As a child, the extent of my winter sports consisted of sliding down hills, ice-skating on occasion, and the requisite snow ball fights. No one I knew personally skied, and my only knowledge of the sport came from watching the Winter Olympics on TV.
While studying in Italy one winter some fellow students and I headed off to Bolzano, a town in the Italian Alps, not far from the Austrian border. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect location to ski. The sharp irregular peaked mountains ascended dramatically into the air and the sun competed with no cloud in the sky. The opportunity to take advantage of this magical environment was not lost on my companions and they indicated little desire to stay with me, a complete beginner. I made my way to do the best I could on my own. When I was asked what length skis I wanted, knowing only what I had picked up from afar, I lifted my arm straight up over my head(my only point of reference were the Olympic skiers) to make my desire clear. And there I was with the magnificent Alps before me with not a clue on how to get started. My attire consisted of jeans and a jacket, neither waterproof and if I managed to stay upright on these impossibly long and thin skis for more than a few seconds I do not recall. Getting a lesson never occurred to me; I’m not sure I even knew they existed. After many gallant attempts and then a few more, the sun lowered in the sky and now cold and wet from my ongoing contact with the snow, I claimed defeat. I left that day assuming skiing was a sport completely beyond my capabilities.

It wasn’t until many years later that a friend suggested I try again, but this time on very short skis. They were neither elegant nor sleek as the ones I had failed on, but they were skis I could maneuver and control. After a few lessons I was mastering the basic techniques and heading down hills on my own.