So, when we were in Switzerland we went tobogganing in a way that no North American could ever conceive of.

You take the train up to this mountain town called Bremen, where you can rent old-school, luge-type toboggans right there at the station. The sleds ranged in style from I-am-from-Hawaii-and-have-never-seen-snow to I-am-currently-a-German-luge-athlete-on-the-World-Cup-circuit. We chose the middle of the road I-am-a-Canadian-skeleton-athlete-who-is-confident-in-my-ability-to-drive-one-of-these-suckers-but-my-coach-is-making-us-get-the-novice-sleds-in-an-attempt-to-prevent-injuries category.

After you pick up your sled from the rental shop, you walk about 200 metres and find yourself at the top of a seven-kilometre tobogganing run that winds its way down to the next town, where you can, conveniently, return your sled, get on the train and go home.

Apparently you are supposed to ride the sled in the seated position, and use your legs and the reigns to steer, as Cassie (one of the American sliders) demonstrates here.

Most of us chose a more ... ummm ... instinctive position ... (and yes, standing up on the sled would be considered instinctive for Daly ... )

Some were, however, a little less adept at maneuvering these sleds than they were at driving a skeleton sled.

After about two hours, which involved several incidents of being yelled at in German, we finally got to the bottom of the run, at which point we had several options - take a chair lift up to a second run (which was our first choice but it turned out the lifts had already closed for the day); or hike into town, return our sleds and get back on the train home.

OR ... we could hike up the steepest hill we could find and really put these babies to the test.

Let's just say that option three resulted in several moments of sheer terror and at least one near-death incident.

Man, we totally should have started with the steep hill.

Which brings me around to the point of this story. This is now what the screen on my camera looks like.

My picture-taking life is currently a throwback to the dark ages of the 20th century. You have to look through the viewfinder to frame the photo, and it's anyones guess as to whether the picture will actually turn out or not. So when you get a chance to take a photo with the Premier or with two Olympic rowers and their gold medal you may very well get home and find that the pictures Suck with a capital S because you can't turn the flash on, can't change the settings, can't check to make sure the shot isn't blurry.

How the hell did I make it through a trip to Africa in the 90s, quietly packing back 13 rolls of undeveloped film, unconcerned about whether or not any the pictures would actually turn out? Every time I am about to snap a photo right now, I start convulsing at the thought that I might get a chance to ... oh, I don't know ... HOLD A FREAKIN' OLYMPIC GOLD MEDAL, and the picture might not come out.

When you try out the fancy bidet in the marbled bathroom of your upscale, track-side German hotel, maybe don't make the water so hot.

If you have a loofah, a favourite one that is bright orange, fluffy yet firm and reliable, and if one day you are taking a shower and while employing the loofah for its intended purpose, a large crane fly interrupts your activities and you inadvertently swipe at said insect with said loofah, and if after the conclusion of your bathing activities, in one creepy, shiver-inducing moment you discover the drowned, crushed carcass of a certain crane fly entangled in your recently employed loofah, and if, after taking a second shower, you decide to try and salvage your beloved loofah by throwing it in the wash ... in the interest of all parties involved, it would be prudent to hang dry the loofah.

Let's just say that the combination of loofah and clothes dryer is comparable to that of Barbie and hair dryer.

Sigh ... I must now gather my strength and courageously face a loofahless life.