Postcard from Sestriere (Postmarked 18 March 2010)

Today was absolutely my best day of skiing this winter! We started out by taking a gondola and then two chairlifts to get near the top of one of the summits, at 2,700 metres, well above the tree line. We then hiked a hundred metres with our skis on our shoulders before binding them onto our ski boots. Then it started getting scary. Let me back up for a moment.

I joined a group of five other like-minded skiers on Monday morning, all from France as it turns out. The six of us, with our guide, Franco, have been skiing together all week. Franco was apparently once an Italian ski champion or a coach on the Italian national ski team, depending on who's telling the tale. It is clear that at 67 he has skied more than his share of off-piste runs. It shows in his deeply tanned and lined face, his wind-blown, thick grey hair and the sparkle in his eyes when looking out at the mountains surrounding Sestriere. It has not snowed for a week, so the search for fresh, untracked powder requires an experienced guide and Franco is our man.

Where was I? Oh yes, we got on our skis and started to traverse a ridge on very hard, wind-packed snow. The whole week has been exceptionally sunny, warm and nearly cloudless; today was no exception. In any direction, I am looking across one valley or another to the mountains several kilometers away, and the still taller, further mountains behind them, as far as I could see, the Italian Alps to the east and south, the French Alps to the west, and the Swiss Alps to the north. Below, to the right and to the left is certain death if one of us slips. The terrain is unskiable, that is to say, very steep with little snow, ending in a cliff after a couple of hundred metres. You don't think about that until much later. The task at hand is to ski forward, follow the leader, and stay focused. Ultimately, we arrive at a point where Franco without warning takes a sharp left and descends into a steep, snowy mountain face, the kind that you see in the extreme skiing movies. I don't believe any one of us would have considered this to be an option, but one by one we follow. Like lemmings or sheep. It is exhilarating, carving those S-turns in fresh, heavy, powder snow, about a foot deep. As the face of the mountain turns into a gully and becomes more and more narrow, Franco quickly turns left, popping over the ridge defining our gully and drops into yet another mountain face, and we all follow with glee. I am skiing my best all year right here right now, but even so, the legs grow weak, the lungs strain to suck in the rarefied air, and I have to stop and catch my breath, as do the others. And then we continue, another twenty turns before stopping again. At times like this, I don't hear the wind rushing by me, I don't see the unparalleled beauty surrounding me, I don't feel the sun warming my face. I see my next turn. I feel my next turn. I breathe my next turn. Before long, or so it seems, there are a few bare trees, and we continue down navigating the spaces between them, the snow gets fluffier thanks to their shadows (where the sun has not had any success in melting very much). Soon, little by little, the tress are getting more dense, the snow in fact is getting heavy as it has become warmer down here, and the skiing is becoming more and more challenging... and tiring, too, as I am now skiing in a forest of bare trees, whose branches reach out and try to spoil my day.

When we finally end up at a road at the end, exhausted and sweaty, Franco tells us that we just skied 1,700 metres of vertical, and are now 18 kms from Sestriere by taxi. Thanks to cell phone technology, the taxi/van was indeed waiting for us.

Don't you think we did it all over again before lunch?
Madonna!

Barry di Sestriere

Postcard from Helsinki (Postmarked 14 March 2010)

I woke up in a prison cell this morning!

OK, maybe I exaggerated a little -- of that I am guilty... it's just a county jail, not really a prison. Comfortable cell, hard bed, private toilet, a lock on every door. I'm guessing that now you want some details. Truth be told, my accommodations used to be a county jail, and just a ten-minute walk from the middle of Helsinki, too. Somebody with a bright idea converted the closed jail into a hotel, so, technically, I woke up in what used to be a jail house cell!

I arrived in Helsinki via Paris-Charles de Gaulle. It's a strange sensation to feel as comfortable in a foreign airport as you do at home. The French immigration officers seem to recognize me and so they save their silly and their nosy questions for others and wave me straight through. Good thing, too, as my connection for the three-hour flight north was tight and I had to first change terminals. 

Right in the middle of Helsinki, opposite the main bus terminal is an outdoor skating rink, refrigerated from below so that on a warm day like today (+1C), the ice is indeed perfect for skating. Picture this: a full-sized rink but with no boards, just a low, black, platform that surrounds the rink a few inches above ice level, the sun is burning brilliantly set low in a cold, cloudless, blue sky, music wafting overhead sometimes Bob Marley or the Rolling Stones other times a local Finnish tune, the whole witnessed by an endless procession of travelers walking by, often pausing to watch, on their way to catch a bus. I skated for 90 minutes, at times mesmerized by a couple who were gracefully pairs skating, he, an older man evidently taking a lesson from her, a much younger woman. Otherwise the rink was nearly free of skaters, luckily for me. I can't imagine how I could have better spent my time after breaking out of prison!

If you think the sidewalks are not well cleared of snow at home, don't even think of visiting Helsinki in winter! The streets are plowed here like anywhere else, but on the sidewalks they simply spread crushed stones, which benignly impregnate the packed snow and ice that have accumulated. I always imagined the Finns to be more pedestrian-friendly (like the Swiss) but it seemed as though I was still skating most of the day even after leaving the ice rink. I have to conclude that the Finns have tiny spikes on the soles of their shoes and boots, as they all scamper along as though nothing were amiss. 

The Finns are very friendly people. This I know because there are two large cruise ships docked in the harbour. Why would tourists want to take a cruise to a place that has its harbour filled with floes of ice, the water itself hidden below? It must be due to the very friendly natives! Everybody here speaks English, which is convenient, and all the street signs and other public signage are in two languages: Finnish and Swedish. There's even a Swedish People's Party in the national legislature. I guess some Finns want to be part of Sweden again. None want to be part of Russia again, although the Russians must be important to the economy as all the restaurant menus are written in four languages, Russian being one. Not TOO friendly, though, as the Helsinki Times reported today that an Egyptian grandmother had lost her last appeal (to the Supreme Court) and is being deported after spending three years in Finland with her immigrant family. Of course the Canadians would have allowed her to stay if she had first sought refuge in a church for a few months.

Here's hoping you are not taking refuge from the waning days of winter and that you may even go out for a skate before it's too late!

Barry of Helsinki xx