We have a routine. We always go to North Lake Tahoe, stopping at our favorite mom and pop cafe for an egg bagel to fuel a day of boarding. Having been offered free lift tickets to South Lake Tahoe for the weekend, we accepted. About 2 hours into the trip, we were famished. McDonald’s and Burger King’s greeted us. Fast food snobs that we are, we pressed on.
We stopped at Caffeine Cuisine. It looked promising. Fresh baked goods greeted us in the display case. As I perused the menu, E asked the counter girl, “Do you have egg bagels?”
The young thing peered at us and in all seriousness replied, “Well, not now, but we’re in the process of designing one. We should have one designed by, you know, April or so.”
I suppressed a snicker. I’ve got a design for an egg bagel. Scramble an egg and throw it on a toasted bagel. Design fees payable to LoriLoo.
Heavenly may be heaven for skiers, but for us snowboarders it was hell. Half the day was spent with our boards half-way or completely off, traversing across flat runs. Flat. No slope. No inertia. Struggling to make our way across an unwelcoming plane. In the chair lift, our jackets zipped to the top, breathing into our scarves to generate heat, we watched the skiers and snowboarders below us. One boarder had just reached a flat area, unnavigationally narrow, the mountain ascending on one side, the cliff descending on the other. He shuffled. He hopped. We felt his agony. We knew the torture of being stuck on a flat. He started, ever so slowly, to slide across the flat plane. We cheered, ecstatic he had succeeded. He had challenged the mountain and won. Hearing shouts, distracted, he looked up. We gave him thumbs up, as excited for his success as he. Our ecstasy turned to astonishment, then to appall, as we saw him lose his balance, tumble, his helmet disappear over the edge of the path, down, down, down…
Living It Up
After a tiring day of traversing, we returned to the hotel. As we entered the lobby, beat and bedraggled, I suggested we grab a bottle of wine from the bar to take up to our room to sip while getting ready for dinner. The bartender presented E with a lovely bottle of Merlot and 3 glasses; I carried our helmets and gear. Walking down the long corridor to our room, we passed a young man, perhaps our age, perhaps a tad younger. “Living the high life, are you?” he laughed. E smiled , tinkling the wine glasses. “We’re trying,” she answered demurely. He seemed startled and quickened his pace. I burst out laughing. “E, he was on his hands free, talking on the phone; he wasn’t talking to us…”
Rockin’ at the Hard Rock
To get to the Sports Book we had to pass through the Hard Rock Cafe. We entered, lights low, neon signs illuminating the edges of the establishment. Delicate sounds drifted our way. He stopped in his tracks, rolled his eyes, and exclaimed, “Great. Just what I want to hear when I come to the Hard Rock, a flute solo.”
We sat down in the booth, our plates loaded with Sunday breakfast foods: bacon, eggs, pancakes, biscuits. Exactly what we needed to fuel a day on the slopes. As R finished his plate, our waitress, Kathy, came by, offering to refill our water glasses. As she poured Ignacio appeared along side her, silently removing our emptied plates. She laughed a maniacal laugh. “This here is Ignacio. He’s my right-handed man. He makes my job look easy.” Laugh, laugh, laugh. When she left, E leaned over. “Her job is easy – it’s a buffet.”