It ended up being fine though. Here's an account:
My alarm woke me up at 5am. I'd made the rookie mistake of staying up until past midnight watching Arrested Development so didn't feel much like being conscious this early, but today was Christmas day and I had things to do. I showered and got dressed into my ski gear. I fired up my laptop and called my parents on Skype as per our arrangement. The arrangement was also supposed to include my brother, currently in Australia, but he never showed up, clearly above spending time with his family on Christmas day.
I opened the presents they'd mailed me (a christmas pudding and some London 2012 memorabilia) and they opened theirs. We chatted for a while until conversation dried up and it was time for me to go. I gathered my things and rushed outside to the catch the 6:25 into the village, a devious bus which once outwitted me by arriving ten minutes earlier than scheduled. Today it was five minutes late so I needn't have bothered.I met some work friends at the gondola station and we joined the already substantial line for Fresh Tracks. After fifteen minutes of standing around in ski boots (fifteen minutes too long), we were herded into a fibreglass box and sent up the mountain where fresh breakfast and fresh snow awaited. The sun began to rise as we elevated above the sheet of mist hugging the lower mountain and the scene it illuminated was spectacular. I couldn't take a picture (retrieving my camera from my bag in such a confined space would have ruined everyone's Christmas) but if I had done, it would have won awards.
Breakfast at the Roundhouse Lodge was equally spectacular, and this I did manage to photograph. An unlimited supply of everything one could possibly expect from breakfast was provided, with the notable exception of baked beans, which Canadians don't really go for. Pictured is my first glorious plate.
After about twenty minutes of relentless eating, a uniformed man stood up and rang a bell to dually announce "the slopes are open!" and "please stop eating our food now, we only have a limited budget and some of you are starting to take the piss." I stuffed some banana bread in my bag and we made for the door.
That first run on Christmas day down Emerald chair was beyond awesome. There were no obstacles to worry about, no moguls, no ruts, no fellow skiers, just one huge, untouched, powdery canvas on which to paint. It was the most fun I've had in a long time.
The second run was fun too, but significantly more challenging. My friends, all far superior skiers than I, managed to peer-pressure me into doing some crazy off-piste run through some dense trees. It was my first off-piste experience so I took the whole thing very slowly and while my dignity may have taken a knock or two, my spinal chord didn't, and at the end of the day, that's all that matters, right?Work began at 10am for three of us, so the group split in half and we tore down the mountain via Olympic run ● and Crabapple ■ in about ten minutes. Skis over our shoulders, we marched triumphantly through the village against the flow of traffic and arrived at work with fifteen minutes to spare. I sat down to get changed and realised I was absolutely shattered.
Perhaps ten minutes after clocking in I realised I was not only shattered, but sick too. I'd noticed feeling slightly feverish earlier in the morning, but the excitement surrounding breakfast and skiing had masked it. My condition deteriorated rapidly and before long I felt terrible. I began to feel very sorry for myself. Loading semi-frozen chickens arsehole-first onto metal skewers was the last thing I wanted to do feeling the way I did. And on Christmas day, of all days. Boo hoo.
Soon I realised that sulking about the situation was helping no one, not least myself, and I resolved to fight the illness. I craved fruit, so during my break I ate a whole cantaloupe and four servings of a smoothie that was supposed to contain 150% of my daily vitamin C intake per serving. Eating lots of vitamin C always seems to make me feel better when I have a cold despite the evidence resolutely stating otherwise. It's a placebo I'm completely aware is a placebo, but somehow it still works.
And sure enough, my condition and mood did noticeably improve in the period following my fruit gorge. I still had to work on Christmas day, but it no longer felt like such a trial. My mood was further enhanced two hours later by a free Christmas lunch (roast turkey with all the trimmings and pumpkin pie for dessert, a Canadian tradition that almost matches Christmas pudding for deliciousness) in the staff room, accompanied by the view of my first proper white Christmas in ages.The remainder of my shift passed uneventfully and I was released back into the wild at 6:30pm. I got changed into my third outfit of the day and hailed a taxi from outside the store. I passed the driver a scrap of paper with Pat's address on it and made smalltalk about our shared misfortune of having to work on Christmas day. I didn't mention having a potentially contagious illness.
Pat is a very nice lady I know through Noelle, another very nice lady I worked (and occasionally drank) with in Long Lake. Quite a bizarre connection that makes the world seem very small. Having exchanged emails prior to my arrival, Pat was first person I knew in Whistler and she's treated me very kindly ever since. When she and her husband, Peter, invited me to a Christmas party they were organising especially for international "orphans" like myself, I wasn't going to turn it down. I had a great time. It was a perfect opportunity to relax after a ridiculously busy twelve hours. I drank lots of good red wine, ate lots of good food (including venison that had been shot and prepared by one of the party guests in Whistler), and met lots of good people. I got particularly close to a New Zealand couple whose contact details I managed to extract by the end of the night. Useful to have, given my next stop.
The party wound down at around 11pm. I accepted a lift home from someone who lived in the neighbourhood adjoining mine and despite my polite objections, he insisted on dropping me off at my actual house instead of making me walk the five minute walk from the highway. I located my house, thanked him kindly, and slammed the car door behind me. Two or three confident strides down the driveway revealed that, in fact, the building ahead of me was not my house, but my neighbours' house. To avoid embarrassing myself by acknowledging the error, I continued trespassing (albeit slowly) until my ride had driven away. When it did, I turned on my heel and made for my actual house, but not before someone appeared at the window and shouted something at me.
Fortunately, it was friendly shout inviting me to their own Christmas party, an offer I gladly accepted. This party was a bit less civilized than the one I had just left, but great fun nonetheless. More new faces, more food, more booze (plus some more questionable substances), and lots more dubstep later and it was 2am. At this point, I realised I had been awake for 21 hours, wished everyone a merry Christmas and retired to the house next door. I gobbled up the banana bread from my bag which tasted even better than it did in the morning (see: questionable substances) and collapsed into my bed, ready for whatever the hangover goblins had prepared for me in the morning.
And that was my Canadian Christmas.
