Chapter 1: Arrival in the Alps (Jeff)
The plane from Dulles had been a blur of recycled air, bad movies, and fitful sleep. Stepping off the bus in Corvara felt like waking up in a different world. The February wind whipped through the narrow streets of this tiny village in South Tyrol and carried the sharp scent of pine and fresh snow. I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag on my shoulder and felt the weight dig into my beefy frame. At 38, I wasn't exactly out of shape. Years of Navy discipline had kept me solid, with a mix of muscle from sporadic gym sessions and the softening edges of too many late nights at a desk. My black hair was still cropped short out of habit, my beard trimmed neat, and under my layers my chest hair curled against the thermal shirt. I looked like your typical American tourist, I supposed: tall, broad, a bit out of place among the sleek Europeans zipping by on scooters or in compact cars.
South Tyrol. The Dolomites. Alta Badia. I had picked this spot after endless scrolling through travel forums and budget sites. Skiing had always intrigued me: nature's ultimate adrenaline rush, combining speed, skill, and that raw connection to the earth. Back in the States it was a rich man's game: lift tickets that could bankrupt you, resorts packed with influencers and their designer gear. But here it was affordable and authentic, or so the reviews said. I had booked a month-long stay in February, prime ski season, at a mountain farm just outside the village. Cheap room, no frills. It was impulsive, crazy even, but that's what I needed. A reset before I hit 40 and solidified into one of those grumpy, burned-out shells I'd seen in the mirror lately.
My life in DC had been a grind. Navy JAG, Judge Advocate General, for over a decade. Courtrooms, case files, deployments that blurred into one another. I'd risen through the ranks and earned the respect, but at what cost? Friends? Scattered, mostly work acquaintances who'd fade when the job did. Relationships? A string of short-lived dates with women who were smart, attractive, ambitious, like me. But the spark was never there. I'd lie awake after, staring at the ceiling of my sterile apartment, wondering why it all felt so hollow. Sex was fine, functional, but passion and connection were absent. Maybe I was wired wrong. Or maybe I'd just poured everything into the job, leaving nothing for myself. Midlife crisis, my therapist had called it before I quit that too. Fine. Call it what you want. I was done living for briefs and verdicts. Time to figure out what came next, before the regrets piled up like unread emails.
The bus stop was a simple shelter at the edge of town, surrounded by chalets with steep roofs and wooden balconies. Snow blanketed everything and muffled sounds, turning the world into a pristine postcard. I checked my phone. Spotty signal, but the map app pointed me up a winding path toward the farm. My boots crunched on the packed snow, each step sending a puff of white into the air. The air was crisp, almost biting, but invigorating after the stuffy humidity of DC winters. Peaks loomed above, jagged and imposing, the kind that made you feel small in the best way. I loved nature like this: untamed, challenging. Sports had always been my outlet: hiking the Appalachians, pickup basketball in the park, even some rock climbing back in my twenties. Skiing was the next level, a dream deferred because of cost and time. Now, with my savings cushion and no job tying me down, it was happening.
The farm appeared around a bend, a cluster of buildings that looked like they'd been there for centuries. Stone foundations, wooden beams weathered to a warm brown, a barn off to the side where I could hear faint mooing. Smoke curled from the chimney and carried the aroma of wood fire and something hearty cooking. The owner, Marco, was waiting at the door: a stocky man in his sixties with a salt-and-pepper mustache and a no-nonsense expression. He spoke English with a thick Italian accent, clipped and efficient.
"Jeffrey Langston?" He eyed my duffel like it might contain contraband.
"Jeff," I corrected, extending a hand. His grip was callused, strong.
"Room upstairs. Key here. Breakfast seven sharp. Ski bus down the road, every hour." He handed over a heavy brass key and pointed vaguely toward the stairs inside. No small talk, no welcome basket. Perfect. I wasn't here for pampering.
The room was small but cozy: a double bed with a thick duvet, a wooden dresser scarred from years of use, a single window framing the valley below. No TV, no Wi-Fi password on the nightstand. Just a lamp, a Bible in Italian, and a faint smell of hay seeping through the walls. I dumped my bag and unpacked methodically: ski pants, thermal layers, gloves, a few books I'd grabbed at the airport (some thriller and a self-help tome on "reinventing your life" that I already regretted). My reflection in the small mirror caught me off guard: eyes tired from the travel, but a spark of anticipation there too. This is it, Jeff. No more excuses. Fix your shit.
Dinner was a simple affair at a nearby tavern I'd spotted on the walk up. Pasta with wild mushrooms, a glass of local red wine that warmed me from the inside out. The place was half-full of locals chattering in a mix of Italian and German, South Tyrol's bilingual quirk, I'd read. I ate alone, scrolling through ski tips on my phone when the signal allowed. Jet lag tugged at me, but excitement kept it at bay. Tomorrow: first lesson. I'd booked private sessions with the Alta Badia ski school, figuring I'd need hand-holding to avoid breaking my neck. Non-German speaking, they'd paired me with someone fluent in English. Fine by me.
Sleep came in fits, the bed creaking under my weight, the mountain silence almost too profound. My mind raced as always: What if I hate skiing? What if this trip changes nothing? But underneath, a quiet thrill. Adventure. Change.
Morning dawned bright and cold. I layered up: long johns, ski pants that felt bulky and restrictive, a jacket zipped to my chin. Breakfast at the farm was bread, cheese, coffee strong enough to jolt me awake. Marco nodded approval at my gear. "Beginner?"
"Yeah. First time."
He grunted. "Don't fall."
The ski bus was a rattling affair, packed with tourists and locals alike, skis clattering in the racks. I clutched my rented poles like a lifeline, boots heavy on my feet. The ride to the base of the slopes was short, winding through more villages that looked straight out of a fairy tale. Corvara gave way to broader valleys, lifts spiderwebbing up the mountains. My heart picked up pace. This was real.
At the ski school office, a bustling hut with flags fluttering in the wind, I checked in. The clerk, a young woman with a ponytail and an efficient smile, scanned her tablet. "Jeffrey Langston? Private lessons, beginner level. Jonas Zimmermann will be your instructor. Meet him at the beginner slope in ten minutes. Red jacket, blond hair. Can't miss him."
Jonas. Sounded solid. I trudged over, skis awkward on my shoulder, the snow squeaking underfoot. The beginner area was a gentle incline, dotted with kids in colorful suits and adults wobbling like newborn deer. Laughter echoed, mixed with instructors' shouts in multiple languages. I scanned for a red jacket.
There he was, striding toward me with effortless grace, like the snow was an extension of his body. Early twenties, I'd guess: blond hair peeking from under a ski-helmet, a scruffy jaw that wasn't quite a beard, blue eyes sharp and friendly. Lean, fit, the kind of build that came from constant motion rather than weights. He extended a gloved hand. "Jeff? I'm Jonas. Ready to conquer the mountain?"
His accent was German, but his English was flawless, smooth as the groomed trails. I shook his hand: firm, warm through the fabric. "As ready as a guy who's never skied before can be. Don't let me embarrass myself."
He laughed, an easy sound that cut through the chill. "No worries. Everyone starts somewhere. Let's get you set up."
We spent the next few minutes adjusting my rentals: bindings clicked into place, boots tightened just right. His hands were quick, professional, brushing my calves briefly to check the fit. "Bend your knees a bit. Yeah, like that. Feel stable?"
I nodded, shifting my weight. It felt alien, like standing on stilts, but intriguing. Jonas led me to the flat area first, demonstrating the basics: how to clip in, the snowplow stop (or "pizza," as he called it with a grin), shifting weight for turns. His instructions were clear, patient, breaking it down without condescension. "Okay, push off gentle. I'll be right here."
My first glide was tentative, legs wobbling, but I didn't fall. Adrenaline surged: wind in my face, the subtle burn in my thighs. Jonas skied backward effortlessly, calling encouragements. "Good! Now pizza to stop."
We repeated it, building confidence. Between runs, we chatted. "So, what brings an American to Alta Badia?" he asked, adjusting my pole grip with a quick touch.
"Change of pace. Quit my job, lawyer in the Navy. Needed to live a little before I'm too old."
He nodded, eyes thoughtful. "Smart. I'm from Berlin, but I come here every winter for this. Summers, I work at a bouldering center and study part-time. Keeps life interesting."
Bouldering. That explained the lean strength. We talked more: my love for sports, his passion for the outdoors. No awkward pauses; the guy was easy to be around. By the end of the hour, I'd managed a few shaky descents without eating snow. "Not bad for day one," Jonas said, clapping my shoulder. "Tomorrow, we'll build on it."
"Thanks, man. See you then."
I watched him ski off toward the advanced lifts, a pang of envy hitting me. He moved like he belonged here. Me? I was just starting. The bus back to the farm was quieter, my muscles already aching in a good way. At the room, I peeled off layers, steam from the shower filling the space. Dinner alone again, but my mind replayed the day: the slopes, the freedom, Jonas's easy smile. This could work, I thought, drifting off. A spark of something new.
To be continued...
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