Le Franco Phoney

As promised, here are some photos from le Tour de France during the stage at Le Grand Bornand and the time trial in Annecy the following day. As you can see, Le Grand Bornand was far less crowded than Annecy, which hasn’t seen the tour for fifty years. Apart from the photos below of the floats, a bed drove past, along with some fire engines branded as a bottles of water, spraying people along the way. There was also a giant washing machine, giant sweets bags, giant race horses and various other giant things. The same grappling for cheap freebies continued in Annecy where a lycra cycling t-shirt freebie that landed on my friend’s camera was swiftly nabbed by the woman in front of us who showed no guilt despite my gasp of disbelief. Neither of us wanted it, but I’m not sure she did either — apart from it being a freebie and therefore worth A Lot Of Money.

The atmosphere in Annecy seemed far more electric than in Le Grand Bornand; I guess that was from the bigger crowds and the knowledge that the competitors would be zooming past all day long instead of within twenty minutes. Most people were sporting a freebie hat (including myself) or some other free object, along with some way of identifying their nationality. Me, I wore my Australian flag like a cape, as did many other Aussies. Us Aussies are a friendly bunch even when we don’t know each other. In Le Grand Bornand, a family of travelling Aussies saw my flag (dangling over a road sign) and sought me out for a chat. Then later in Annecy, I heard: “Oi Aussie!” When I looked around, a woman in green and gold (Australian sport colours) was waving madly to me. I waved back. We then had the following conversation — from opposite sides of a very wide road:

Her: “Are you on the bus trip?”

Me: “Um, no. I live here.”

Her: “You live here? Wow you’re lucky!”

Me: “Yep.” (Now trying to catch up to my friends who had kept walking.)

Her: “So, how’s it going anyway?” (That’s Australian for how are you.)

Now, I’m pretty sure that only a fellow Aussie would yell to a complete stranger from across a road to ask how that stranger is. Having not lived in Australia for almost ten years, I was at first surprised by the question which I answered and smiled. But within a few minutes, I was feeling that lovely glow of camaraderie that Australians so often offer each other. While the tangible me caught up with my friends, the Aussie me imagined crossing the road to join the Aussie, buying her a beer, introducing her to all my friends, having a long chat about sport, and chanting “Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oi Oi Oi!” with her. Maybe at the next Tour de France.

Yesterday, I was lucky enough to watch le Tour de France simply by driving five minutes down the road to le Grand Bornand. I could have watched from the end, but I’ll be doing that today in Annecy. Instead, I joined some friends on a little rise next to the track which gave us a great view of the race. This photo is one of the many floats that drove past before the cyclists came through. I’ll post more photos on my next entry, once I’ve checked out Annecy.

Watching the floats go past is actually, for me, more interesting than the race. I know some people reading this have just lost all respect for me, but please let me explain. I do have the utmost respect for the cyclists: I can’t imagine riding even 5km of the course they rode today. However, they whizz past so quickly that it’s all over very quickly. The floats last for at least forty minutes and involve cheesy dancing to cheesy music, lots of freebies chucked at the expectant crowd, an obligatory fire truck spraying the hot crowd with water, and, most importantly, bizarre behaviour from the onlookers. Today, I watched a little kid wrestling with an adult for a plastic inflatable baton. The adult had no qualms about using all her strength against the little boy who gave in quickly. A little girl was also involved in a scrap with another woman, and the woman won. What did she win? A plastic device with a branded balloon attached. I think the plastic device is meant to help kids blow up balloons. The woman also had no problem wrestling it off the litle girl, and seconds later, she walked past me and back to her husband grinning about her new children’s toy. Amongst my five friends, two were going for the freebies, and both came out with scraped skin during scrambles to pick freebies up from the ground. Other freebies included: spotty red hat with supermarket logo; washing powder sachet; sweets; hat for sleeping in; and fridge magnets. Obviously wrestle-worthy items.

I’d also love to rattle on about the influx of cyclists on the roads matching the influx of tennis court usage in England during Wimbledon, or a French friend saying that he wonders if this bike race is really worth it because of the local road closures it causes (insert image of my jaw dropping to the floor as I reflect on all those friends back in Australia who set their alarm at stupid hours just to watch the stages in comparison to a few road closures putting out the locals who are so lucky to have this tour on their doorstep). I could rattle on about these things, but I have to go and watch the next stage of le Tour de France now. I’m making the most of it even if my French friend would rather not.

A French reader of my blog sent me these photos of a roundabout where he lives, based on my previous posts about ornate French roundabouts. He said: “April, I thought you’d like to see my local roundabout since you write about French roundabouts on your blog. I’m sure you can find something funny to write about it if you decide to put it on your blog.”

Actually, I’m so impressed with this roundabout that I don’t know if I can find anything funny to write about it! What’s not to love about this roundabout? It’s in Morbier, which is why there’s a giant Morbier cheese (appropriately with a section cut out of it to show the layer of ash that runs through the centre), and although I don’t understand why there’s a grandfather clock in the middle of this roundabout, I do appreciate that it’s made mostly of plants. How can this be? How cool is this clock? It looks like it has a coffin lining of satin which is a little freaky, but this roundabout really illustrates just how well the French do roundabouts. Not only does it have a decorative clock and cheese, but it’s also very informative. It tells you what time it is, and it tells you where you are (Haut Jura, as it says on the right). It’s also a friendly roundabout, as it says “Bienvenue” (“Welcome”) on the left. Does a better roundabout exist? I challenge you to find one.

If you’d like to see a bigger version of the roundabout, click on the photo.

Take a good look at this image below:

What do you see? Let me explain what’s happening. The 14th of July is Bastille Day in France, except it’s only the non-French who call it that. The French call it Fête Nationale, and it normally involves fireworks after dark and some form of entertainment before darkness. Also, the celebrations shown above actually happened on 13th July. Why? I’m not entirely sure, but it seemed appropriate, given that lots of workers were given a four-day weekend. So here we have some locals and some tourists in a little village called Chinaillon, which is just up the road (and part of) le Grand Bornand ski resort, neighbouring La Clusaz. The firemen are dressed in their old outfits and they’re using an old pump to show how firemen used to put out fires. As you can see from the photo, the firemen are actually more intent on spraying the crowd with water, and although they did so countless times, the crowd always replied with a thrill and a cheer. After watching the fire ‘fighters’ and some traditional dancing—including a local dance that showed good men (who knelt to their partners) and bad men (who turned their backs on their partners) to show that people, good and bad, can come together to dance—I headed back towards La Clusaz, and stopped in St. Jean de Sixt to watch some fireworks with some more friends.

Not satisfied with ending the night with a bang, the locals put on a ‘bal’ which traditionally, would have been a ball, but on today’s standards, it was two blokes playing instruments and singing songs such as Macarena and I Will Survive. The advantage of speaking English meant that I knew all the lyrics to these songs, while a French friend asked me about the lyrics to YMCA:

French friend: “What’s that bit say?”

Me: “Young man…”

French friend: “Oh, I’ve always sung ‘Yoplait’.”

Now, who would have thought a dairy product would ever make it into a Village People song? However, she had the last laugh when a song called le Madison came on. Supposedly an American line dancing-style dance, it’s certainly something that never caught on in Australia or the UK while I was there. While my French friend busted the moves at all the right times, the English-speaking crew were left bumping into people and turning in the wrong direction.

Of course, this all happened on Monday night, which meant we did it all over again last night in Annecy—a town that celebrated on the public holiday rather than the night before. Two nights of entertainment for one public holiday. You’ve gotta love the French!

Something else that happened last weekend between the DONGing of church bells was a visit to some cheese caves. My friends who live there are in the cheese business (I love being able to say that), and one of them took us to the cheese caves where he himself matures the cheese. Cheese shops are one thing, but I have never seen so much cheese in one place in my life. The cheeses ranged from 10kg blocks of AOC Emmental to something Italian and going grey (apparently a good thing) in the corner, right through to cheese donuts which I don’t know the name of, and these lovely tiny cheese cones (photo taken by my friend Katie after I forgot to bring my camera). The cones and donuts were actually in a drying room, which smelt less pungent than the other caves. That’s not to say it didn’t smell: it’s just that the more humid caves were almost overpowering — and one of them was newly emptied, but still stunk.

Apparently, finding a good affiner de fromage is a hard task, so if you’re in the know when it comes to maturing cheese and you feel like a change of scenery to a little village in the middle of France, apply now! Anyone who can stand the enormous stink when standing in one of those caves all day has my respect. It reminds me of the time I went to the Savoyarde restaurant down the road that has the cows downstairs, with a glass roof for diners to look at them through. Despite the glass, the smell of the cows was very strong, and I could smell manure for days after . Thankfully, the smell of the cheese was not quite that bad. Still, I think I’ll leave it to the experts and those as passionate about cheese as my two friends are.

I just came back from an amazing weekend in a little village on the outskirts of Roanne, between Lyon and Clermont Ferrand. Six nationalities were involved (a Brit, Turk and Dutchman in a van on their way to Shanghai, an American, a French girl, me the Australian and another British friend), and apart from the two who live there, the rest of us were somewhat hacked off with the church bells. The church, as expected, sits at the highest, most central spot of the quaint, walled village. The houses immediately around it are shrouded in flowers bursting with colour and life. But no amount of flowers or buildings can soften the bell at the top of the church from the wake-up call that it is at 7am on a Sunday morning.

Church bells are a great way of marking the time, and very handy for telling people in years gone by when to wake up, when to clock on, and when to clock off, along with when to come to church. But Sunday, of all days, is a day of rest even in the Christian faith, so does the church really need to wake everyone up on their only day off? I’m sure it’s the same in many other places, with church bells resounding on completely still and silent mornings, with just the sound of swearing through open windows immediately after the bells go off. No chance of it in this village: the bell resounds to match the hour not once, but twice, about thirty seconds apart, just in case it didn’t wake you up the first time. So at 10am, for example, you hear ‘donnnnggg donnnnggg donnnnggg’ ten times, then just as you’ve finished cursing the bell (is it good to curse a Christian entity?) and you think you might be able to nod off to sleep once more, off they go again. DONNNGGG! DONNNGGG! DONNNGGG! No chance of getting back to sleep now.

So, I have something to say to the powers-that-be at the churches around the world, and specifically, at this small village in France: technology. That’s right. Technology. It’s advanced to the point of wrist watches, alarm clocks, computers, mobile phones with alarms and the time, blackberries, iPhones — and the list goes on. And with all these extra things beeping and buzzing at us, can you please do us all a favour and stick a cork in it on the weekends. Thanks.

I saw this sign on a toilet when I attended a book launch in Switzerland recently. I know the Swiss are quite strict on things like noise pollution and residential car parking spaces and, well, just about everything else, but surely a man is allowed to stand up to pee! Okay, I’m not a guy, and maybe it doesn’t bother guys. So I asked some male friends what they thought. Responses ranged from “It’s unmanly,” to “It’s a luxury after a big night out when you can’t be bothered to stand,” and everything imaginable in between. One friend suggested it was for noise-related reasons, which does make sense given the bookshop location.

So, what is the purpose of this sign? To emasculate men? To make them feel special? Or to shame them into not splashing the seat?

More questions. Do men actually abide by such signs, or do they ignore the sign until they’re finished, then wipe away any tell-tale signs so nobody knows? Or do they deliberately leave a mess to show the sign who really is the boss?

Given that this is Switzerland, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d seen a surveillance camera pointing at the toilet seat. However, this was at an English book shop, so they’re obviously far too polite to go to such measures.

Now, the actual book launch…

In case you’re wondering what book was being launched, it was Mucho Caliente by Francesca Prescott. The book launch was great fun, with some really interesting questions asked of the author and some very amusing segments of the book recited. The story revolves around a woman who tries her hardest not to fall in love with a Latino superstar who happens to be on the same Spanish island as her and her friends. That’s about all I can tell you as I haven’t started reading my copy yet. I’ve been too busy thinking about toilet sign symbolism.