I can’t stand those out-of-control newbie snowboarders who wobble down the hill half on their ass and only stop when they hit a snow bank—if I hadn’t been the only one in Zermatt I might have seriously been in danger of getting run over! Fortunately it seems that all Europeans were born with little skis attached to their feet and an innate ability to gracefully glide around inexperts such as myself as we are lying like upended turtles waiting for someone to turn us over. Pathetic.

Snowboarding is such an utterly frustrating sport. I become a two-year-old the minute my feet are strapped onto a board. Suddenly the mountain is at fault for my falling, the snow at fault for being so damn hard, the skiers at fault for making me feel inadequate. You know how you can just sense the nascent tears that are about to burst forth from some snotty little kid when mom tells him he can’t have the gummy worms he really really wanted? I’m pretty sure that’s the expression I had for most of my time on the mountain (except when I had that sour scowl). I mean, it’s HARD to spend a long weekend skiing in the Alps with good friends. You have no idea.

FYI, you know that ride at Disneyland that’s called the Matterhorn? That mottled, hooked peak that has a snow monster inside that growls at you as you’re whisked by on the roller coaster? Well, there’s another Matterhorn in Zermatt (Switzerland), I discovered. It’s pretty much the same as Walt’s version, only a little pointier and thousands of meters high and you can see Italy on the other side instead of Santa Ana.

It’s hard to find the road less traveled in Europe, man. You think you’ve secreted yourself away in a tiny, remote mountain village and then you discover that it’s only the most famous ski resort, like, ever. But I don’t mind. It’s not like the place is crawling with Americans who flew over in droves for Thanksgiving despite the devalued dollar that was sposed to keep them where they belong thereby preserving my illusion of having an adventure, or anything.

Then again, being in Europe is enough to convert a healthy cynicism towards America into flag-waving nationalism. I can’t decide whether Puma sneakers or dissing America is more popular here—they both seem to be ubiquitous. I do concede that the majority of Americans are loud-mouthed frat boys and their hoey girlfriends (or perhaps the only ones I notice), but dammit, give us some credit. Don’t hate us because we’re efficient and enterprising and have showers in which you can bathe without freezing or spraying the entire bathroom with water while you try to rinse your armpit!

Speaking of: how is this for surreal? I was sitting at the ski bar at the bottom of the slope, lying face down in the snow after a kick-ass run (that is, my ass was kicked). They’re always playing some upbeat song for all the skiers (fresh off the slopes and radiating athletic good health as they do) to listen to while they’re smoking their cigarettes and drinking their beer. They happened to be playing a German song called Amerika (heard “Du Hast”? Same group.) Now, I had just happened to have seen the video to the song the night before. It’s not exactly a paean to American culture. In fact, denunciation might be a better word. It’s your garden variety scorn for the Americanization of the world, painfully naïve Vietnamese peasants eating Big Macs and the like, We're all living in America, Coca-Cola, Wonderbra, We're all living in Amerika, Amerika, Amerika. It’s kind of catchy though. I even think there were some dumb Americans singing along, in between making plans for Mackenzie to attend afternoon ski school while Marnie and Joe check out the hotel spa. But I could hear a lot of people humming along as they sipped their hot cider and chatted about their various exploits on the slopes. You have to understand the truly international context to understand the strangeness of being an American among Europeans and Americans visiting Europe while Europeans and Americans sing along to a song written by Europeans condemning Americans. You know what I mean?

Anyway, did you know that in Europe snowboarding is called surfing? There’s a bar called The Pipe for skiers and surfers in Zermatt. I was pretty damn confused until I realized the connection. Yeah, I guess hurtling down glaciers at bone-pulverizing speeds in sub-zero weather is a little bit like sitting in a swimsuit in warm tropical water getting a suntan. Ok fine, I guess you are on a board in both situations. But still. I refuse to rewire my version of the word “surf” just to accommodate some landlocked Europeans who probably think the Mediterranean has surfable waves. They should do it the right way, like we do it in America!

But all in all, board sports are cool. And so am I. I bet that’s what every one of the riders who sprays me with ice particles thinks as they whiz past me in their trendy little beanies.

Actually, I can think of one board sport that is not cool. The other day we were in Annecy, an impossibly darling little French town near the border with Switzerland (narrow cobblestone streets, 15th century stone buildings, yadda yadda). It was a windy day. We were walking off some lasagna at the park by the lake on whose edge the town is perched (crystal clear, impossibly scenic, yadda yadda), when we discovered kite-boarding. In fact, I’m not really sure that’s the real name. It’s like a parachute and a skateboard got drunk one night, and, well, now there’s… we’re not really sure what to call it. …Picture a skateboard with big, grippy wheels attached to a flying sleeping bag (ok, parachute), and you’ll have an idea of what I’m talking about. I mean, initially it sounds kind of cool, right? Cuz you think of all the grimy little skaters who have to push themselves around town on their wimpy little boards, and you know one of them suddenly had the brainstorm that if you attached a sail to the board it would go a lot faster. Good in theory, right? As they say en France, en théorie, oui…mais en pratique…You get the picture. Anyway, we spent 10 whole minutes waiting for this guy to get his flying sleeping bag attached to his board, and all we saw was him running around trying to leverage the bag over to the board, and when the wind finally blew his way and he managed to get on the board, he only skidded like a few feet before the wind blew the other direction and he fell off. It had such a fantastic setup for such minimal results. We were pretty disappointed. I was rooting for the wind to blow him into the lake, but we got too bored to stick around and see if it happened.