To Ulrika’s Swiss expatriate irritation, after five people have come all the way to Turoa with her, nobody else is particularly motivated to ski. They want to snowboard, drink, and send photos to their friends. Snow here is a toy, not a way of life. The only person willing to ski is, unexpectedly, Winona. “We skied for a week or so every winter, Mummy would meet her sister here.”

The intermediate slope is Ulrika’s compromise, but a challenge for Winona. Ulrika, zipping about in flattering space-age fabrics, sapphire hair escaping from her white hood and space-age goggles, is capably sexy. Winona, trembling like a lamb, looking petite in ski gear two sizes too big for her, is equally appealing. By the time they make it down the slope, a couple of Cantabrian guys have attached themselves to the pair.

“You did all right! You’re a goer!” says one of them, patting Winona on her shoulder. Winona presses her lips tight, amused.

“That’s right, it is good to try. But you must point your feet in more,” says Ulrika.

“Where are you from? Are you German?” one of their admirers asks, hopefully.

Winona isn’t paying attention. “Where’s Will?” she asks, as one of their mutual friends appears.

“Oh, he came up with an excuse to take the car out again.” Everyone rolls their eyes. They are all car-free Wellingtonians, but being car-free is not a natural state for most Kiwi males. The moment they picked up their car rental, and Will sat behind the wheel, he was a changed man. On the four-hour drive, he had talked affectionately – to the 4×4’s engine: he had ranted at length – at the other drivers. Once or twice, someone had asked if he wanted a break while they drove. “No! No, I’m good!” he had barked, gripping the wheel tighter, as if they might take his toy away.

Tags:   other cities · ulrika · will · winona2 Comments