“I don’t know”, he said, “This looks like one prolonged groin injury to me”. Neither of us were good cross-country skiers. We stood atop a steep hill in Switzerland and weighed our options.
As we did, a senior citizen glided past us. Like most Swiss seniors she was impressively, even annoyingly, fit. As she sailed down the hill, she called back in a singsong voice, “Ça-va?” (saw-va).
Loosely translated “Ça-va?” means, “Is everything OK?” In reality she was saying, “You guys look like you really stink at cross country skiing. Otherwise you would be down the hill by now. And if I really cared I probably would have stopped instead of shaming you with my skiing prowess. Lay off the cheeseburgers.”
Ça-va: comprehensive condemnation in just two small words.
I went first. It was ugly. My feet slid in every direction, as if I were wearing two greased spatulas on my feet. I soon broke the sound barrier and decided to abort the mission before I hurt myself. I careened around a corner and headed straight for a welcoming snowbank into which I cratered at top speed.
As I lay there, another elderly couple glided by. “Ça-va?” they sang out. I nodded meekly. Perfectly ça-va, I thought. Couldn’t be more ça-va. Why else would I be lying here crumpled in the snow?
My friend eventually came screaming around the corner. The whites of his eyes told the story. Since I already occupied the preferred snowbank, he was forced to veer wildly. His arms pinwheeled as he slammed into the snowbank on the other side of the trail. We lay there laughing, happy to be alive.
Yet another elderly couple skied up to us and stopped. They were British. They proceeded to point out the many faults in our skiing, all wrapped in the thin veneer of encouraging self-improvement. Their pep talk was wasted on us. Why not just cut to the chase with an efficient “Ça-va?”
They finally skied away. We lumbered back to our feet and skied out the final hill. By now the wax was gone from my skis. So I had to push frantically with my poles, my arms moving like two hampsters on a treadmill, just to get down the hill.
[photo credit: my wife on a similar, not ça-va, ski outing]
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