It’s all plum blooms and yellow blossoms in Italy, but up in the German Alps, Old Herr Winter is still hanging on.

“Let’s get you fitted for skis. How good are you?”

“Well, I can do blues all by myself.”

“You’re Intermediate then.”

Fist pump of victory. I never even made it to Intermediates in swim lessons. This is a very important athletic achievement.

That lasted all the way until I met up with a tiny skiing friend, whose pink skis were the size of baguettes. Without poles (Or “OH GOD PLEASE LET ME STAY UPRIGHT” sticks) she showed me the way down the mountain.

And by “showed” I mean she kept looking over her shoulder at me, puzzled as to why I wasn’t keeping up. And then puzzled why all of a sudden I chose to ski down the mountain upside down, head first, on my back, sticks asunder, legs twisted like that Goofy cartoon.

My little pink-skied friend took me down a red run. I don’t know which humbles me and my abilities more — that she’s three and bombing down reds, or that I got tricked.

I did learn this: The steeper it is, the longer you’ll fall; and if your poles are still 50 yards up the mountain and you’re in a heap at the bottom, someone will probably bring them down on their way by.

Someone pre-K, most likely.

(Mittel means “medium” not “little.” But since it was winter sports in 60 degree weather, faux-translation stands.)

• Tags
• skiing
• germany
• fitness

Usually magic takes my radio show from a studio to Spain, Greece, England, Norway, Italy, and Germany. This weekend, a bus did.

It takes a lot of buttons to play the Bieber.

We packed a couple of traveling circus boxes of gear to the Edelweiss Lodge and Resort and set up two days of shows.

It’s a little odd doing that which you usually do alone, in public. All of a sudden people can SEE what your face looks like when you’re giving the time and I.D.ing the Bieber. But it’s also great — suddenly you KNOW that you’re not talking into nowhere. You can take requests in person, show kids how the board works while you’re doing a show, and if you’re lucky enough, you’ll get told you’re doing a good job.

I was going to say this is my first Navy coin, but I would be horribly remiss — my first was a Bolivian quarter fashioned into a coin with a Post-it saying “You’ve been coined.” I love that one, too.

One of — no, my favorite part of my job is putting people on the radio who have never done it before, or who are nervous about it, or who might just go all rogue on me.

Making people comfortable and making them sound good is the best. With kids, you have to be ready for the nodding, grinning silence. Adults are easier to wrangle. And some find out they kind of love it. Give me a game co-host who will roll with it, and I’ll give you at least one funny hahah. Maybe as many as two.

And right behind my kit, was the Alps. Snow is like fairytale frosting, always. I have no doubt I’d hate to live in a place covered with it for a whole season, but to visit is quite fine.

I met a whole crew of West Coasters in Garmisch for the U.S. Ski Team races — we could see them fly down the mountain like greased fleas without even having to go outside.

In fact, my ski instructor (who wisely didn’t let me start at the top of the race course) and the incredibly helpful guy who hooked me up with boots, were both from Oregon. Pacific Standard Time, represent (and etcs.)

I grew up an hour from Mt. Hood, and I came to Germany to get taught to ski by a guy from Hood River. Weird. And I didn’t even fall down! I did however, meet my nemesis.

Germany is wonderful. Cozy snow-covered houses tucked among cross-country ski trails with hardy souls swishing by — but truth to vegan: if you’re going to Deutschland for more than 48 hours, pack food that isn’t potatoes.

The good news is, I’ve successfully completed french fry aversion therapy. The better news is, there’s always Helles. And giant pretzels. And that really good mustard! Okay, never mind. You’ll be fine.

• Tags
• germany
• radio

There are two ways to get to Germany. One, is winning big on Pig in a Poke. Two, is on the back of a motorcycle.

But even if you choose Door #2, you might be tempted to keep an eye out for Clark Griswold. Not if you’re a native sondaughter of the Pacific Northwest thought. Then, you’ll be on Super Rick Steves Patrol. It’s really only a matter of time until I run into him, surely.

Rick? Is that you in there?

When I asked at work if I could go on the Ride the Alps, I got “Sure, just make sure you wear all appropriate PPE.” “Of course! Um. What’s PPE?” “Personal Protective Equipment.” Well, here’s proof of that: be-helmeted and in a giant waterproof onesie on the side of the autostrada. Some how biker tough, I’m doing it wrong.

But three days on a bike through Bavaria and the Alps? I would have gone even if I had to wear a Bubble Boy costume.

Oh my Rick. Bavaria is a little like the Columbia Gorge, and a lot unlike anything on this planet. When the mist clears, the mountains look etched on a giant Wizard of Oz painted backdrop. The relief is so vivid it scratches your face. There are lazy clumps of milky tea cows wearing actual cow bells and church steeples and biergartens and window boxes of flashy red geraniums everywhere and you start looking for the seams. Surely this is fake. A set.

It was a Poker Ride, where you pull a card at every stop on the route and try to win. Our first gamble was against the weather. That plastic suit up there? Necessary. It poured and was 10 degrees Fake Temperature. Which is to say, the C stands for Cold.

That’s where you start earning your Ride the Alps patch which is totally going on my pink backpack until I get a leather vest thing of my own.

Pretty near everybody toughed it out and rode. And the guy who rode the whole thing IN A KILT? Super toughed. We climbed. And climbed. And climbed, yes, Ev’ry Mountain.

6,000 feet. Freezing, wet, thinking we were OMG so HARDY, when whistling through the mist appears a family of Germans, out on a leisurely hike. They were all danke, danke, müseli — AND IN SHORTS. Shorts, you guys.

It was hard to get pics during the ride, what with needing your hands to hang on an all…but. Wanna turn your blogger up to 11? Wear a helmet-mounted camera that fires off a shot of whatever you’re looking at, every three seconds. There are 3,000 more where this came from. Literally. (The two bikes ahead were our traveling companions.)

And as long as we’re playing, there’s a German equivalent of the Comic Sans game — what IS this? And how did its Gothic-y Beerserif become so decidedly German? The rules of the game had to be amended — you only get a point for spotting it IF it also has an umlaut.

Oh. OH. And we thought it was so tough riding up there with some kind of giant fast engine thing? There were people climbing the Alps on regular bikes. Some of them, not even standing up. Now then, I might not have gone that hard, but after a whole day out there, you earn your Kartoffelpuffers. Latkes and apple sauce, friends. Oh, yes.

But beware. Say oh perhaps you stopped drinking water at 0900 because you KNOW biker gangs don’t stop for potty breaks. And say you usually live at sea level and now you’re at 6,000 feet…

Hüngenoverhosen. Oöps. And totally, absolutely, 100% worth it. All of it. It was an experience I had to write on my Someday list, just so I could cross it off. Never in a million years would I have thought.

I didn’t have to play Pig in a Poke to get here, but I did have to gamble. I pushed my adult life across the table, All In. And sure, I’ve lost a few hands, and I know the odds of keeping the winning streak going ‘til I cash in my chips and walk out the door…

But right now? I’m beating the House.

• Tags
• germany
• travel
• photography
• europe