The Ski Lodge Incident, or Another of my Worst Dates Ever

Why Schnapps is Not a Friend

The year? 2004. The place? Southeastern Bavaria. A small town, a village - but a burg, really - where I was living in a strange exchange-cum-gap year set-up before starting college. I was nineteen years old, and I blanch to think that, as of this year, the following episode occurred exactly half my life ago.

The scene of the crime

On paper, I was an exchange student. However, I was the oldest of my cohort, and, at 19, I was considered unquestionably an adult, in the same way that someone who was, for instance, 23 would be in the US. Accordingly, my host family rented me a set of rooms in a nearby farmhouse, where I came and went as I pleased. I never clicked especially well with my host parents, the Schneiders, and I hung out with them mostly on weekends.

The rest of the time, I was happily on my own. I got cut a lot of slack during that first year abroad. Yes, I was older, but I'd also managed to master the German language unusually quickly. Twice, when I’d called the exchange organization in Hamburg with housekeeping questions, I was told there was no record of me, a German girl placed in Indiana. I was met with disbelief both times when I insisted I was an American girl from Indiana, having an exchange year in Germany. Since language-learning was the big goal of the program, I was mostly left alone.

As a lifelong rule follower, it was deliciously thrilling to learn that no one was checking up on me. So I rarely went to school. Instead, I haunted the museums, cathedrals, and convents of the nearby ancient port and Old Salt Route city of Passau. I was learning a lot more from doing that, but when I did check in with the school, it was at an academy located in a former palace. It was very grand. But right there in town were also ruins of old castles, cloisters, and even the Roman fortress that had originally settled the area. I spent every day delicately maneuvering my kitten heels down cobblestone alleys, or sipping coffee at cafes on the banks of the Danube.

It was a lot for a Midwestern teenager! I'd picked up smoking, which I thought was very sophisticated. I began to color my hair red, and I lost a bunch of weight hiking all over the Alpine foothills that made up the city. (How I covered it all in heels, I'll never know.) As a result, what with learning German so quickly and starting in promisingly on French, I began to feel like quite a woman of the world! Now I needed a European romance, I thought, to give me that ineffably chic Bridget Jones-style dating resume.

I was on the lookout for cute, interesting guys, preferably artsy or sensitive, who weren't too put off by the fact that I was American. The Iraq War was in full swing, and I had suffered some mild harassment over my nationality. I also hoped to find an eligible German man who used not just antiperspirant, but real deodorant. Due to this last requirement, I ended up waiting for quite awhile.

Finally, it happened that a friend of my host dad fit the bill. It's important for me to note here that my host dad, Hannes, was only 38 (yes, the same age I am now) and was, thus, just barely old enough to actually be my dad. He was an active, youthful dude with mostly younger friends - including his band's bass player, Sepp.

Sepp was lanky and cute, and somehow, he looked attractive with the dreadlocks he had when I met him as well as after shaving them. This was no mean feat, and despite the known dangers of dating a bass player, I developed a crush. I didn't ask how old Sepp was, but he was much younger than Hannes. Close enough, I figured.

I spent a month or two pining pitifully, seeing him at social events around town and transparently angling for reasons to go talk to him. I was lucky to have that affinity for language, and for the local Bavarian dialect in particular - Sepp's accent was clear as mud. But he not only used actual deodorant, he also wore a different, seemingly fresh outfit every day, unlike many. For these two reasons alone, he was the best prospect I was likely to have. But why wouldn't he just ask me out, already?

Finally, one night, after I'd wandered over to his pub table three or four times, asking coquettishly for a light despite the several lighters floating at the bottom of my purse, Sepp heaved a big sigh, set down his Hefeweizen, and put one hand on my waist.

“Shall we go get something to drink sometime?” he asked. Delirious, I swooned.

My host parents descended on me, thrilled that he'd finally asked me out. Vaguely I wondered how many of the exchange organization's rules we were breaking, what with them teaching me how to smoke, moving me into a totally different house from theirs, and encouraging 19-year-old me to date their friend, who was - come on - close to thirty, if not already there. But I was so excited that I decided not to care.

I made plans to spare no expense putting together the hottest outfit I could find. I lined up quite an ensemble - tight, strappy, with rickety heels - and was sitting on my bed, actively admiring it, when the phone rang in my little farmhouse apartment.

It was my host mom, Heike. “I talked to Sepp,” she reported, sounding rushed. “He says you're going to the ski club. So dress for that, OK? We'll pick you up Saturday.” She hung up.

I sat there, holding the receiver, feeling sick. Skiing? Oh, no.

Feverishly I fumbled for my German to English dictionary. Was there any chance the phrase “ski club" meant something different in German? Like maybe “elegant gastropub" or “Michelin-starred trattoria?”

No. It meant “ski club.”

Oh, this was utterly unfair. Why did he get to decide what we were doing?! What, just because he was the one to invite me, and would surely be paying for the outing? An outrage!

I was hopeless at anything physical. Not only was I simply unathletic, I was incredibly uncoordinated, too, and skiing struck me as something I just shouldn't be doing. Plus, I'd lost weight, and I just wanted to wear a minidress on a date! Instead I'd be bundled up in standard winter corduroy flares and sweaters, same as always.

He probably thought someone from out of town would enjoy the ski club, I realized - Alpine foothills and all that. Then I remembered that Heike had only said we'd be going to the club, not that we would actually be skiing. Well! That made more sense! Any decent ski club must have a bar, right? We'd sit around a cozy fire drinking grappa as we watched other, more intrepid people hit the powder! Of course. That was fine. It would be fine.

Just in case, though, I decided to wear only a light sweater with a jacket and stiletto boots. Just to drive home the point that I would not be skiing.

Saturday came, and my host parents picked me up bundled in their winter puffiest. I glanced in the back of the Audi and saw Fritz and Petra, their two kids, similarly rendered nearly immobile by oversized ski suits and gloves. What was happening? Was the whole family coming on my date?

I came to the car anyway and opened the door when Heike shook her head. “Go back and change,” she said. “You're not warm enough for skiing. And get those boots off!”

“I don't really want to ski,” I said, as casually as I could. “Doesn't really sound like something I'd be good at. I thought I could just hang out inside.”

“Nonsense!” boomed my host dad.

“It's the ski club,” said Heike, as if I were having some kind of brain problem. “You have to ski.”

Surely there was no law enforcing this. “I'm not very good at -”

“Little babies can do it!” piped up 10-year-old Fritz, exasperated. “Even I can go on the intermediate trail.” He let out a heaving, put-upon sigh.

“What will Sepp think?” asked Heike. “That you're a rude American, probably.” Hannes murmured an amiable agreement.

Five minutes later, I entered the car, this time bundled up so drastically that the only asset I had going for me on this date was my personality. And that had proven dubious, at best, to most Germans, including the Schneiders. I'm so screwed, I thought.

I felt queasier and queasier as we made our way to the ski park. It was nothing fancy, nothing touristy, just a nice hill the locals enjoyed using, with several trails attached to a lodge that housed equipment rental and, as I'd hoped, a bar. Hannes pulled the sedan into an empty field unnecessarily far away, and the kids jumped out to race each other to the lodge against the horizon.

How could I ski? I didn't even want to walk this far.

Hannes and Heike gathered their skis from the trunk as I watched, full of doubt Then they turned, traipsing their own way toward the ski lodge as I followed in dismay.

I hadn't been able to make myself formulate the question, “Are you going on my date with me?” But it no longer mattered - I had the answer. The related question, “Why are you going on my date with me?” might still bear exploration, but I had long hated to assert myself to them, at pain of hearing that “rude American” crap again.

Asking their permission not to ski, while being a full-grown adult who wasn't even living in their house, had fallen flat, so miserably I caught the lime green gloves Heike tossed at me and clomped uphill through the snow, ready to humiliate myself.

It turned out that no red-blooded Bavarian man would actually suggest hitting the slopes without a fortifying beverage or three first. As I peeled off my puffy coat and outer cardigan, sweating, I hoped that perhaps we would all just get so drunk that any actual skiing would be forgotten.

We sat at a four-top table, the children having disappeared. There was no sign of Sepp yet. Well, no matter, I thought. We couldn't start the show without him. I extracted a Marlboro Light from the purse I didn't know what to do with, and busied myself with the menu.

They didn't have grappa, much to my disappointment. “I might like to have some Glühwein,” I said conversationally, thinking longingly of the spiced, mulled wine, served hot, that was a German winter specialty.

“No, no. Skiing calls for schnapps,” said Hannes from behind his lighter.

I scanned the dining room briefly. At least five or six tables were drinking Glühwein.

Heike nodded. “Never skiing with Glühwein,” she confirmed. “Otherwise one gets sick.”

This was how it always went with the Schneiders: everything I thought or suggested was unilaterally declared inappropriate or dumb, while they managed to suggest that I was rude. It was maddening, but I was determined to be the bigger person.

And so I could feel my skin beginning to crawl as I nodded politely and took a drag of my cigarette. I wanted to scream, in a powerful crescendo, “Then why is Glühwein on the freaking MENU?!” but I sensed that would be unproductive.

“Okay,” I said, as a waitress sidled up, “but not cherry for me, please. I think I'd like elderflower.”

“Cherry schnapps times four!” Hannes thundered inexplicably. The waitress smiled and disappeared.

“Get out! Get out, get out, get out of my flipping date!” shrieked my brain as I smiled politely yet again and lit another cigarette. Oh, where was Sepp?

My host parents chatted, talking about the other couples in their social circle as if I had any idea who they might be. Or they discussed their engineering company, talking about their strategy for different clients as I sat there blankly. Why had these people even wanted an exchange student? I wondered. They vetoed all my suggestions, openly disregarded my preferences, and flat-out ignored me.

Somehow, my indignation made that horribly medicinal cherry schnapps go down a little bit more smoothly. Indeed, the only thing Heike, Hannes, and I did together was plow through the rounds. Four, then five. As I took the sixth shot, I noticed it was an hour and a half past the time Sepp and I were to have met. Where was he? I knew drinking this much was a bad idea, but I no longer cared.

Time crept by, there in the dining room at the ski lodge, as I sat, feeling murderous, with my host parents. Outside, people shrieked happily, sliding elegantly over the snow or, laughing, careening into each other. The light over the mountains changed, and I was forced to admit that Sepp wasn't coming. I felt the slow creep of humiliation, until suddenly I realized that might mean we would get a redo. And that redo might just take place somewhere else. I brightened.

And surely I wouldn't be expected to ski today. I'd been stood up. I was now owed some dignified privacy from which to sulk, and eventually, to graciously accept the shamefaced pledge Sepp would inevitably offer to make up for it, I figured.

Well, then! Perhaps the pressure was off. Maybe I could enjoy myself after all. In that case …

I lurched to my left to flag down a passing waitress. “Do you guys have any Knödel that's vegetarian? Or - hicc - could you make some?” I asked thickly.

At the same time, though, Heike spoke, too. She murmured to Hannes, in an exceptionally thick dialect, “Boy, this one's a dud, isn't she?” He cringed slightly, but snickered. And both of them still seemed sober as judges, having presumably grown up on this exceptionally strong homemade liquor.

I left the waitress float away as I fumed again. I knew that the Schneiders didn't really like me. It was OK - I didn't need to be liked by everyone. I stayed in the situation because, whatever our personality mismatch, Heike and Hannes had been kind enough to set up my day-to-day circumstances in such a favorable way. I had so much independence. I'd really hate for them to think I was simply a dud, full stop.

My face must have showed that I had understood what Heike said. With extra care in her voice, she said, “Did you want something to eat? I'm sure they have something vegetarian.”

“No, thanks,” I said, heaving myself to my feet and tottering precipitously. I chose to ignore that. “I think I'm going to try a run down the bunny slope.” I'd show them who was a dud.

The Schneiders exchanged doubtful glances. “You really don't have to do that,” Heike assured me. “I know you weren't looking forward to it.”

My face flamed from embarrassment at the guilt in her tone - well, from that and the six shots of Kirschwasser, plus the heavy beer I'd been nursing. “No, no!” I exclaimed, my voice shrill. “You're right. What's a visit to a ski lodge without skiing? Hold this, would you?” I asked, shoving my handbag into Heike's lap a little too hard. I wobbled out the door with as much dignity as I could muster, not at all sure where I was going.

It was forty degrees colder outside, and I decided I didn't mind that I'd left my puffy coat, cardigan, and ski gloves inside. I was downright hot. It was hot in that dining room! Maybe the snow would cool me down, I thought drunkenly, as I grabbed fistfuls of it and squished them against the red of my cheeks. Ahhh!

Now. Where was the bunny trail?

I looked around blankly. People rushed around me.

“First time?” I croaked feebly. “Where do I go if it's my first time? I don't have stuff. Excuse - hicc - excuse me?”

I was quickly attracting stares. But people ambled past until finally, a woman said, “Oh, that's the exchange student.”

“She's drunk off her ass,” her companion observed.

“Let me just go … uh, help her real quick,” the woman said as I gaped stupidly at them, frantically waving my hand. I'd never met them before.

Before I knew it, I was being marched to a relatively flat expanse of snow that was allocated to beginners. I looked down - I had skis on! And there were poles in my hands! Magic, I thought.

“Here I go!” I announced, flailing.

I heard another woman ask, “Should she be doing this?” I heard her friend answer, “Sure doesn't look like it,” but I felt confident, somehow, that they were not talking about me.

“Yeah, yeah,” said the person closest to me. “I'm just going to let her go once before the sun goes down. All right! Hang on to your poles and just try to stay on your feet.” He clapped me on the back, which sent me flying.

My eyes were open wide as I sped down the hill. I was so drunk that I couldn't even feel the weight of my skis on the snow. I'm really flying! I thought. Why would I ever think I wouldn't be good at skiing? I'm great at skiing!

To my sides, pine trees passed in a haze and children rushed by me in a blur of color. The lodge, where I had been sitting, drinking, crested near the horizon. It seemed to be hurtling toward me.

But I wasn't worried. I was a ski prodigy! I decided I wouldn't stop at the end of the course, but rather, I would ski right into the lodge - right up to Heike and Hannes' table! - and show them how not-a-dud I was. Yes! This was an excellent plan.

With determination, I set my jaw. It seemed dimly as if people were yelling at me, or trying to get my attention, but surely they were just cheering me on. Of course - they were probably just as excited as I was! Someday, they would turn on the Winter Olympics and remember this moment, when they saw Sally Shideler take her first run down the bunny slope.

“I always knew she'd be great,” Frau Herrmann might murmur.

“She was destined to be a star,” Herr Wolker would confirm.

As the yelling and agitation around me swelled, I changed my posture to lower my center of gravity. Everyone must have guessed what I was doing, skiing right into the restaurant. Well, I thought, you've got to give the people what they want! I dared to look away for a moment, facing the audience to my left and giving everyone a big old, American, “Look, Ma! No hands!” smile.

Dear Lord.

As I swiveled my head back, I realized abruptly that I was somehow headed right for a Glühwein stand. And I couldn't stop.

Oh, no, how could I make myself stop? They hadn't said anything about how to stop! And what was a Glühwein stand doing way over here, in the middle of the ski slope, anyway? That hadn't been there a moment ago!

Gosh. Didn't people know to quit being drunken jackasses and get the hell out of the way? I thought, as the operator fled, screaming, and I made contact with the metal kiosk. Why, someone could get seriously hu -

Then the lights went out.

I had been lying in the snow for some time, I sensed, judging by the unmitigated disgust in the Schneiders' voices.

Against the shocked, snowy quiet, I heard, “You can't do the baby trail! You can't do the baby trail!” It was Fritz, taunting me in a horrid little singsong. No one told him to stop, to be quiet. But he was right, the little brat.

Groggily, I blinked and raised my head slowly. I was wet.

“Why am I … How come I'm wet?” I slurred, peering up at Hannes and Heike. “Am I dead?”

Heike rolled her eyes in open exasperation. Hannes took a breath, but the deep voice that answered wasn't his.

“You're wet because you f***ing plowed into a f***ing beverage cart, you stupid American cow!” I looked up. It was Sepp.

Oh-ho, so now he'd decided to show up? Perfect! Just perfect. But why now? Of all moments to turn up late …

Suddenly, with terrible clarity, I understood that he hadn't wanted to do this at all - that Heike and Hannes, whatever our differences, must have twisted his arm to take me out because they knew how much I liked him. And that's why they were here: to made sure he'd show. And, up to now, they'd been disappointed that he hadn't.

I shivered involuntarily; I was good and cold now. And this was all too much: all the mortification, frustration, and liquor I'd swallowed that day had to come out. I opened my mouth to answer Sepp, to give him a piece of my mind - deodorant and fresh clothes be damned - but all that came out was, well, everything I'd had to eat and drink that day.

Despite my high hopes for sophistication, it was in that moment - lying there at everyone's feet, gurgling helplessly as I vomited cherry schnapps into the snow, unsure if my legs were still attached to the rest of me - that I became more like Bridget Jones than I ever could have guessed.

Someone helped me up. Someone retrieved my clean coat and sweater from inside the restaurant. Heike had my purse. I was given peppermint schnapps to gargle with, as Fritz and Petra laughed gleefully. Then I was unceremoniously packed into the Schneiders' Audi, as they politely received sympathetic clucks from their friends.

Just as I was about to lose consciousness, I heard Heike say, “I can't believe she did that.”

Hannes was silent for a moment. “Well,” he responded, “she did say she wanted Glühwein.”