The Worst Holiday that was Supposed to be the Best…
Although my son canβt wait to go back next Christmasβ¦
I have waited my whole life, but officially for the last five years, for my small child to be still small, but old enough to take ski lessons.
It is my duty as both a lifelong skier and Canadian to ensure that my Spanish-born son has a positive, healthy relationship with snow.
So, with new ski jackets, goggles, and long johns for all, this family went to a northern Catalonia town that I call βThe Puig,” but the government and the citizens of the Catalonia region refer to it as PuigcerdΓ .
This town or village or small city is no secret amongst the smart, outdoorsy types. There has even been talk about it being one of the locations for an upcoming possible Spanish Winter Olympics.
For this snow-challenged Canadian, who mutters and sweats through the seven months of summer, that is my reality; the Puig is a heaven on earth.
An oasis of icy Pyrenees mountain air, happy puffy snowflakes falling on pine trees, in a place on the Spanish/French border connected by highways and trains.
When it snows in the mountains, it rains in the city. This makes the Puig even better as days not spent enjoying snow sports can be spent near town on walking or biking trails with a slight rain falling ever so lightly on oneβs face. Creating a misty wonderland wherever you go and a general gratitude and joy for life.
PuigcerdΓ has an indoor ice rink for hockey and figure skating, two ski resorts, La Molina and Massella nearby, and a central old town with hotels, shops, restaurants, and plenty of gorgeously restored apartments.
The summer in PuigcerdΓ is not to be forgotten about either, as there are walking trails, epic mountain biking trails, and outdoor swimming pools with fantastic vistas.
We planned and booked an Airbnb and a ski school course for my son months in advance. After careful consideration, and many emails back and forth, we thought this trip would be the best trip ever.
So what went wrong? Kind of everything and kind of nothing.
The Airbnb was charming and cute, but the beds were so uncomfortable, and the bedding was old and needed a quick trip to Ikea for some fresh linens.
The ski school, which had assured us multiple times over multiple months that our son would be with other kids that had never skied before, kept asking us the same questions repeatedly.
They were then surprised we didnβt have ski equipment after telling them once again our son had barely seen snow, let alone tried skiing, hence why we had just paid them 150 euros for four mornings of skiing.
Aside from one ski instructor who was so kind, the others were impatient or indifferent.
They offered little help and left my son stuck with skis crossed for some time before helping him, probably because they saw me walking to his rescue.
At other times, they screamed at him. βSki!β Cried an instructor who was evidently exhausted and annoyed at a four-year-olds inability to ski properly after precisely 30 minutes of training.
βSki!β she screamed as he didnβt know what to do after a short introduction about skis was expected to balance and maneuver to mount and dismount a ski lift that took the kids far up a hill to start skiing runs?
Am I missing something? How is he already at the top of a hill?! What is happening!? We donβt teach like that in Canada, eh?
First of all, as a Canadian, screaming at a small child in a snow sport-related environment makes no sense, it might as well be illegal. If you do that, they will never want to do the sport again, and that is not only unconstitutional but a complete failure as a parent to pass on lifeβs most enjoyable Nordic traditions.
And that is what happened. After 3 hours with a small break for a snack, my son was more than happy to leave and never go back. And for the rest of the week, there were wails and tears at the mere mention of returning to the ski school.
Also, our sweet, usually teacherβs pet in all hobbies and activities, little rascal was now afraid of adults. Timid and hiding behind us, refusing bouncy castles and ordering in restaurants, anything that involved interacting with taller than him humans.
My husband told the ski school that our son would not return the next day but maybe at some other time in the week. We never received any response to our email or further customer satisfaction query.
The only reason we didnβt write a horrible review was that it seemed the owner of the ski school was a lovely man who had no idea how badly his administrative staff and teaching staff were doing…except that one guy who was nice.
Also, a girl in the ski school was in our sonβs class at primary school, and we just didnβt know who knew who and would say what. Iβm avoidant, and my husband is Spanish and knows how these things go.
As we still had the equipment rental β the skis and helmet, I took him to another part of the ski area and taught him on a small slope. We laughed, and we swooshed. We didnβt worry about whether he would represent Canada or Spain at the Olympics one day but just tried to find the enjoyment.
Later, we tried our hand at sledding. My husband and I took turns pulling our little guy around to whoops of delight with the odd shock and uncertainty to the wetness and coldness of the snow β it seems I have my work cut out for me ensuring my Spanish, beach-loving fabulous warm weather son learns to feel the same about icy snow.
The rest of the week, we went for walks, ate tasty food, and watched many movies with a ridiculous amount of perfume and fragrance ads on TV. But, for me, the holiday was ruined. My husband and I couldnβt go more than 30 minutes without irritating each other, and between my deep trauma over the snowsport offense and the brutal sleep each night, I couldnβt wait to get out of there.
The vibe was so bad that we really thought we would never travel as a family again. We would stay a family, but oh, things would be different. Life was going to change.
Except, my son did have a great time because of this dollβs house. He was so happy to play with the Paw Patrol figurines for hours while we watched movies.
I mentioned recently how bad that trip had been, and my son told me to stop and not say that. He loved that trip.
His memories of that trip are so good that he canβt wait to return. To him, going to the snow has nothing to do with skiing but everything to do with playing in a cozy holiday flat.
All of my hopes and dreams, years of pining, stoic beliefs that it is my duty to teach him the ways of snow really are just my own.
For my little boy, this trip will forever be where he learned to make coffee for his parents using the fun little coffee pods and machine. We drank a lot of coffee because of this little barista!
It will also be where he learned to make a snowman and angels and discovered the fun of snow sledding down little slopes.
So, although I have officially taken myself off Christmas planning duty for next year and looked at solo bus trip excursions for polite ladies skiers to venture to the ski resorts on weekdays without their families, I learned a valuable lesson about hopes, dreams, expectations, and the realities of life.
Itβs not always about me. Let it go, and get over it.
