Dazzling sun removed any excuse and I headed up to the slopes. The bus was loaded with Italians, but they fucked off to Grindelwald, and from Wilderswil I had a quiet ride up to Kleine Scheidegg. I headed up to the Lauberhorn and the only tracks on the slopes were from the grooming machines. I had the mountain to myself. Clear skies, crisp snow, and all the room I needed to flail my ski poles: that’s what I call skiing.
Even the Germans couldn’t find a reason to barge, though for one it proved too much. The next day at the Wilderswil station, one guy must have spotted an empty four-person seating section. Risking his life -- wearing ski boots -- he jumped on the train step before the train stopped, trying to pry the doors open, which of course remain locked until the train comes to a complete stop. My burst of laughter didn’t faze him, though his buddy scowled, and he continued to show a determination that most people reserve for getting out of a burning nightclub. I walked around his little group and entered the next car, which was pretty much empty.
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