A Finn on the skis.


It was fifteen minutes before Killington lifts closed and less than a dozen skiers total were still scratching the frozen boilerplate. As I was going to load the lift, a fellow skier rushed in to get on the same chair. He was in his late fifties, with a ruddy face and a swollen nose of a borderline alcoholic. He radiated cheerfulness and energy throughout the flat light of the incoming dusk. We started chatting.
He was from Finland, had an a lovely ex-girlfriend from St Petersburg because all Finn girls were the same but Russians were different. He was quite embarrassed because he started skiing only at 2pm. See, he was partying all night with his friends and his amazing new girlfriend from Honduras and he just woke up. He pulled a beer can out of a pocket and offered it to me. I politely refused and he emptied it in a few gulps. Feeling better, still a bit of hangover, he laughed. We got off the lift and skied down yellow and white ice of black Superstar slope; I could barely keep up with him. We jumped on the last lift. The Finn pulled a beer bottle out of another pocket and finished it in a few seconds with a contended sigh. We chatted about Finnish-USSR war of 1939 and annoying visa issues visiting St Petersburg from Finland, cause people were the same on both sides of the border, but drinking was better at St Petersburg. Again, I could barely keep up with him gliding unconcerned down the slope. My friends are inside, we’ll drink a few beers before coming home, wanna join? He suggested at the bottom. I politely declined referring to two little children and wife. The Finn grinned and bounced into the lodge.

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