Ski-stress

‘May, what’s wrong with your hand?’ My colleague and friend Daan looks at me from her desk like a biologist who has just discovered a special species. I shrug my shoulders and turn the corners of my mouth down. No idea, it just happens. From a deadline junkie and the director of Twee Voor Twaalf Producties, I suddenly became a master planner. I make B-plans, book restaurants weeks in advance, arrange for our suitcases to be sent by courier to our hotel in Italy so we can fly with only hand luggage and thus avoid any chaos at Schiphol, and I also put in my agenda a week before the pick-up that we need to pack the suitcases, and I ordered a special cord for Flo that indicates she is autistic and may dance in a slightly different size. Suddenly, I’ve got it: the joy of planning. You have no stress and tremendous anticipation. In that organizational flow, I decide to keep going. There are some amazing restaurants in the mountains, ‘refugi’ as they call them in the Italian mountains, and they are not big. Moreover, half of Kennemerland (where I live) is going to Selva, so in the governing-is-foreseeing framework, I reserve at Refugio Comici. Comici is a phenomenon in the mountains. Outside, there’s a wheelbarrow in Comici blue, filled with crushed ice and a Blanc de Blancs from Ruinart and a Dom Pérignon waiting for you. You eat fresh lobster there, which is quite unique in the mountains, and there’s an old Volvo buried that serves as a ramp you can jump over. When I hear that our friends L and M with their sons also decide to join the great Haarlem exodus towards Val Gardena, I immediately decide to book. Thursday seems like a nice moment, and you know what? I’ll reserve that Friday right away too. Canceling can always be done later.

While I’m messaging our friends, I smoothly check the track and trace link to see where our suitcases are at this moment (on their way from Paris to Innsbruck, pomtiedom) and I pat myself on the shoulder, extremely satisfied with myself.

Once in the ski paradise that Flo rightly calls ‘winter wonderland’, I quickly check my email. I actually left my laptop at home because this is a doing and not a thinking holiday, but to feel even more secure in the saddle, I go through the messages. Good thing too, because there’s digital mail from Comici with a green button that says ‘conferma’ that I need to click on. Another shoulder pat and a satisfied sigh. I quite like my new self.

Reaching Comici is not very simple. My daughter is already figuring out the route on the Dolomiti Superski app, and I ask Flo’s ski instructor how I can reach the culinary paradise on foot. My love calls a taxi, and then we take two lifts: the Piz Sella and the direct lift to Comici. Our friends are already waving from the terrace, and the cappuccinos are on their way. Like a real wedding planner, I walk over to the reception desk. ‘Let’s see if the reservation is in order,’ I say with the ease of someone who knows everything is perfectly arranged. I hear the owner telling panting and hungry skiers ‘no, no, no, fully booked’ and with a little laugh in his voice ‘only reservations’ while I toss a strand of hair over my shoulder. The idea of getting a table here without a reservation.

I search for his eyes, smile my most confident smile, and throw in a smooth ‘Buongiorno, abbiamo prenotato sul nuome di Van der Horst’ He flips through his pencil-filled sheets. Horst, Horst, Horst. ‘Tante persone?’ he wants to know. ‘A che ora avete prenotato?’ Or if I have an email. I pull out my phone. Meanwhile, Flo is tugging at my arm: ‘I’m HUNGRY.’ Despite the 1-7, I’m starting to feel a bit warm now. I grab my phone and look for my email. Look, here’s the confirmation. Table for nine at 12:00.

The man looks critically. Everything seems to be in order. ‘Ma signora, questo e 3 marzo. Oggi e 2.’

I look at our friends and my love who are snickering behind me at the lobster and fantasize about a hole in the ground that would let me sink down to my hotel room. I’ve mixed up the days and hours. Everyone is here at 12:00, and the table is only available at 14:00. And at 14:00, Martina, our ski instructor, is coming here. I had also arranged that in my organizational frenzy.

My love, who just peeked around the corner, walks away again. I believe I see him shaking his head. The owner sees my concern and tells me to wait. ‘Wait here, ok. Aspetta qui.’ Meanwhile, my love waves with arms that want to say ‘no worries’. He has a table outside, the sun is peeking through the clouds, and the terrace menu features thick hamburgers. No lobster, but for the girls and the teenage sons of our friends, a fine plan B. While I feel the milk of the cappuccino forming a little mustache, I hear the voice of the owner. ‘Horst, HORST!’ There’s a table. The best in the restaurant. Cosily in a corner, I slide next to my friend L, and while my love slides a glass of chardonnay towards me, I pull out a coloring book and markers for Flo and a pack of cards for the older kids from my bag.

All’s well that ends well has never tasted so good. And tomorrow we go again. At 14:00.