We spent Christmas and New Year’s 2015 at our too-rarely utilized condo in the French Alps, mostly skiing, visiting family, and dodging the multiple strains of sickness that were thriving in our social circle. Of course it was me, the one who “never gets sick” (but seems to anyway) who ended up with a draining case of stomach flu, which manifested two days after Youngest Nephew vomited spectacularly during the evening aperitif. I was XC skiing and felt just horrible. I chalked it up to the dismal conditions (ungroomed trail covered in 15 inches of fluffy snow; frigid temperatures) but after I returned home for lunch, I could. Not. Move. I stayed in bed for 20 hours and remained without appetite or energy for the next four days. I passed up countless glasses of bordeaux and slices of cheese. I was left so dehydrated that, as soon as my digestive system recovered, I promptly got a sore throat and lost 90% of my voice.
Still, the trip was relaxing, and Little Boy remained healthy and happy, and had way too much fun with his cousins.
A grand snowshoe adventure in two feet of fresh powder with Mr P and his father — we slowed him down!
Cow encounter
Above the clouds, a great little bar for vin chaud
I was very proud of this picture I took. I call it “Vaches de Neige” (which sounds classier than “snow cows”)
Mr P and Oldest Nephew, relaxing slopeside at a rendez-vous point
Smiles and fun as we stayed warm in a telecabin
Mr P with a fat little mouse we met on the slopes
Descente aux flambeaux skiers on New Year’s Eve
Little Boy and his cousin with their torches after the descente
Medal ceremony for Little Boy’s ski school — he got his Third Yeti medal, meaning he’s ready for black diamond trails and slalom.
