Live the Dream

Before I left Australia, a number of people referred to my upcoming trip as “living the dream”. Perhaps for most people, leaving your job and your obligations behind to pursue one’s passions across the globe is living out their dreams. I, however, was and still am reticent to use the phrase “living the dream” in relation to this trip for two reasons.

First, I have worked at a certain retail chain which had a sales byline of “live the dream”, and every time I hear this motto I am faced with the vision of our store’s faulty stock box. This box was the last stop on the long journey to landfill for innumerable cheap headtorches, sleeping mats, insulating mugs and all manner of other crap that had tragically died young. Having collected some damaged components myself over the years the thought of this box and the well-intentioned products within it brings me little comfort.

Second, there’s a big difference between what trips like this are actually like and how people perceive them. This is dangerous territory, because I don’t want to sound ungrateful for this opportunity. If I wasn’t here skiing I’d probably be where most people are most of the time, at work. Skiing is obviously better than work. But I think people sometimes get confused by the glamour of ski movies, travel magazines and slide shows from luxury tourists. Life as a beginner ski bum is not like those things. Some common misconceptions are:

Ski bums spend every day skiing epic powder:

False. Most of my skiing on this trip has been done in varying degrees of ice and hardpack. Lately there has been some corn snow (some ankle deep and gloopy, some firm and fantastic), but mixed ice and hardpack has been something of a theme. Powder is good, but there’s been one storm since I got here and I missed three days of skiing in that snow because my knee puffed up.

Ski bums start every night in wild boozy parties and finish it fornicating with attractive members of their desired sex:

False. There have been some boozy parties in my general vicinity during my time in NZ, but I haven’t gotten involved, because having fun is a tool of the devil. But even if I had been slowly embalming myself, the second part of this myth is completely off the mark. For a start, skiing in NZ is a HUGE sausage party. Since most ski bums are not suitably inclined to take advantage of this glut in supply, there’s a lot more talk on this front than action. And even if there were beautiful women queuing up to use the Broken River funicular tramway each night, I’d still be out of bounds. And even if I wasn’t, it’s not like the imaginary women would be imaginarily throwing themselves and my non-imaginary feet. So far, the club of women who have admitted to finding me attractive has six members, two of whom have never even been identified. Admittedly, the club did welcome a new member just recently, but it was humongously, spectacularly awkward and was either a very droll and hilarious joke or a tragic mistake.

I have, however, learnt some valuable things about boozy parties while I’ve been here. It seems that the unwritten rules for removing a drunk person from your car are as follows:

Do: Yell at them, shove them, whack them and threaten them.

Don’t: Put snow down their pants. This seems to be an especially serious breach of the rules.

Thankfully, I was able to learn by watching the example of others more knowledgeable than myself, rather than by trial and error.

Ski bums are all great skiers who spend the day hooting with joy as the rip around the hill:

False. There is at least one ski bum who spends the day faceplanting, snorting snow out his nostrils and grumbling with frustration and rage as he leaves large arse and/or face-shaped craters in the hill. For some people, wearing a helmet is a fashion statement that they hope to never use. For me, a helmet is a vitally important piece of equipment that is on the front line of wear and tear.

Ski bums roam the earth in packs, buoying each other’s spirits with collegial spirit and jocularity:

False. Given that I disapprove of booze, having fun, people and skiing, it was always going to be a stretch to find a pack of appropriately jovial ski bums. In France I hung out with some Finnish guys, but they all wanted to die, so it worked out. Here, everyone wants to have fun and go to boozy parties with attractive members of the opposite sex. It’s not exactly that dating show from the 80s where a robot found people their soulmates. Whatever happened to that robot anyway? He’s probably at Temple Basin helping the fairies distribute the snowflakes evenly. I’m going up there tomorrow so I’ll let you know.