Chapter Seventeen—Bardonecchia: Skiing in the Alps

I took a train from Porta Nuova straight to Bardonecchia early one Friday morning. It was only an hour and a half. Directly across the train station in Bardonecchia there is a free bus that will take you to Campo Smith, one of the base camps for skiing. Near there, a modern-looking building houses several companies where you can rent skis. You’ll buy a lift ticket from a different building, a brown, cabin-looking building near the ski lift, past the restaurant. Once you arrive in Bardonecchia, it’ll probably take a good hour to catch the shuttle, rent skis, and buy your lift ticket. Make sure to bring your student ID and a photocopy of your passport. With your student ID you’ll get a discount—something unique, I believe, to Bardonecchia, making it the cheapest place to ski, about 40-50 Euros for the day (that price includes round-trip train tickets, rentals, and the lift ticket).

Everything that a city is, the mountains aren’t. There’s no graffiti. There’s not the chemical-smelling exhaust from the cars, and buses, and trams. There aren’t buildings walling you in like a mouse in a maze. The mountains are wide open, the air is crisp and clear, and you can see for miles.

Getting off the train at Bardonecchia, I hoped that my lack of preparation wouldn’t hurt me too much. I’d read that there was a free bus, but I didn’t know where it was. I’d read the rental stores were near the lift, but I knew where neither of those places were. I’d gotten some maps on my computer, but I hadn’t looked them over. I counted on it being easy.

After getting off the train I crossed the street and I saw a place that said something about ski tickets. There was a giant map of the ski runs. There were two Italians standing there, on the icy snow. Using my broken Italian, I asked if they knew where the rental places were, and it turned out they spoke English. They told me I could go with them if I wanted, and I sort of became their adopted American son. It was a husband and a wife, in their thirties probably—Lucca and Stefania. We split up after we rented our skis, but I appreciated their help.

Skiing that day was something I needed. Moving to a new town, a new country, a new continent, a new culture, all this moving was stressful. And I didn’t know anyone. But these mountains, and the crisp sound of the snow cutting underneath the skis, and the surrounding peaks, and the quiet of the snowy forests going up the lift—I knew these things, and I returned to Turin with new vigor.