My First Time on Skis

I grew up in Tehran and moved to Colorado for graduate school. In February, my labmates convinced me to try skiing. "It's easy," they said. They were lying.

I spent the first hour on the bunny slope, falling over again and again, usually while standing completely still. A group of five-year-olds in ski school whizzed past me in a line like ducklings. One waved.

My friend Anna, who grew up skiing, was endlessly patient. "Pizza," she said, showing me how to point my ski tips together to slow down. "French fries," to go straight. I tried. I fell. I tried again.

After lunch, something clicked. I made it all the way down the bunny slope without falling. Then again. On my last run of the day, I rode a real chairlift to the top of a green run and skied down, slowly and wobbly, with the mountains all around me and the sun shining on the snow.

At the bottom, I raised my poles over my head and shouted in Persian. Anna didn't understand the words, but she understood. We celebrated with hot chocolate. I'm going back every weekend.