I've only ever been downhill skiing once - on an icy, drizzly day where all the snow was manmade and going down was more a process of chattering across an icy slick than cutting through powder. I ended up flat on my face too many times to count, and came home sorry, broke, bruised and banged up.
Still, the idea downhill skiing appeals to me - maybe because I like being out of doors in the winter, maybe because I like mountains, maybe because I like going fast, and definitely because there is a strong aesthetic glamour around it. Dark pine trees against white snow, peaked-roof wooden chalets nestled in valleys, people in snowflake sweaters and furry boots, endless rivers of hot chocolate and piles of eiderdown comforters at the end of the day.
I feel confident that the ski resort in my mind is much more enjoyable than any actual ski resort I could visit - there's no neon and no wait for a chairlift - and temperament-wise, I prefer the solitude of cross-country skiing, which has a humbler magic of its own - but I like to imagine living in my own alternative Tyrolean universe, complete with Berner Sunnenhund and a Dale of Norway sweater.
