3/4

Here is a picture of what I did today. Yes, you guessed it: I had a snowball fight with a polar bear in a blizzard! Okay, maybe not. I did, however, go skiing in the Andes. The picture above, while not actually a photo I took, does resemble a bit what the ski resort looked like: the sky was drab, the slopes were treeless, and a light snow was falling.

I had a great time, and not just while flying (or somersaulting) down the mountainside. On the bus ride there I sat next to a German. We talked in English the majority of the trip, but occasionally my new acquaintance would say something to his German friends across the aisle, sometimes in English, sometimes in German. Behind me were an Austrian and an Australian, conversing in Spanish but occasionally lapsing into English because it was easier for both. Nearby were several of the Brazilians, from whom I could hear snippets of conversation in animated Portuguese. I didn't hear the French girl and the Belgian girl speaking any French, but maybe I just wasn't close enough to them. Who knows? All that I know is that I love environments like these. Partly, I just love languages, as anyone who knows me well could probably attest. Partly, I'm very impressed with the language abilities of some people. God knew what He was doing when He led me to this program.

Unfortunately, not every part of the day was so grand. Our bus got stuck on the snowy road within sight of the resort, and it took perhaps 20 minutes and some tire chains before we arrived at our destination. Once we got there, we first realized that we needed to get signed in before we could even use the bathroom. Interesting. Perhaps more interesting was the fact that although we were a group of 51, and had already sent in our information, the ski resort hadn't reserved sufficient equipment for us. After being given a boot 3 sizes too small, deciding that just wouldn't cut it, and waiting around for perhaps 20 minutes for someone to assist me, I was directed to a little building nearby where they had bigfoot sizes (it really is true that Chileans are small on average). I think I used the second-largest boot size they had!

Since it was already 1:00 pm, a lot of us decided to eat lunch before heading to the slopes. I scarfed down the grub and decided to hit the slopes. I could have taken a 90-minute ski lesson, but since we were only going to have 3 hours or less of ski time, I decided that my previously learned "mad skillz" would have to suffice. I headed up the nearest ski lift to start off. I made it down the first hill without majorly wiping out. That was good. Then I saw a couple of other folks from our group, so I went up with them. I stopped after the first lift, because I wasn't exactly ready for the black or double-black diamond material at the top of the mountain. Good choice, John. I made it down again, although this time I may have taken a tumble; let's pretend I didn't.

I was thoroughly enjoying myself and trying things that were a bit harder, when I saw the Austrian girl I mentioned earlier. We decided to ski for a bit together, as it's always nicer to have company. Perhaps I should add that she grew up in the Alps and has been skiing her whole life--minor detail. [Perhaps I should also add, on a completely unrelated but interesting note, that she speaks "4 1/2" languages. Her English is almost perfect and her Spanish is fluent; she speaks German natively and also knows Russian. Apparently, she also speaks half of French.] So we went down a medium hill, and decided to ride up again. This time, I decided I would be adventurous and go a bit higher, try something a bit harder. So we hopped on the T-bar lift and headed up, up, and away. The nice thing about ski lifts is that there's really not much of a way up. Once you're at the top, you kind of need to just go down, unless you want to spend the rest of your life sitting on top of the Andes. I didn't. So after a few grandiose photos with plunging valleys and steep slopes in the background, and a few tips from the expert, I took the plunge.

Well, I took about 20 yards of it, anyway. I tried to slow down, and I did. The only problem was that I lost my skis in the process. Unfortunately, I repeated this act many times. There's a fine line between being stupid and overconfident on the one hand, and freaking out and rendering yourself useless on the other. I erred on the latter side, which made for a very, very slow time down the steepest part of the mountain. It also meant that I looked something akin to the Abominable Snowman after the first 100 yds, as I couldn't keep on my feet. I felt sorry for my poor Austrian friend, who was very patiently coaching me as I kept failing. Finally we veered off to something more average, where I felt less like an obstacle lying on a mountain and more like a skier. As I neared the bottom, I decided to stop and take a photo or two of the landscape below.

Unfortunately, my pocket that should have been safely guarding my camera was left unzipped. Although I never found the exact whereabouts of my camera, I can only relinquish it as my donation to the cordillera. I'm glad I bought a cheap one at Wal-Mart. I miss the photos I had taken a lot more than I miss the camera. Maybe that story explains the photo at top. :D

On the ride home, I sat next to a girl from Alabama who studies civil engineering and Spanish, and who hardly knew what snow looked like before today. We talked about a variety of topics, including Spanish and, most importantly, Jesus. It turns out she is a Christian, too. God is just as real here as He is anywhere else in the world, and He keeps reminding me of that simple fact in a variety of ways.

As for the title, let's just say that although my camera may be in a better place, I still have my wallet, my phone, and my U.S. passport. It was a good day.