News21

I am currently sitting in a hotel in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania on my second day of a nine week reporting frenzy for News21. Make sure to follow my Twitter here: http://twitter.com/#!/katiefriel

To start us off, here is a photograph of my desktop last night as I quickly edited junk together. I have been to each of those places in the past 36 hours.

From Top Center: 14th Street Subway Station, NYC, Virginville, Bethlehem & the outskirts of Allentown, PA

Careful What You Wish For

Almost two and half years ago I was living in New York. Well, more specifically, I was living in Queens. I frequented my bodega on the corner of Main Street and Queens Boulevard almost daily, I went to Starbucks almost obsessively and drank margaritas at Pianos so often the doorman once asked me out on a date. And then I wrote this post. It was (for those of you who don't have the time to visit) about leaving my life behind for Texas, a state I been to once during a cross country trip. Yes, it was also about Friday Night Lights and the universal love of Tim Riggins, but it was also about abandoning what you thought you wanted for what you needed. Now, 2 years and 85 days later, I live in Texas. I didn't know at the time but I was writing about a great love, perhaps my greatest.

Now, instead of sitting in the snow-covered center of the universe, I sit in the balmy, sun-kissed South. And I couldn't be happier. I am about to leave my home to go back east for two months and 18 days and I am feeling just as terrified and thrilled as I was back in August of 2009. But, this time, I know I am going to come home. So this is my love letter to Austin.

The internet is a scary thing. It will follow you, quite literally, everywhere. In June 2009 my cousin C and I landed in Barcelona after a 15 hour journey from New York that involved a stupid brat punching the headrest of my plane seat repeatedly until I asked her to stop. More specifically, I waited until 6 hours into the trans-Atlantic flight to confront her only to have this discussion:

Me: "Hey there, I know you're playing a video game on the video screen in front of you but that video screen also happens to be on the back of my seat. Could you... not... do that?"

Her: Huh.

Me: Yeah, I know it's fun but when you play scrabble and poke the letters on the screen in front of you, your pokes get transferred through the coils into the headrest and directly into my skull so, yeah..."

Her: GRUNT.

Me: Ok. Cool. So if you could not do that, I would be, like, amazingly happy.*

*Needless to say, I don't have an actual recording of this so it may not have happened EXACTLY as I said.

ANYWAY. C and I landed in Barcelona quite turbulently (read: terrifyling) and once we landed the stupid jerk kid behind me turned to her father and said in Brooklynese "I wanna baygull." I was exhausted.

I was so exhausted that by the time we reached our hotel all I wanted to do was sleep but in the grand scheme of Europe being better than the United States, the flight was overnight and hadn't landed in Spain until the early morning so, naturally, the hotel wasn't ready for us. C and I decided to go around the corner and have coffee (and cry-literally- we cried from exhaustion and a language barrier) until the hotel would accept us.

At 3pm, full of cappuccino and exhausted from the flight and tears, we got into our hotel room. It had wi-fi which meant that I could check my email which, despite being awake for 36 hours, I did. I opened my gmail and saw immediately that the NY school I had applied to for grad school had emailed me their decision letter after having put me on the wait list for three months.

I just tried to find the email but I must have deleted it. To paraphrase, it said this:

"You're awful. We hate you. Never come to our school."

I immediately did the following: read the email, read it again to my cousin, called my mother in America at a rate of $7/second and then proceeded to hyperventilate. Actually, I proceeded to cry my self to sleep which would have been fine if C and I hadn't been in Europe and sharing a bed so with every sob I shook her awake.

The next morning I got this email from my dad which is real:

"I am so sorry to hear about their stupid decision. Someday they'll find out what they missed out on! At least you know, though, and can move on. That must feel like something of a relief. I'm sorry it didn't work out the way you'd hoped."

And he was right! I could move on! Finally. I also had this email from my aunt:

[REDACTED} stinks - there will be no more donations from me, I can tell you that. Of course, I don't think they're all that concerned about my $100. bucks, but it is the principle. I know you're disappointed. Fortunately, you are in Spain and don't have to think about it too much. I'm still rooting for Austin, because I think you will love it.

AUSTIN? Was she kidding me? NEVER.

I spent the next three weeks crying and- in general- having a bit of a nervous breakdown. I had to leave New York. I wasn't planning on leaving New York but I had to because this bullshit [redacted] university had strong me along and now I was left with nothing. I would have to move, leave my life, leave the only dream (living in New York) I ever had.

I talked about it constantly. Where should I go? At the time I applied to a bunch of universities with the intention of only really going to the one in New York, but that was gone and I had a bunch of appliances and books and dear friends I couldn't imagine living without.

In Rioja, about 10 days into our trip, my cousin and I missed the wine tour so we decided to make our own. During the day (and couple bottles of wine we consumed) she waxed poetically about Austin. "It's a tiny place in a big state," she said, mimicking the smallness of the city within Texas.

This was supposed to be a representation of Texas:

And this was Austin:

So you can only imagine the predicament I was in. All through Spain I debated, having what I now realize was somewhat of a breakdown. And for that, C, I am so sorry. But at least we ate mad churros.

A few weeks later I landed back at JFK and called UT " Thanks, but no thanks." I said.

I began packing my things. I knew where I wanted to go. I would stay on the East Coast, I would move close to my folks in DC and friends that had moved home after college. But then one I woke up in panic, "You're making a huge mistake," I thought. En route to a nearby U-Haul to pick up boxes I called UT (by the way it is illegal to talk on your cell phone in New York). "Hey, my name is Katherine and I was just wondering if it was too late to say yes to the program cause I know I said no but I think I've made a mistake." The graduate coordinator put me on hold. When she came back I was sitting in the parking lot of the Jamaica U-Haul. "Actually, no," she said. "You're paper work hasn't been processed." I paused. I wanted to cry. "Ok. I'll be there at orientation," I said.

A few days later I was on my way to Austin. I had been with my entire extended family on the Jersey Shore while we all debated where should I go. My aunt eventually drove me to the Philly airport and I hopped a non-stop (!!!) flight to Austin. I'm not sure why, but I don't remember getting off or getting to the hotel but I do remember being at Garden Inn the first night. My room overlooked I-35, one of the highways that serves as a sort of border around Austin. I remember opening my blinds and looking out on the skyline which overlooked the highway, the capital, DKR stadium and some of Austin's East Side. I remember saying to myself, "you can do this." I remember loving the art deco chair in the corner. I remember wondering what my life would be like if I was a Texan. I remember thinking "it's only 18 months and you'll go back to New York. You have to do this. It's brave."

I was brave.

And I fell in love. I fell in love with a city I wasn't meant to. I began a life I never expected. I found friends and opportunities I had only dreamed about. I began living the life that Oprah and my mom and my 13 year old self imagined I would. And so, 2 years and 85 days later, I am so grateful to the Katie that dared to say, " Because deep down, I think everyone wonders what it would be like to live in a small town in Texas where football is life." Football may not be life in Austin but it's still darn important along with music, friends and the knowledge that even a Yankee with a dream can be successful.

I'll see you in 78 days my love.

the time i went WOWZERS

I have a feeling this is isn't the last time we're going to here about this:

It's Amazing.

I write now, a lot. For other people. Unfortunately, this blog has taken a backseat to all of that other writing which is a shame. I will make it up to you somehow. In the meantime, enjoy this grainy screenshot of Kanye West on SNL this weekend. Stunning AND I figured out what my Halloween costume for this year.

The Time I Got Called an Idiot

My name is Katie Friel.

I have (fake) blonde.

I have traveled to 11 different countries.

I wear my sunglasses an obnoxiously long time after I need to.

I have been to 33 states.

I have a brother.

I have lived in Washington, DC, New York, London and Austin, TX.

I will spend $24 on an expensive candle even if that means I have to eat at 7-11 for the next few days.

I work in a snow cone stand.

These are my truths, universally acknowledged.

First, I would like to point out that I actually really dig my job. Writing doesn't pay the bills yet so to supplement it with a cushy job where I make delicious treats all day isn't so bad. What is so bad? Dealing with the crazies.

Crazies, you see, are really only looking for an audience (aren't we all?). On public transportation, they are given a whole train car or bus of people to whom they can act out their elaborate fantasies or political muckraking. They catch you on the street corner where, in order to avoid them, you have to play that weird game where you both go the same way then switch directions but it's the same direction and eventually you just crack a smile and shrug your shoulders. Then, if you're feeling particularly wacky you say, "Thanks for the dance!" They show up in line behind you at the CVS, seemingly harmless until you ask them where they found the aluminum foil and they launch into a diatribe about how aluminum is the only thing keeping the satellites from controlling our thoughts. The thing about all of these situations? YOU CAN LEAVE. You can change train cars. You eventually win the dancing game. You can pretend you forgot to pick up dental floss, get out of the line and hide in the magazine aisle until the crazy with the aluminum foil has left. When you are stationed in an immobile food trailer in South Austin, you are stuck. You are a stationery audience of one and you just have to deal with it.

At this point, I would like to clarify my definition of crazy.

Crazy does not equal homeless.

Crazy does not equal alcoholic (although the two often go hand in hand, something for another entry).

Crazy does not actually equal crazy. It's just someone who is lonely or long winded (or, crazy) and feels that YOU are going to be the person upon whom they are going to heap their thoughts. As a journalist, the moment I say, "I'm a journalist"" 98% of the people I talk to say, "Oh wow. You know this one time..." and then launch into a tale (usually their own) that they think will make a good story. We all think we're important. We all think our thoughts and dreams and opinions are worthy of being heard, goddammit. The awful truth? They rarely are. This stupid story probably isn't even worth your time. Yet, here am I writing it.

So I am stuck. I am stuck in a hot trailer in South Austin right behind a bus stop where people loiter and smoke cigarettes and drink beers out of brown paper bags. But, you see, here is the thing about drinking beer out of paper bags at a bus stop in South Austin in the summer: the beers get hot. The beers get hot and when the person drinking the now hot beer sees that there is a stand advertising "Shaved Ice" parked directly behind them, a little lightbulb goes off. At least three times a day I have to shoo a drunk guy away from stand. He usually offers his own glass and says something like, "Y'all gaht ice hurr?"

Today was a day just like any other. I was sitting in my stand, trying to keep my hands raised above my heads so as not to exacerbate the sweat stains that were emanating from my arm pits when a man approached the window. He held out a dirty plastic cup and said,

"Y'all gaht ice hurr?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Can you fill this up for me? I'll give you a quarter."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I can't fill that up, it's against the health code."

(Now, I'm not actually sure if this is against the health code but the last thing I want to do is have to put my arms down to touch this guys filthy plastic cup.)

"I went to law school." he said.

"Really?" I asked.

"You're an idiot." he said. "Only idiots say 'really.' It's a redundant question."

"Really?" I asked.

"You know what you're problem is? You're an idiot. You don't read. Reading on the computer? That's not reading. Reading blogs isn't reading."

At this point, I was getting annoyed. A. Because I had to put my arms down when he called me an idiot cause he shocked me. B. Because he was drunk. C. Because he didn't laugh when said, "really" a second time and I HATE when my jokes bomb.

'Well," I said, "I'm a writer so I do tend to read quite a bit."

"Whatever. You're whole generation is a bunch of stupid idiots. Have you even ever seen this?!" At this point he held up a tattered, old copy of the Atlantic.

"The Atlantic?" I said, "Yeah, I've seen it. I think the New Yorker's better."

He stared at me.

"My sister is a professor at New York University," the drunk man said. "I don't talk to her though. I used to be a professor at Stanford."

Now, there is this little indie movie called "You've Got Mail" starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. In it, there is a scene where Ryan is writing an email to Hanks and she talks about how she can never come up with the correct insult at the right time. She always thinks of one too late. Hanks replies that he can ALWAYS think of a good insult and thinking of an insult isn't always all it's cracked up to be because you usually feel kind of bad and regret it. I usually have the later problem. And, because I was raised Irish Catholic, I feel the flagellating burn of guilt the moment the quip comes out of my mouth. It's a curse.

So to go back, the drunk man said, "My sister is a professor at New York University," the drunk man said. "I don't talk to her though. I used to be a professor at Stanford."

To which I replied, "Well, maybe you should head over to Stanford and ask for your job back."

The moment I said it I wanted to take it back. I wanted to take it back so badly. Even though this man called me an idiot, I didn't need to stoop to his level. I didn't need to say anything. I felt the first lash of the guilt whip against my back when the drunk guy looked right into my eye and said,

"You are a total asshole."

The Time I Embarassed Myself & Someone Else Ended Up Bleeding

The 6th grade was hard for me. I was awkward. I was unpopular. I had these weird wisps of hair that were growing in along my hair part making me look like I had a permanent, static-electricity charged Mohawk. I was starting to get angsty ( It was the age in which I started to write lyrics on notebooks and binders in big black Sharpie. Cake's version of Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive," was written on my theology notebook. It read, "I should have changed that fucking lock I should have made you leave your key." What great meaning this had for me at the time, I'm not sure. I just know it meant something.) The source of all this angst? boys. More specifically one boy: Brett Hamilton.

Oh Brett Hamilton.*

Brett Hamilton was a boy who lived in my neighborhood. He was tall. He was cute. He went to public school. He had no idea who I was. I'm not sure when I actually met Brett Hamilton all I know is for the entire summer of 1996, I spent every waking hour of every day plotting how I would accidentally run into him. I concocted elaborate fantasies in which Brett Hamilton would casually pass me in the snack line at the pool. I would struggle trying to open my bag of Skittles. He would swoop in, tear open the package, pull out a couple of candies, pop them in his mouth, smile and say, "Hey there. I think you look really sexy in your Racerback one-piece, tie-dye TYR swimsuit." I would laugh, he would smile and later, out by the tennis courts, Brett Hamilton would give me my first real kiss- just like that guy who kissed Veda Sultenfuss before she got on the plane in My Girl 2.

In order to plot these "accidental" run-ins, I enlisted the help of three friends. Two, Marisa and Jessica, were girls from my neighborhood and the third, Lauren, was spending the summer visiting her grandparents. Her grandparents lived across the street from my family. She was 14, pretty, tall, had boobs and had already kissed a boy. She was the coolest. During the school year, when she was back home in Georgia, we would write letters in which she would tell me about all her boyfriends. I would write back straight-up lies about how many guys I was dating and how good I looked in Abercrombie & Fitch clothes.

Together, the four of us spent the entire summer riding our bikes from the pool to the park and back again, constantly complaining about how bored we were and how much fun life would be if we could only drive. At least once a day, I would make everyone ride down the dead-end street that Brett Hamilton lived on. He was never outside and, defeated, I would pedal on with my friends.

Until one particular hot July day when everything changed.

The girls and I were really hot. And bored. Bored and hot. So we decided to by-pass the neighborhood pool -it had already been determined that Brett Hamilton was not there- and head to my friend Jessica's house. Her family had a pool, good snacks and a perpetual box of Rose Franzia sitting on the kitchen counter.

So there we were, pedaling our bicycles, looking much like a suburban, pre-teen Sex and the City quartet complete with unintentional Mohawk's and bad skin. With Marisa and Lauren leading the pack, they pedaled, side by side, a few paces in front of Jessica and me who were also side by side. We headed down the hill, made the left onto Brett Hamilton's street and as we turned the corner and his house came into view, I saw him: Brett Hamilton was outside on his driveway... with his mom. As we pedaled closer and closer, my heart started to pound. My stomach turned and I realized: after two months of biking past Brett Hamilton's house, imagining all the ways in which he would make me his girlfriend and talking incessantly to anyone who would listen about how dreamy he was- I couldn't do it. There was too much at stake. So I took the proverbial wheel (or in this case, handlebars) and turned. I turned away from Brett Hamilton's house and right into Jessica.

What happened next was one of my most embarrassing moments for years and years.

To a bystander, it probably looked like I had some sort of fit that caused me to jackknife my bicycle directly into my friend's back wheel. When I hit her, Jessica flew off with her bike landing on top of her. Since it my tangled in hers, my bike landed on top of Jessica's bike and since I was tangled in everything, I landed on top of the pile which eventually skidded to a gravelly stop directly below the Hamilton's driveway.

Brett Hamilton and Brett Hamilton's mom stared at us, horrified. I jumped off the pile and tried in vain to pull Jessica off the ground. By this point she had surveyed her wounds (extensive), seen the damage (lots of blood) and began to cry. Both mother and son came running down the driveway towards us, "Are you ok?" Mrs. Hamilton asked. I assured her that we were despite the fact that Jessica was sobbing on the ground in pain. She eventually got up and accepted the pool towel that Mrs. Hamilton pulled out of her car (He WAS at the pool! How had I missed that?) After she had wiped off some of the blood and composed herself, Jessica and pushed our scratched and bent bicycles towards her house. It is important to note that Marisa and Lauren had witnessed this spectacle and then proceeded to BIKE OFF AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.

The rest of the summer was relatively uneventful. Jessica's scabs eventually fell off, Marisa continued being a terrible wing woman and Lauren... oh, Lauren. Lauren eventually started a torrid correspondence with Brett Hamilton behind my back which culminated in them French kissing directly in front of my face in the neighborhood park. I know it was a French kiss because as we biked away I asked Lauren, "Was that a French kiss?" and she confirmed that indeed it had been.

I thought this story was destined for the annals of my own personal history, a funny anecdote with which to entertain friends. Until about two years ago when I received a text message from a friend of mine who had recently moved to Los Angeles:
"Do you know someone named Brett Hamilton?"
I immediately called her and she informed me that he was in the same acting program as she was and she had figured out we had grown up in the same neighborhood. I told her the story and gave her the explicit instructions to never, ever tell him about me. "He has no clue who I am," I explained. "Oh I'm sure that's not true," she said. She still agreed not to ask him about me.

Fast forward about six months and I'm sitting in a bar in Hollywood with a couple of friends.

And Brett Hamilton walks in.

And I shit my pants.

Turns out that he and my friend have started hanging out and she's taken me to this bar because she's pretty sure he's going to be here. "Listen," my friend says, "This connection is too weird. I'm going to go over there and tell him." At this point I am a 24 year old woman. My static Mohawk has grown out, I look relatively decent in Abercrombie & Fitch clothes (though I don't own any) and I've even been kissed so I agree. Go over there, I say.

And so my friend walks over, hugs Brett Hamilton and begins talking. I see him look over at me, curiously and say something to my friend. She smiles, turns and walks back towards me- sans Brett Hamilton. She sits back down. "Well?" I ask. "What did he say?"

She took a big sip of her drink, turned to me and said,

"He has no idea who you are."


*the name has not been changed. it was just that perfect.

Why I'm Bad at Snow Sports

Growing up, I was always jealous of the kids who went skiing over Christmas break. They went to Wintergreen or, if there families were really avid skiers, Whistler or Aspen. Coming from a family that never once went on a vacation with just the four of us, my friend's travels seemed simultaneously foreign and utterly glamorous. I imagined my classmates with their families, in a giant lodge, huddled around a roaring fire captured in a stone fireplace, drinking hot chocolate as the snow melted off their North Face parkas. I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to have stories about how I went down a double black diamond when I was 8. I wanted to see boys in Montgomery Mall and know them because "our families both have cabins at the mountain." I wanted to be the cute, bouncy, blond daughter of a skiing family.

The school which I attended from Kindergarten through 12th grade had a day designated every February called Ski/Skate Day. On that day, classes were canceled and the entire school was trekked off to either the Whitetail ski resort or a skating rink in Wheaton (STARK contrasts, FYI.) But here was a nasty little trick the school employed: up until the 4th grade, you couldn't go skiing, you HAD to go to the ice rink. So for 5 long years, I continued to pine and dream of the day when I would take my rightful place on the top of the mountain with two waxed, metal beams strapped to my feet. I would show everyone that Katie Friel was not only a good skier- she was goddamn great.

By the time we got to 5th grade I could not wait to start my skiing career. I could see it now: My innate rhythm and poise would make me natural. I would be going down double black diamonds by noon. By the end of the day, the resort would ask me if I would consider doing demonstrations. "Katie the Skiing Wonderkin" they would call me. I would tour the world showing off my skills. In my travels I would meet Pedro, a ski instructor from Spain. He would be in 9th grade and would take me to his school's prom. I would instantly pick up Spanish and wow all of his amigos with my natural American wit while all my friends back home stewed in jealousy. It was going to be awesome.

When we arrived at Whitetail, the class was divided up into two groups: the kids that could ski and the kids that couldn't. I was in the later- but I was determined I would not be in it for long. My group was regulated to the bunny slope. An instructor came out and showed us all the basics. What our equipment was (heavy), what the proper protocol on the mountain was (don't hit anyone), how to use our poles and how to stop (throw yourself on the ground). Within a few hours, my friend CC and I had made it down the bunny slope a few times without falling. And we were proud. We broke for lunch and while sitting in the lodge I had dreamed about for so long, in front of a roaring fire in a stone fireplace, I listened as my skier friends told stories about their morning. With red cheeks and snot dried faces, they talked of double black diamonds and run-ins with trees and cute ski instructors. "That's it," I thought. "I'm going to do this. I'm going to get off the bunny slope and get on with my life. Katie the Skiing Wonderkin will meet Pedro the Spanish Ski Instructor and I'm going to go to prom and I'm going to have a boyfriend and life is going to be great."

Somewhere along the way I enlisted CC. She and I had been on the bunny slope together all morning and I could tell she was just as anxious and I was to move onto something bigger and higher. "Let's do it," I said. We got in line for the ski lift that would take us up the next hill: a blue square. We managed to get onto the lift without incident. The entire way up (and it was a long way up) we talked about how excited we were and how totally prepared we were to do this. As the the lift got closer to the peak, we prepared ourselves. We lifted our poles like the instructor said, we arched our backs, pulled our skis up and pulled up the bar of the seat. CC got off without a hitch. She glided away from the ski lift with ease. I wasn't so lucky. As we got to the top I panicked and stuck my skis straight down. The result was my tips getting stuck into the snow and my body being propelled forward like a slingshot. CC saw me and, unable to control herself, threw herself on the ground in an effort to stop. The ski lift was stopped so that I could get up without being run over. I tried in vain to fling myself off of my face and onto my back. I finally did. I then duck-walked over to CC and prepared myself for the mountain that lie ahead.

The mountain was steep and full of mole-hills. I swallowed my fear, squatted down and pulled my poles up. I stated gliding. In a matter of seconds I was going way too fast and had to fling myself on the ground in order to stop. CC was right behind me. She too gathered some speed, freaked out and threw her body into the hard, icy snow. The pattern continued. CC and I would finally manage to get ourselves up, arch our backs, ski for as long as we could before we flung ourselves to the ground. 45 minutes and 1/2 way down the mountain, CC had had enough. She was sick of flinging herself down the mountain. She was going to go for it. There is a time in every relationship where you ask yourself, "Is this person holding me back? Could I be more without them?" CC and I had reached that point. She was ready to lift her poles, wipe the snow off her face and hurdle down the hill towards an indefinite but bright future. And so she did.

I watched as CC took off. She had decided what she wanted to do and didn't fall once as far I could see. And I was stuck there.

I was on the mountain for another 1/2 hour. CC had gotten to the bottom, I had skidded down the rest of the way on my ass. Other skiers had yelled at me, kids had laughed, I was mortified. When she got back to the lodge, CC had told one of the ski/skate day volunteers that I was still up on the slope. When I finally arrived at the bottom (a good 90 minutes after I had gotten onto the lift) all of the volunteers and a few of my classmates were waiting at the bottom totally worried. "Are you ok?" they asked. "We called the ski patrol!" I explained that I was fine, aside for a bunch of bruises and a horribly injured ego, I was uninjured.

I'm the kind of person that once I try something and it goes horribly wrong, I don't try again. 8 years after the initial skiing catastrophe, my friend Marisa convinced me to go back to Whitetail to try snowboarding. At this point, I was working at PacSun and, therefore, felt I was pretty hip to the skate and snowboarding scenes. I owned a couple of Etnie's T-Shirts and a studded belt so, as far as I was concerned, would at least look pretty damn cool on that slope. We hopped in my Mazda Protege and we headed towards the mountain.

We got to the resort, parked and headed in to rent our gear. At this point, I would like to explain my outfit: instead of snow pants, a sweatshirt, a warm jacket and long underwear, I had on jeans and a puffy red vest with the name of a concrete mixing company on the back and embroidered with the name "Vance". I used to wear this vest all the time in college. I was wearing it when I ran into my 8th grade English teacher in the mall over Christmas vacation. We exchanged pleasantries before my teacher blurted out, "So, are you working construction now?"

Marisa and I got our gear and headed out to the bunny hill. Marisa took to snowboarding with ease (as she does most athletic activities) while I struggled to manage the giant board strapped to my feet. The principles of snowboarding were similar to skiing: your equipment was heavy, you tried not to run into anyone and if you needed to stop you flung yourself to the ground. Over the course of the day I started to get the hang of it. I managed to make it down the bunny hill and moved onto the advanced bunny hill. But the end of the day, I was cold (I was only wearing my Vance vest) and tired. I found Marisa and we agreed: one last run.

My friend and I got onto the lift and headed up the advanced bunny hill. 20 seconds later, it was time to get off. Once again, the lift neared the end of our ride and suddenly- flashback! I saw my 10-year old self propelled forward off the seat and into the snow. I saw the embarrassment of having the lift stopped as the ski patrol raced to help me up and out of the way of the rest of the skiers. I saw the look on the ski/skate date volunteers faces when I finally got to the bottom of the hill- a mixture of worry and absolute pity. That was not happening to me again. I would not let it happen. So I jumped.

In an effort to prove to myself I was no longer the awkward, athletically incompetent 10 year-old I once was, I jumped off the lift too early. The seat hit the small of my back and and flung me just far enough that I landed face down on to the exit mound. I managed to roll out of the way so as not to disrupt the rest of the people. I got up, legs numb, face frozen and began my ride down the mountain.

The ride started off great. I was making turns, I was staying up, I was avoiding other people and I was starting to go really, really, really fast. I was going so fast that I lost control of my body as it hurtled down the mountain and into what I imagine was going to be a small child. I needed to stop. As I rushed towards the cement pole that held up the lift, I dug my board into the snow, flipped up in the air and completed what I can only describe as a triple axle-esque spin before landing face down in the snow.

I knew instantly I was hurt. My breath was gone and I was suddenly, painfully aware of my ribs. I laid still. I couldn't think, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't lift my head. I heard laughter. I rolled over to my back and looked up. There, on the slow moving ski lift were two little boys. They had seen my epic ride down the hill and the two little shits were now looking at me and laughing. One of them even shook his skis so that the excess snow fell off and onto my face.

I took my board off and grimaced the rest of the way down the hill. By the time I got home I was in so much pain, my mom gave me one of the left over Vicodin I had from getting my wisdom teeth out. It hurt to laugh, it hurt to stand and I couldn't even get up off the couch without someone coming and helping me.

Perhaps it is not a such a strange thing that I moved to a place where any mention of possible snow flurries sends people into a blind panic. Perhaps I will one day meet a Spanish ski instructor who will convince me to try it one more time. But more likely, I won't.

I don't regret the pain or even the humiliation that these sports caused me. The three truths about skiing are same three truths about life: the equipment is heavy, you have to watch out for other people and if you think you're going to fast, just throw yourself to the ground.