision because lordy, was this man drunk! He gave the bartender a laughably big tip and it wasn't because he was feeling particularly generous. He was having trouble counting his Swiss francs. I asked him where he was
staying and he pointed in a direction the was opposite of my hotel. I
mistakenly thought that was great, forgetting how literal I can be. The direction someone points in this state is meaningless.
We walked outside and because part of every day must involve pushing a rock up a hill, turned
in the exact same direction. I crossed my arms like our president does when he
threatens war with North Korea. I’d previously thought this to be a universal
sign for “this isn’t happening,” in romantic encounters, but I suppose now also
includes, “I don’t know WTF I’m talking about à
nuclear winter!” As we continued to walk in the same direction, I got a little
panicked we were, in fact, at the same hotel. He was talking about his hotel
had a heated pool on the bottom floor. Mine did, too. I didn’t want this man to know where I was
staying, much less what floor I was on! Visions of a drunk Scott knocking on my
door opened me up to a phenomenon I like to call waking, walking night terrors.
It was at this point where I cut him off and said, “oh look,
there’s the sports shop – that’s where I need to turn!” For reference, there’s
some sort of sports and/or rental shop every 10ft or so in Zermatt. As I trotted
down the side street, arms still crossed, I added, “Ok, well, thanks again for
dinner! Enjoy your trip! Bye!” I wasn’t sure I was totally in the clear because
all these streets sort of meet back up, so for good measure, I ran down a
railroad track to a little passageway, all the way down to and across the river
and then up another hill. What better time than the present to go check out the
lobby of a nice hotel you pass every day on the way home from skiing?!
Once I was safely in the confines of my own hotel room, sans
any signs of the drunk Scot, I actually did send a presentation to one of my
clients. I’m not a total liar. Overall, however, a bit of a swing and a miss on
a Friday night. But that’s OK. While ski season might be winding down, summer
is just around the corner and I hear Portugal is an excellent place to learn
how to surf. I might even need to book a lesson.
