It is December, 2022. The omicron strain is gone as fast as it erupted. Or maybe people just got tired of COVID restrictions. As soon as they were able, our kids were flung like objects from a catapult back into their twenty-something lives. 

We were supposed to go to Italy a year earlier but we cancelled our plans due to the above-mentioned Omicron strain. Fortunately everything we had reserved and purchased for the original trip was held for us for twelve months. One year later than planned, we were going on a ski trip to the Italian Alps. Cervinia to be precise. Choreographing the travel from three different places proved challenging but it worked. The four of us met at the rental car counter at the airport in Turin, Italy and we were off. 

Driving through the Italian Piedmont surrounded by farms, you could see why the area was known for its delicious cured meats and cheeses. The mountains were in the distance and we were headed that way. We started to climb . . . and climb going through a few picturesque villages. 

The weather was kind of gray and cloudy which made me anxious that we were going to have bad weather for this trip. The climb continued and then WHOA! The mountains came into view. That was not bad weather we drove through. It was the clouds. Now we were above the cloud line and the snow covered peaks were in front of us, specifically the Matterhorn. The grandeur is beyond my writing skills. Suffice to say that we saw a few folks rounding hairpin turns hanging out of their car windows to snap pictures. The view may have been worth risking your life for. Cue the nervous excitement. 

Checked into our cozy apartment, equipment rented and our daily plans started to unfold. 

Day one: We skied over 25 kilometers to a town in the Valle d’aosta, passing by a few other potential stops along the way. The trail ended and we sat outside at a small bistro and ate wood-fired pizza topped with local meats and cheeses. Magical. 

Day Two: The kids decided to take the day and ski to Zermatt, Switzerland. I mean when you can ski to a different country, you do it. Dave and I took it a little easier and got more familiar with the slopes and trails closer to us. Great day.

Day Three: Another gorgeous ski day on wide open slopes. We skied to a cafe right on the border of Italy and Switzerland and stopped for a late breakfast. This trip is going so well. We decided to skip our plans to explore away from the mountains and just stay where we were. 

Onward down the mountain. Icy Patch. I fell. It was not a yard sale of a fall. I just slipped and fell. And I felt something . . . in my knee. A twinge. I thought, “Ok, let me regroup and get myself up.” I tried and tried again. I kept falling. Frustrated. I needed help. Literally at that moment a member of the ski patrol appeared. He said “Are you hurt?” I said, “No, I just need a hand getting up.” He obliged and I got up only to fall down again. He said, “Can you ski?  I said “Yes, I just can’t put any weight on my right leg” and he replied in his suave Italian accent “Then you cannot ski.” I guess he was right as much as I did not want to believe it. It didn’t even hurt. A moment later, the sled arrived and I was heading down the mountain, on my back facing the handsome Italian ski patrol rescuer who was singing Coldplay’s “Sky Full of Stars.” 

An X-ray revealed no broken bones. The Doctor pointed me in the direction of a Pharmacy with a picture of the brace and the crutches I should get and a prescription for a pretty high dose of Ibuprofen. I left the pharmacy with the brace and the ibuprofen and skipped the crutches. I was not going to let this ruin my trip. I conceded that the skiing part of the week was finished for me but not the rest of the family. Don’t feel sorry for me. I was in the Italian Alps and Dave was a good nurse. He took a day off of the mountain and we did some exploring, on foot. It was slow going but I did it. The rest of the time I spent reading in our room literally in the shadow of the Matterhorn, eating traditional Piedmont lunches of meats, cheeses, bread and wine. And meeting the family for memorable dinners. Heavenly. On the seventh day, we headed home.

Five or six weeks later, I was still using the brace. That twinge on the mountain? An  MRI revealed a torn ACL, a partially torn Meniscus, and some floating bone fragments. In the words of my wise husband, “That doesn’t sound good.” I blew out my knee in the Italian Alps. Was it worth it? That’s a topic for another essay.