I have decided I'd record my skiing adventure via multiple blog-posts. This will hopefully provide some fairly comical content for my readership considering that I am a generally unbalanced human being. I have never been skiing before in my life.
I've been transported to the Borovets in snowy Bulgaria with my mother and my brother only to discover we are all sharing one room in our hotel. There is, of course, immense fun to be had. We are staying in a resort which boasts many strip clubs, bars, and of course ski slopes (can you tell I don't ski yet?). It is a package holiday haven. Not a local in sight. In fact, the holiday reps are the closest to locals you'll find.
When we first got to our room, Mum struggled with the door key. Holding the key at least five feet from the electronic lock, she complained that it wasn't working. I came to the rescue, with the prowess of a tech-savvy youth ready to prove to the middle aged and upward, that we're fully capable. We walked into a dark room and yet again, we simply slid the key into a little slot by the door and pronounced 'let there be light'. And there was. I hoped this was not going to be the Christmas miracle of the trip.
Our first full day in the ski resort was, well, entertaining. A little tired from travelling, and rather nervous, I opted out of skiing for the first day and utilised the fully stocked spa and an 'action packed' holiday by taking a dip in the pool and grabbing a cheap massage. I can't remember the last time I went on a holiday where I wasn't intensely exploring a city or tourist hotspot. Nor where holidaying meant actually relaxing, or in this case, doing anything to stop my nerves about the snow from causing a full body break down.
The afternoon welcome meeting was an awkward affair. Four of us gathered round a table with complimentary alcoholic drinks and three of us tried very hard not to slap the man beside me.
'Where can Alice meet some people her own age?' my mother asked.
'Hey, Eassy Tiger, Eaaassyyy Tiger!' Said the scouser man.
I took a sip of my complimentary red wine.
'Is that nice?'
'Yes' I quipped; a blunt answer would do nicely.
'Can I have a sip?'
I paused for effect. 'Naa' I muttered, hiding my very British disgust at such a request.
Later in the evening, we wandered over to a bar called Black Tiger where I met a group of heavy drinkers from Cardiff and a family. I joined the drinkers from Cardiff for a round of Ring of Fire and got coerced into Karaoke by a rep. We sang Man, I Feel Like A Woman by Shania Twain. I accidentally promised to take part in a bar crawl the next night.
Already this is not quite the adventure I expected.
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