Clever title coming soon...

“Oh no, he swallered my toe.
Oh gee, he swallered my knee.
Oh fiddle, he swallered my middle.
Oh what a pest, he swallered my chest.
Oh heck, he swallered my neck.
Oh, dread, he swallered my—BURP.”

If you are familiar with these words by Shel Silverstein (about being eaten by a boa constrictor), then you will have at least some idea how Vail was for me and Peter.

The perfect storm hit Denver just as we arrived in Vail. And what it produced was a dream come true. But, before proceeding, what have we forgotten to relay?

Yes, I can hear you asking, “But didn’t you get to Vail in the midday time period? Is that really enough time to ski?” And probably also wondering, “Did this doomsday weather affect your travels?” With patience, these and many more questions of yours will be answered. Why will I take the time and energy to answer all that you ask? Because, it is only right to give back after God responded to our prayers. Let me explain.

We stopped at my sister’s home in Denver the night before heading up to Vail. The city is only an hour and a half away from the mountain, so it was an ideal place to rest and awake with the sun to be on our way. We awoke when the sun was nigh mid-flight. We overslept—those plain states take a lot out of you. The drive to Vail, albeit it nice and moutainy, was slowed by a small amount of snow that was dancing on our windshield. The trip took a little more than two hours, which was almost an hour more than expected.

The Lodge Towers (we get a free night every time we mention them in our blog: Lodge Towers, Lodge Towers, Lodge Towers, Lodge Towers. Mention Peter Szabo when you stay there to the Hungarian Concierge, Michael, and you’ll get a good deal on a room) took care of the car and our things, so we dressed and got on the mountain. Sun, snow, tired legs after three hours. Great day.

At bar called Los Amigos, beers, meet a guy who knows a friend of mine from Boston, free Coors Light stuff, hot Bacardi girls who won’t respond to my catcalls, whistling, and stomping of my foot while howling, then there was Raif. Six years old with a sticky-dart bow and arrow. While we tried to drain our second pitcher of Dos Equis (bought by the guy, Mike, who knew my friend), Raif entertained us by shooting his bow and arrow at all patrons who happened to stumble unsuspectingly out of the bathroom. What a surprise to them when, he only shot at the men’s room door, a gentleman would exit the facilities only to be shot repeatedly in the crotch with a plastic projectile. So long as it wasn’t aimed at us, we were laughing… then it started getting aimed at me—Peter’s advice to Raif of “Shoot him, shoot him” might have had something to do with this. I grinned and bared it because Raif’s not-mommy was quite the cougar… should you not know what a cougar is, shame on you, and look it up on the electronic website box. Peter and I couldn’t tell who was responsible for Raif, but we at least knew his not-mommy seemed to be available.

Moving on, we took it easy that night by only having two dozen beers each and rocking out on the tops of snow-covered SUVs. The next day we skied for five hours without break. The snow and weather were that motivating. Our bodies nearly went into diabetic shock from lack of food; however, we stayed hydrated by eating snow before each run. I’ll let Peter tell you about Vail, but I think he’d agree when I say worth every penny—he spent, not me, I’m unemployed and broke. By the way, if anyone is offering jobs out there, I’m totally capable, and I learn and adapt quickly. Seriously, if need be, I’ll post my resume on this blog.

Now this brings me to why I began this post with a Shel Silverstein poem… oh wait, not yet… I’m such a tease.

That was Tuesday and Wednesday. Thursday we wake up to find the snow that had been falling the previous day had built to epic proportions. Out of our hotel window, we could see nothing of the top of the mountain because of storm clouds and flakes—not blond snow-bunny flakes, but the precipitous kind of flakes. “Maybe we should take it easy today,” Peter said to me from the queen bed next to mine. I eagerly responded, “ohhhhhh, grrrrrrr, owwwwww” because I was trying to roll over in bed, but having trouble due to the bruises and sore muscles everywhere below my ears—I had tried to do a couple jumps on my snowboard which I am absolutely incapable of. “Ha, ha, you suck at snowboarding,” was how Peter so lovingly cared for me in my debilitated state.

Vail Village was an interesting little town. Due to a hundred different suggestions, we spent Thursday in a snow storm exploring the different shops and tasting fine cuisine. Here are the shoutouts: Pepi’s was great for meat. I had wild boar, elk, and quail. Peter had Venison. We were going to order from the endangered species side of the menu but the waiter informed us none of the entrees would go with our selection of red wine, plus they were out of clubbed baby seal in an American Bald Eagle sauce. We left fulfilled and wondering what quail eat to be so tangy and zesty.

For dessert, we ventured over to Sweet Basil for some Sticky Toffee Pudding Cake. The name is still under discussion, but what isn’t was how delicious a dessert that cakey-puddingy thing was. Literally, we sat in a daze of flavor between bites, empty spoons suspended an inch from our mouths as we savored. The only discussion the whole time was, “This is so good. Oh, yeah it is. Isn’t this good? This is the best I’ve ever had.” Repeat that over and over, with each spoonful, and you’ll relive the experience along with us.

Not worth telling a story about, but worth mentioning, the next night Peter forgot his credit card at a bar and we had to go back for it the next day to pay for lunch. (Psssst, he had to have been wasted, right?) I’ll let you ponder.

There’s only one other meal to talk about, and that was the four course meal we had at The Left Bank. Fine French cuisine was brought to us throughout the course of a two hour dinner, and it only cost us $30 each. With appetizers, entrees, and wines costing anywhere from $50-365, the fixed menu was a surprise to us—and a surprise to the wait staff that we knew about it. This must have been some secret, because the only reason we found out about it was as a result of my trip to the hot tub. From an eighty-year-old man in 110 degree water, I was told about American Airlines cancelled flights, the weather in Miami, how to ski moguls once in retirement age, the proper way to invade Cuba, and the fixed menu at The Left Bank. Check it out.

Now I’ll tell you about Shel Silverstein. Imagine four feet of powder, up to our thighs, exhaustion, no visibility, falling in the terrain park again and again, skiing on clouds, and the best day of my life on a mountain. Now, multiply that by two and you’ll have our two days of skiing Friday and Saturday. The powder was eating us, building up each time we got on the chairlift, from toe to head. Hopefully some pictures will help explain this because I’m still reeling from the experience. Saturday the lines were so long and the powder so thick, we decided to leave Vail and head to Keystone for the afternoon. No lines, more groomed trails, and an official plaque that said, “Skied two mountains in one day: Official Ski Bums and Wastes of Life. Awarded to: :Peter Szabo and Kevin Collins.”

Incase you’re wondering about that giving me a job thing, I’m not really a waste of life. And I graduated from Boston College, twice. Not to mention: BC NATIONAL CHAMPS!!!!!! Yeah, our hockey team won the NCAA Hockey Championship over Notre Dame last night. Weird, but it feels like we were just in South Bend wishing those Fighting Irish luck. Hmmmm, I guess the better Catholic school won. Chanting all the way to Vegas: GOD’S ON OUR SIDE, GOD’S ON OUR SIDE…

We’re on the road to Moab and Vegas now, 65 degrees and rising, beautiful scenery—which I’m missing as I type—and I have the max AC on because the sun is brutal through our newly washed windshield (Petter whipped me with his iPod charger chord while I washed the windows with a squeegee from a gas station in Denver. It would have been fine, but he kept shouting, “EARN YOUR KEEP, UNEMPLOYED BASTARD!” Other patrons kept looking at us… and my tears).

Talk to you soon, from the city of sin.