Nostalgia was never the point.
It was late afternoon, and Isobel and I had just grabbed a few snacks in the lodge. I haven’t snowboarded all that much in the last few years, so it was nice to get out.
After making our way to a table by the windows, we slid an assortment of hats, gloves, and goggles out of the way for our laptops. When I was a kid, my cousins and I would pile in through the door, goggles fogging up immediately, after racing from the top of the mountain. The race would continue to the cafeteria while taking off our gear. We’d lunge for those huge, paper-plate-sized chocolate chip cookies in the plastic wrap. Then, the real competition was getting the best seat by the fire. That’s when the boots would come off. Those cookies just tasted better when your feet were popping and fizzing like freshly opened cans of soda. Sitting across from Isobel, a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth thinking about it.
My laptop sat in front of me, unopened, as I thought more about all the ski lodges I’ve been in over the years… Wiggling my toes beneath the table, I looked around the room—at the kids crawling between bags and under tables with exasperated parents half-heartedly giving chase. It probably looked a lot like my cousins and I during those family ski weekends as kids.
It dawned on me that the chapters of my life can largely be marked by time spent around ski lodges.
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