At the end of February, with a week off school and no imminent exams, my family and I jetted off on our annual(ish) skiing trip. Not to the luxurious slopes of the Alps, not to terrifyingly exotic Italy, nor the elegance of France. No, for our ski trip we chose a much quieter, unexpected location: Poland. Now, on this trip, we learnt many things about the Polish. Firstly, most do not speak English, and the ones that do are limited to phrases such as "oh my God!" and "fucking gay". Secondly, they put ketchup on EVERYTHING (and as I suffer from saltomophobia, my food choices were limited). And thirdly, their buses are always five minutes early, which makes it somewhat difficult to estimate traveling times.
But, after three days in below-freezing weather, strapping strips of wood to our feet every day and stumbling around in boots that weigh about as much as a set of obese triplets, we decided that, having memorised all the local ski slopes, it was time for a change. Together with my sister Bex and stepbrothers Jonny and Dell, we took the bus from Bialka, where we were staying, to Zakopane, the main ski resort in Poland. Unfortunately, our combined senses of direction being poor as they are, we ended up renting our skis and purchasing our ski passes at the Nosal slopes, on the opposite side of the mountain to the glorious Zakopane resort.
Needless to say, we had an Adventure.
Nosal consisted of several blue level learning slopes - bunny slopes, as Bex called them - and one more difficult slope; a button lift could take us halfway up, where the piste was red level, or a chairlift could leave us at the top of the mountain, the looming black slope that led into the red. After racing one another down the icy red slope several times, we decided it was time to face our fears and try the black.
I found myself absolutely terrified and shaking in my heavy skis as a rickety, one-seater chairlift inched its way up the mountain, eventually dropping us one by one at the chilly peak. However, Jonny and I found ourselves distracted by an intruguing trail leading through the woods to our right. Assuming that it was a short path that would loop around and lead us back to the mountain, off we went through the trees. A few metres down the trail, the left side of the path cleared of trees and opened up to a spectacularly beautiful, breathtaking mountainside view.
After ten minutes or so, we came to a clearing. In addition to the one from which we had just come, three other paths led to this point. Only one led downwards. Instant panic sparked between the four of us. We were near stranded, a kilometre downhill from the ski slope, our only mode of transportation glorified wooden sticks. We were cold, we didn't speak the language, and this was feeling far too much like Narnia for our liking.
Suddenly, it occurred to us- this was not a ski trail. This was a hiking trail.
The only way was down.
So down we went.
We skiied in silence until we damn near ran out of snow, and severely scraped up the bottoms of our skis as we glided over rocks and stones in our desperate attempt to find civilisation. Eventually we had no other option but to take them off and walk, in our ski boots, carrying our skis, for as long as it took.
It could have been days.
Fortunately, it wasn't. We soon reached a cluster of buildings about halfway down the mountain; a restaurant, a pub, and a corner shop. And, thank God, English speakers. We admitted we were lost, and asked as politely as we could (whilst speaking very loudly and clearly to be sure they understood) how to get back to Nosal.
"Nosal?" they said, astonished. "How did you get here from Nosal? On skis?"
After a speedy lunch, we stumbled down to a paved lot where we could see buses and taxi cabs waiting. We soon discovered that we were in fact at the base of an enourmous ski resort; unfortunately, our Nosal ski passes didn't work there. We split up and desperately tried to find a way back. "Don't worry," Dell reminded us. "We're having an Adventure."
Several minutes passed, and a man headed over to me and my sister, grinning creepily. Although we made it clear that we did not speak his language, he jabbered in Polish. He pointed across the way to his horse-drawn carriage, then pointed to my sister and me, and held up four fingers. Forty zlotys. Bex then explained, in English, that there were four of us, holding up her four fingers. He nodded and held up four fingers again, thinking we'd been confused about the price. We went back and forth for five minutes straight, holding up our fingers and pointing at thin air. Eventually, he wrote "40" in the snow, and Bex pointing to our four sets of skis, meaning four people. The man ahhhhed and held up eight fingers. Eighty zlotys. And my sister ahhhed right back, and told him that the taxi said he would take us for 50 zlotys, and wrote "50" in the snow. He nodded, they shook. It was a deal. Proof that one should never attempt to haggle with an Israeli, regardless of what country you're in.
Eventually Jonny and Dell returned, and Dell eagerly explained that he'd found a ski path down the mountain that the hikers had said would take us back to Nosal. But the rest of us were tired, and very much attracted by the idea of a ride in a sleigh. "It'll be part of the Adventure," Jonny claimed. However, in this case, the majority did not win, and off we skiied down the mountain.
After five minutes, the path ended, and we were still nowhere near Nosal.
However, determined not to pay for a bus/taxi/horse-drawn carriage, we travelled via a combination of skiing on pavement, skiing on lakes, and carrying them. Eventually, after what seemed like several hours of much snapping and arguing, we reached the base of Nosal.
The four of us collectively retold our dangerous tale over dinner that night. We had barely begun when my father spoke up. "Wait a second," he said, narrowing his eyes and holding a finger in the air. "You had an Adventure, didn't you?"
Yes, Dad. Yes we did.
