A real American experience

A real American experience. That’s what I had been missing. I’ve been in Colorado for a month now and, until recently, hadn’t had a stereotypical American experience. You know the ones. Finishing your steak and realising there really was a plate underneath, you just couldn’t find it. Going to a frat keg party that gets shut down by the cops, who turn out to be really cool and join the party. Buying a gun from Wal-Mart. That one almost did actually happen. One of the people I’m living with who has a visual impairment came home from Wal-Mart with a Winchester case. We all freaked out until he just pulled a scope from the box. It is to help him see race courses from the bottom of the hill. Pretty much anything you would see in a Michael Moore film.

I finally got a full on dose of American culture over the Christmas break. I had a few days off so I headed over to Breckenridge to visit some friends. Apparently they’d been hanging out for a reason to go ten pin bowling. So the day after Christmas that’s what we did. Erin was the expert in our group – own bowling ball, sky blue leather bowling ball bag, bowling shoes, bowling ball shiner – and her alley of choice was in Dillon. I couldn’t help but show my shock and excitement when they suggested we eat at the alley. This real American experience was actually happening. My arteries couldn’t help but show their shock and horror when we looked at the menu, handwritten on a white board. Cheese pizza, corn dogs, hot dogs, nachos, just to start. This was all a bit much for us, so after a buffalo burger across the road we returned to the alley for bowling and beer. It was everything I was hoping it would be: dark and dingy, people curling balls from the edge of the gutter to the middle of the pins, beer served in plastic cups. The only thing missing was a group of mismatched men in bowling shirts with names on the back like Bowling Stones, Kingpins and Rolling Pins. And if you were wondering, Erin won. Just.

Ashley (bowling name: Dinah) demonstrating 

her impeccable bowling skills.

Dinah doing some serious 

ball shining.

Part two of the real American experience came this morning in the form of a diner breakfast. Halfway between Vail and Avon, just off the I-70, lies the old mining town of Minturn. People come from all around to Minturn to eat at the Turntable Restaurant. This place is for real. We were greeted by an aging, flirtatious waitress, drip coffee was served, half and half was added to the coffee, orders were taken and we were left to marvel at our surroundings. Original Coke posters and mirrors adorned the walls, a locked glass case filled with Elvis memorabilia and life-size mannequins of Elvis and Marilyn Monroe stood sentry in a corner and, the crowning glory, Minturn High School graduating class pictures peered down upon us from above the door. We politely enquired to our waitress where her class photo was. She finished in 1966. The class photos only covered up to 1959. The Turntable Restaurant’s food is good. I can recommend the veggie omelette. It is a travesty that it is only the third best restaurant in Minturn.

The Turntable Restaurant, Minturn.

So now I’m looking for some more real American experiences. Any ideas?

New perspectives

I’m learning. People have different perspectives and priorities. I reckon I’m a pretty accommodating kind of person. I’m one of those people who will hesitate when opening a door, wondering if I should hold it open for that person who’s doing a bit of a jog and a skip trying to catch the open door, but not wanting to seem like they are. They are also wondering if I will hold the door open for them. By the time I’ve decided whether I will hold the door or not they’re already through the door and giving me an odd look that’s saying, ‘Thanks, you can close the door now.’ On second thoughts, maybe I’m not accommodating, maybe I’m just indecisive. Anyway, where was I before I got sidetracked by doors? Perspectives. So, being accommodating (or indecisive) I’m pretty open to new ideas or points of view. Or so I thought.

I’m in Vail, Colorado working with the Australian Paralympic Ski Team, which is training for the World Championships in January. These skiers like to ski fast. Really fast. And to ski really fast they like to have hard snow. Fresh snow on the ground is soft snow, making it difficult to go fast. I prefer fresh, soft snow. It feels floaty, it’s fun and it feels better than most things when it hits you in the face. Until a few weeks ago I didn’t realise how different our head coach’s perspective on soft snow is.

We’ve woken to several mornings of fresh powder. The head coach finds this infuriating. It makes it difficult for our skiers to train. It forces him to change plans. While he’s considering these change of plans the rest of us are standing at the bottom of the hill silently praying that training will be called off and we can all go freeskiing. To his credit, he gets creative and produces some good results, considering all this terrible new snow.

This morning was particularly difficult. Almost a foot of new snow fell and we had speed training with the US Ski Team. Their coaches and I spent an hour slipping the course, pushing this beautiful, soft, dry powder out the racers’ way. It felt like sacrilege. Please forgive me. But, I’m learning. It is another perspective on snow. And one that is not all bad, as race courses are fenced off from the general public. This means that most of the snow stays untracked. Luckily I’ve been very forgetful lately, leaving all sorts of things at the bottom of the hill that I have to go collect. I'm finding plenty of reasons to go play in the fresh powder that can hit me in the face. I'm accommodating the new perspective. 

Less than ideal skiing conditions in Vail.

Everyone loves a winner

Three years ago when Kevin Rudd became Prime Minister he could do no wrong. He was Mr Popular. He had the t-shirts, he was high fiving nannas, he was kissing babies. K Rudd was the man. He was a winner.

A little over twelve months ago Tiger Woods was the best golfer in world. He was unrivalled in his dominance in world sport. If he didn’t win a tournament people were surprised. He was winning.

Four years ago Australia’s cricket team won the Ashes 5-0 against England. You get the picture.

Flip forward to late 2010 and things have changed. Although he and his party won the last election, Kevin is not in style. People have chucked their Kevin 07 tees in the Salvos bins and moved on to Jules. Now people just wonder, “How did he screw that up?” When people think of Tiger Woods they’re probably thinking the same thing, but just with a different connotation. I don’t want to talk about the cricket right now.

Yesterday I went to the Birds of Prey World Cup ski races in Beaver Creek. And people there certainly do like a winner. Every racer who looked like they would take the lead the crowd would go nuts for. Cow bells would ring and feet would stamp. No matter who was winning, the crowd loved them. At one stage Frenchmen filled the two top spots. It was not that long ago that the White House replaced French fries and French toast with Freedom fries and Freedom toast for three years. Nonetheless, the crowd went wild. Each time someone new took the lead, the last racer was happily forgotten.

The best was saved for last though. An American, Ted Ligety, was in first place going into the last run. His was the final run of the competition. Ted came through with the goods, giving the home crowd something to really cheer about. In that moment I was able to experience American patriotism at its absolute best. And it was a sight to behold. Fist pumping, wooping, flag waving. I couldn’t help but smile and join in with some good, old fashioned showboating. I was only two knuckle pounds short of getting my face painted with the stars and stripes.

Everyone does love a winner. I just hope Ted Ligety has a bit more discretion than Tiger.

Baggage claims

People always seem to have stories about airlines losing their bags. They often seem to happen in odd corners of the world and involve several days of waiting, phone call ping pong and reused undies. Until this week I just had to nod sympathetically and say things like, “Aw, that sucks” and “Gee, what are the chances?” Now though, I can join this illustrious company. Flying from Melbourne to Denver, via Sydney and Los Angeles, one of my bags failed to make it out of Melbourne.

As easy as it would be to, I’m not going to bitch and moan. I have learnt there are certain pleasures and benefits from having your baggage go missing, for a few days at least.

A certain camaraderie can develop between fellow sans-baggers. It usually begins with a sharing of raised eyebrows and rolling of the eyes. After a few more minutes of conveyer belt observation someone might ask “How many bags are you waiting for?” It might be followed up with a “What colour’s your bag? I’ll let you know if I see it.” This is to show the other sans-bagger that you can empathise with them, but is really so you can grab their bag before they see it and hide it on the other side of the conveyor belt. This gives you a few more laps of not being the only one watching that green duffle bag with the pink lacy undies hanging out of the zipper. The sans-bagger friendship is sealed when you sit down together on the side of the belt and discuss travel plans, home towns and speculate on what else might be in that green duffle bag. I made some truly great sans-bagger friends in LA. They were a couple from Melbourne on their way to Nelson, Canada. They were people I had an instant connection with and it wasn’t just our shared lack of bags we had in common. These friendships develop quickly and fiercely, until the call comes over the PA that no more bags are coming. It is then a no holds barred race to the baggage counter.

When you reach your final destination you don’t have to carry as many – or any – bags to your car. This little bonus came with a bit of a guilt trip though. On my easy stroll carrying a single bag to the van my travelling companions, some of whom have one arm or one leg or a visual impairment or use a wheelchair, had to carry two. This guilt trip lasted until I remembered they would be able to brush their teeth that night. What is even better, you get your bags delivered to your door.

Thank you United. You have taught me about the kickbacks of having your belongings make their way across the planet in their own manner and time. Chances are I will never meet that couple again. I don’t think I even got their names. But I’m glad I got to share my inaugural sans-bagging experience with them. Having said that, I would be willing to carry my bags across a car park if I got to brush my teeth after 24 hours of eating aeroplane food.

Not my bag, yesterday.