Crashing the Snow Show

Location: Denver, Colorado

January 31, 2010

Adventure #5

Hey, my name is Lutz. Sure, I'd like to hear about your new line. And yeah, the powder's killer this week; I got fresh tracks yesterday ...

All of these previous statements are lies. My name is not Lutz, and I am not a German ski rep. I don't want to hear about the newest skiing/snowboarding equipment, and my feet have not been locked in snow boots for more than two years. This is merely the conversation I imagined unfolding if someone mistook the name from my Colorado Convention Center access pass as my real identity.

While I am no snow bunny, what I do like to do is support my sister and brother-in-law, and they were in Denver for the SIA Snow Show - the snow sports industry's largest trade show where more than 1,000 brands showcase their goods. My bro works for one of these companies, so he was there strutting his proverbial stuff (the product line), while my sister accompanied him to literally strut her stuff as she modeled the company's clothing line to potential buyers. Since I was in Denver for one of the days of the show, I couldn't miss the opportunity to see my family and to potentially heckle my Heidi-Klum sister.

The show is not open to the public, but I was smuggled an unclaimed pass, reserved for a man name Lutz. My partners in the convention-crashing crime also had ill-fitting names, but luckily, the inattentive security guards were no critics. The show itself was overwhelming - booth after booth of the anticipated skis, snowboards and equipment in every color and pattern imaginable, along with less obvious products, like sleds, sunscreen and beauty products. I didn't even know where to start examining the stuff, so I usually just peered into booths from a distance.  Fortunately, no one stopped me to give me a pitch, so I didn't have to use my lame talking points. I guess I don't have the look of a ski expert.

What I enjoyed most was crossing the invisible, yet very obvious line of demarcation between the skiers (placed at the front of the convention hall) and the snowboarders (relegated to the back of the hall). You know you're getting close to the snowboard area when you begin to feel/hear the bass blasting from stereos and see the booths become more unkempt, flyers spilling into the aisles or unwatched booths altogether. Perhaps it was because we were at the show in its final hours, but the snowboarding side did feel like the party side - reps were cracking open beers, the music's volume was growing and no one looked interested in showing me a thing.  Maybe there is a future for me as a snowboarder after all.

Going Vegetarian

Location: Everywhere

February 17 - Easter

Adventure #4

For the last few years, my husband has given up meat for Lent. Given that he's not Catholic and he's a Texan - a Texan whose Grandfather owns a cattle ranch no less - this is a notable sacrifice. Another difficult element is that we live in Eastern Europe, where a meal isn't a meal unless it contains at least one type of animal, preferably in sausage form. However, he is a Christian who rarely complains, and each year he holds out on his bacon addiction until Easter without any grumbles.

This year, I've decided to follow his inspirational lead and will also give up meat for 40 days. I have abstained from meat on Fridays like the Catholic tradition encourages, but never for this long of time. I'm looking forward to this though - to put more thought into what I eat and use it as period of physical cleansing as well as spiritual introspection. 

I have already rescinded from this Lenten promise once - on Ash Wednesday when I ate a shrimp cocktail at a press conference before I realized my blunder - but I hope that's my only indiscretion. At the end of 40 days, I'll report back.

Witnessing my First Catfight

Location: Budapest, Hungary

January 13, 2010

Adventure #3

I do not have any Fight Club-esque ambitions of aggrandizing violent situations. However, this weekend's rendezvous that transformed my street into a Jerry-Springer stage must be mentioned due to the sheer hilarity of the situation, and because I had never seen a cat fight before.

My husband and I were leaving a bar around the witching hour on Saturday night, and we saw a couple across the street from us who looked to either be having a minor fight or being playful - neither which was of concern, that was until we noticed a second woman on the sidewalk about ten feet in front of us. She was staring intently at the couple (who at this stage were touching their hands together above their head - I still have no clue why). Out of nowhere, the gawking woman barrels full speed across the icy street and crashes into the other woman, slamming her into the back of a car. Have you ever seen National Geographic footage in which a hippopotamus ruthlessly charges its foe? Well, now I feel like I've seen it happen in person... *

Next, there was some shoving back and forth between the women and screaming of obscenities in thick British accents, including "I am so done, I am so f**^&n% done with you." Next thing we knew, the victimized woman was splayed out on the snow-covered ground while the man - who did little to diffuse the situation, which I guess meant he liked being fought over - stood over her, trying to pull her off the street. The aggravated woman turns and looks over at us and the other engrossed bystanders and screams, "Don't even look. Don't even look at this!" Sorry lady, but how could we not? 

Once we saw the attacked girl get on her feet and appeared to be injury free, we continued our walk home, chuckling at randomness and rapidity of the situation. But next thing I knew, the adrenaline queen was right behind us, probably hearing us mock her. Fearful of what her retaliation could be, we quickly crossed the street - we did not want to be the unsuspecting, wading tourists when that feral beast charged through the water again.

Fish'n Chips and Line Dancing

Location: Greeley, Colorado

January 21, 2010

Adventure #2

One of the greatest blessings of my life was meeting my best friend Jennifer when I was a mere one-year old. My serendipitous day-care placement at her mother’s house was the springboard for many grand adventures throughout my life. Of our many traditions, one has been ongoing for at least a decade: head to closest cowboy bar and go line dancing! Another tradition of ours started after we both studied abroad in Ireland: finding the best fish and chips on American soil.

The other night I drove up to Greeley (fondly called cowtown for its ample bovine residents and for its inescapable stench) to see her and combine our two hobbies in a delirium of Americana. First stop was Randy’s Diner, which makes a mean batch of fish and chips. The restaurant is in a converted truck wash, ( it doesn't get more down home than that ...) and its décor includes big-screen televisions, aluminum siding, and countless framed photos of celebrities (the majority of whom have not visited Randys). We perched on picnic table benches and downed an impressive spread of fried delicacies, including fries, fish, chicken wings, and even some Rocky Mountain Oysters (eating those could have been an adventure in and of itself).

Next, we headed to a country bar called the Cactus Canyon where the clientele of seemingly incompatible gangsters and cowboys seek communion over $1 beers. We ignored these bar mates and headed to the dance floor where we exhausted our known line dances – from the Cowboy Cha Cha to the Boot Scootin' Boogie. There is something therapeutic about stomping the floor and releasing undirected rage to songs like "Cottonhead Road" and twirling around the floor to "Neon Moon" – an act I’m sure we did in a less formalized manner when we were younger. It's always a comfort to know that no matter how far away I travel, when Jen and I hit the dance floor, we always remember the steps.

Rubber Boots in San Marco's Square

Location: Venice, Italy
New Year’s Eve 2010
Adventure #1

I was the spoiled one donning black rubber boots that protected me from water up to my knees. My trio of male travel mates was decidedly less fortunate, as their future ability to repel water was being dictated by purse strings. Rather than shell out 30 euros for special Venice rubber boots (the only things special about them being that, when questioned, the owner can brag/exclaim “I bought them in Venice.”), they opted for a frugal alternative – wrapping their legs in blue plastic trash bags we found in our rental apartment. 

Against Mother Nature’s plan, we were intent on watching the New Year’s Eve fireworks in Venice’s stunning San Marco Square. I envisioned the night sky exploding with Italy’s patriotic hues, the fireworks illuminating the magnificent Byzantine basilica and sizzling out in the nearby sea. With these dreams streaming through our heads, we headed to the square, which was under about a foot of water after high tide invaded at 10pm. Before we reached the flooded region, I helped the men apply layer after layer of trash bags over their feet, wrapping white masking tape around their calves until their American sneakers transformed to over-sized Smurf appendages (little did we know that Mike would later topple over and become injured while removing the tape – otherwise we would have dolled it out more modestly). 

We swished slowly in the waters and joined hundreds of other revelers in St. Mark’s communal wading pool – many had mundane, functional boots like myself, others went the boy's plastic bag route, while other rogues (mainly those who popped the champagne corks early) perched barefoot in the frigid waters. Even as the water cooled my rubber boots and seeped through Mike's plastic bags to clasp his toes, we were gleeful to soak up the adventure, and we made friends with the group of Italian teenagers huddled next to us. At the stroke of midnight we counted down, raucously shouting our English numbers amid the chorus of international abacus voices. Eager to escape the waters, we fled to higher ground after a hasty round of good-luck kisses, forgetting the fireworks altogether.

A Call to Action

"Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, magic, and power in it." - Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

As a New Year's resolution for 2010, I have avowed to invest time in creative writing. Since I fulfilled my resolution from last year, which was to publish a poetry book (mission accomplished: http://tinyurl.com/yhk5tf2), I am now inspired to write more poetry, creative nonfiction and fiction to fill another book and keep up my momentum.

Now that I am a "professional" writer (which I define as getting a paycheck for what I write - no matter how meager) and spend the majority of my days immersed in journalistic endeavors, it is always a challenge to switch my brain to creative mode and switch my computer back on at the end of the day. Thus, I have created this blog to keep me on task and accountable - there is nothing like an empty blog and some social-networking guilt to keep me motivated.

The three tenets for my new blog for the next year are:

• As a practice in creative non-fiction, I will write at least 50 vignettes on my "2010 adventures." I reserve the right to be indulgent in what I consider an adventure.

•  I will continue to update my current blog (http://marisabeahm.blogspot.com) in the same frequency/fashion as I have for the last few years.

• I will post at least one new poem a month.

Happy reading. I hope to hear some feedback.