The scene: early morning in the ski lodge, snowy mountains stretched across the front windows, clusters of people quietly chatting, sipping coffee and buckling boots, and I have just ascended the stairs from the bathroom, and I am walking across the wide open main room, which is pleasantly uncrowded-- it's the end of the season-- and I notice, at the far side, near our table . . . no at our table . . . two small people fighting, some fists are thrown, a headlock is poorly executed (because both small people are wearing helmets) and I increase the speed of my previously languid stride because these are my children, and some random old guy is about to break them up, but I get there first, stop the brawl-- Ian is crying because he smashed his nose on Alex's helmet-- and they can't really explain the origin of the fight, Alex said something and Ian whacked him on the head and Alex lost his temper . . . and so I give up on that course of action and I make them look at the scene, look at the room and the mountains and the quiet people and the general serenity, and try to convince them how absolutely absurd they looked fighting in this scenario . . . and they agree with this sentiment, that they are spoiled awful human beings with no appreciation for the finer things in life and no clue how good they have it, and that there are children in Syria, refugees, who are starving and without medical care, who would give anything to be in a situation as wonderful and beautiful as this, and then we proceed out to the lift, laden with the guilt of living in a first world country and not fully appreciating it, and enjoy the spring conditions.