So, Bernie’s chalet. Yeah, that was something else, let me tell you. Bernie calls me up, all excited, “Dude, I got this old chalet from my grandpa, let’s go fix it up! It’ll be awesome!” Famous last words, right?
I figured, okay, a bit of handy work, some fresh air. What could go wrong? Everything. That’s what could go wrong. We get there, and this “chalet” looked like nature had been beating it up for, oh, fifty years. And nature was winning, big time. The place was a wreck, seriously.
Our “practice” for the weekend was supposed to be simple, or so we thought. Here’s what we aimed to do:
- Get the water running.
- Patch up any obvious holes in the walls or roof.
- Make it, you know, kinda livable for a night or two.
Seemed easy on paper, didn’t it? Well, day one, we decided to tackle the plumbing first. Or maybe, the plumbing decided to tackle us. I grabbed this one rusty old pipe, gave it a little twist, just a gentle one, and BAM! Water. Everywhere. And not the nice, clean water you actually want. This stuff was… well, let’s just call it swamp water. Smelled like it too. Bernie just stands there, with this goofy grin on his face, and says, “Well, at least we know where the main shut-off isn’t!” I wasn’t exactly laughing at that point, believe me.
Then we moved on to the roof. From down on the ground, it looked okay-ish. You know, structurally sound, mostly. But the moment a single dark cloud even hinted at appearing in the sky, it started. Drip, drip, drip. Inside the chalet. And where did it drip? Right onto the one mattress that didn’t look like it was a leftover from a science experiment. So much for patching “obvious holes.” The entire roof felt like one giant, obvious hole.
And don’t even get me started on the critters. Little furry things were absolutely everywhere. I swear, a squirrel, bold as brass, actually tried to mug me for my sandwich. Bernie, of course, thought all this wildlife was just hilarious. “Adds character to the place!” he kept saying. I told him the only character it was adding was to my growing list of reasons why I should’ve just stayed home and watched TV.
Honestly, by the end of it, the only things we successfully “practiced” were skills like how to build a really, really sad fire with damp wood. And how to survive on lukewarm instant noodles because that ancient stove in the corner looked like a death trap we absolutely didn’t dare to light. Oh, and we got pretty good at finding new and creative ways to say, “Wow, this is a complete disaster.”
We packed up and left that place dirtier than when we arrived, way more tired, and smelling faintly of mildew and just… defeat. Bernie, bless his optimistic heart, was still chirpy. “Next time, we’ll bring more tools! And maybe some actual food!” he said as we drove away. Next time? I remember thinking, next time I’m just sending him a very detailed “practice record” of what not to do, and maybe the phone number for a team of professionals. You know, the kind that wear hazmat suits.
Looking back on it now, it’s kinda funny. Kinda. But man, that whole experience at Bernie’s chalet. It wasn’t a renovation project; it felt more like an adventure in suffering. Good times. Sort of.
