Le Franco Phoney

Here is a photo of some horses standing outside a local community hall in Thônes. Let me explain. Last year, I wrote about the hay bail competition and the cows and tractors for sale at the local fair called la foire de la Saint Maurice. I couldn’t find the hay bail competition, but I did see the best young cow of 2009 presented with an award. She did a poo as soon as her proud owner had taken the award. The local horse riding school had some well-groomed horses out on display, which is why the horses are in this photo. The crowds at the cow competition were too deep to get a decent photo, so the horses were second best. Well, third best if the hay bail competition had been on.

As I wandered around the fair, I noticed that some things are always the same: the beer stands were surrounded by a stagnant crowd of men, making it harder to get past for everyone else while the kids hung by the sweets stands. More than one stand-holder called out to me to check out his wares. There was a trash’n'treasure held by the local school, which was different only in that most stall holders had kids’ skis for sale, but that makes sense given the love winter sports here. So all in all, a typical fair. Topped off with some melted cheese in a roll, I’m going back again next year, determined to find the hay bail competition.

The off-season in the Alps means the road workers are busy resurfacing roads before winter hits. For the past four off-seasons here (that’s two years), the road workers have been changing the layout of the roads and car parks and updating the drains underneath at the same time. It’s involved a lot of work, so I’m not surprised it’s taken this long.

However, there’s a road that joins Thônes, ten minutes from here, to Annecy-le-Vieux which has not been so lucky. When I first moved to La Clusaz exactly three years ago, this road was only open on one side, forcing traffic through single file. Then winter came and the roadwork signs and lower speed limits stayed in force but the workers were never there. Finally, by June 2007, the road was fixed! It was lovely to drive on, and cyclists were happy that they had a bike lane.

Then disaster struck in August 2007 — just two months after the road was finished. A dam on the hill above burst and caused a flash flood on the road. People had to dump their sodden cars and save themselves from the flow of water, but no lives were lost. The road was, of course, closed. Within a few days, it was re-opened, but roadwork signs reappeared and the cyclists’ lane was once again closed. The road workers never appeared, but the lower speed limit — to protect the absent workers — is still in place to this day. This week, the workers turned up! In three years, the road has been fully functioning for two months, yet trucks use it every day.

Meanwhile, the private driveway to my apartment was also fixed up this week. There had been huge pot-holes at the bottom of the driveway, plus a concrete drain with pointy corners that jutted out about 20cm near my garage. The entire driveway has a kind of wave system in its unevenness which acts as a rollercoaster ride. So, the lovely owners of the apartments resurfaced the driveway, but I think they must have run out of money. The potholes at the bottom are gone, but the drain is still jutting out, with the roadwork only covering the first half of the driveway. In addition, they’ve left the stones loose, so the sun warms the tar underneath each day, leaving splattered tar marks on the side of cars driving on the driveway, along with chip marks from the stones. The loose stones have started to diminish and the waves are coming back. Before,  I just avoided the potholes. Now I can’t avoid the stones or the tar, while most other obstacles remain. Still, it could be worse. I could have had roadwork signs and speed limit restrictions for the past three years.

Ahh, the French. Walk down any street in any town big enough to have its own baker and you’ll see French people looking stylish, no matter what they’re wearing. I often look down at my own baggy jeans, hooded jumper, or long a-line skirt and wonder where I went wrong. I want to look elegant and stylish, but I just look out of place with these uber-stylish French all around me. Even now, with my wardrobe full of clothes bought here in France, I just can’t match things up the way the French do. I’m in awe. I’m envious. I dream of the day when elegance hits me on the head like a Fairy Godmother’s wand.

Sometimes, however, there are gaping holes in their style, as shown in these two catalogue photos. Yes, those clothes are lovely, aren’t they. Those kids look really cute in such well-cut fabric in such pretty colours. But what on earth is going on with their lips? Do they all have lipstick on? Okay, I know that photo shoots usually require models to wear more makeup than usual so that they don’t look washed out in the photos, but these kids look like they’ve just eaten either fluorescent ink or far too many raspberries. There’s natural, and then there’s this. Fluoro Girl here on the left seems to have licked of the lipstick from one side of her top lip!

And what’s with the boy on the right? Apart from the red lips, has he suffered sunburn because his mate on the left nicked his hat? Maybe the kids did look natural in the photo shoot, and then the graphic designer who put the images into the catalogue decided their lips and cheeks weren’t colourful enough. Perhaps there’s some very angry photographer out there who has seen the end product in the catalog and is now banging his or her fists on a table screaming “Ah la vache! Non, non, non!” — their reputation in France now in ruins.

Either way, I feel just a little bit smug that sometimes the French do get it wrong. Less smug, of course, when I admit that I’m typing this with a bright green bikini top straps alongside my peach-coloured halterneck top straps, unsuccessfully matched with my favourite dark purple skirt.

Last week, I went looking for a new bed. I need a new bed for a new house I’m moving into. The house also needs a phone line, as, bizarrely, no previous tenants have required a landline, and so the house as no wall socket. But let’s start off with the bed.

Three of us walked into a bedding shop and were quite happy looking around when a lovely saleslady came over to help us. She was on for the chat in French, and while I didn’t quite get all she was saying, I understood enough to obediently go to the next bed she demanded we sample. She even turned to my friend and said: “They’re so cute!” when my partner and I discussed the bed we were laying on. She was, to be blunt, ridiculously sugary-sweet towards us, as you’d expect in someone trying to sell you a product which is clearly overpriced. She sat us down, then totalled up how much it would cost for the mattress (of non-standard size after she had convinced my partner that he needs the extra length despite him surviving this long without needing a long bed), then the bed base, then the wooden slats as they’re not included with the bed base, and then delivery. Did we even mention we wanted delivery? All up, it was more than €1000 and she wanted us to leave a deposit there and then. I explained that this was the very first shop we’d been in and that I’d like to look around for a bed base I liked a bit more, and she started going on about how much time she’d invested in explaining the way of beds to us. After a five-minute rant (seriously — it really was five minutes), she stopped. I opened my mouth and got as far as: “I think it’s quite normal—” she started again, speaking over my accent-ridden French and looking only at my partner, who somehow failed to notice this massive faux pas on her part. Our accompanying friend gave me a look of agreement and as soon as we left the shop (thankfully without any purchases), my friend had already named her “The Witch”. She went from oh-so-sweet to extremely nasty as soon as it became clear I was being a stick in the mud about actually wanting to ensure I was making an educated decision about my investment. We will not be going back.

According to another friend, in France, you are far more obliged to buy something if you’ve spent time with a salesperson. She ended up buying a bra that she’d been fitted for, even though she didn’t like the bra and she didn’t think it fitted all that well. In fact, the saleslady tried to sell her three. She escaped with just one, but took it back days later, and was given the third degree from the same woman who was clearly not happy about the return. This might also explain the dismay on the faces of the couch shop people who told us that if we took a couch away today, it would cost us 35% less! We escaped that shop too — all three of us scared by the pushy staff. So perhaps The Witch was indeed in the right. Still, we’re not going back.

Now, France Telecom. Well, there’s a story I’m saving for another time! Let’s just hope that the woman from the bed shop one day has to go and work for France Telecom: she might appreciate her current cushy job a bit more then. Meanwhile, the hunt for a bed continues…

The word refuge in English is often associated with a place to take shelter by those who need it. Although the word looks the same and is pronounced in much the same way in French, the meaning here in the French Alps relates mostly to that of a typical mountain hut that provides food and shelter for travellers. Some are literally just a hut with bunk beds and some form of running water , working on an honesty box system to cover the cost of wood for heating and maintenance. Others are fully-operational restaurants that provide big meals, a sip from the typically Savoyard bottle of home-made booze with a dead snake inside, and heated accommodation with an indoor toilet. The indoor toilet is particularly handy in the cold winter months.

The refuge I went to last week was somewhere in between these two extremes. Refuge de Bombardellaz provides hearty food without the gimmick of a snake in a bottle, although I didn’t see what the accommodation was like as the refuge only took us an hour to get to from the car park at Les Confins. The refuge is only open in summer, which explains the outdoor tables, but I can’t help thinking how at least some of the wide path to the refuge would be great to slide down on a snowboard.

Click on the image for a bigger version

Having never been to this refuge before, my friends and I were equipped with a map, which was handy, because although the way is marked at most track intersections, the signs are missing from some, and we needed the map to check. The first signpost at the car park said the refuge was 55 minutes away.  We had a lunch booking in half an hour, but we figured the sign’s time estimate was for the elderly, families with young children, or injured people. No worries: half an hour is plenty of time! After half an hour, we passed a sign that said the refuge was 35 minutes away. What? At this point, I realised that we were, in fact, lower than the lowest common denominator of walker: we were the unfit. On we marched. After a further 30 minutes, the next sign said it was only ten minutes away, and to be perfectly frank, it would have been only ten minutes away had the road been flat. It was not flat. It was all uphill to the refuge. Ten minutes of walking up a hill turned into five minutes of walking, five minutes of stopping to catch my breath after pretending to be interested in a nearby flower, three minutes of walking, another few minutes of stumbling, and then a final push once the refuge was in sight. Now quite late for lunch, I felt cheated by the signs — and perhaps a little guilty about my level of fitness. The staff welcomed us warmly despite our tardiness.

As the wide-angle photo here shows, the refuge provides views of the peaks of La Clusaz, the neighbouring valley of Le Grand Bornand, and the mountains all around.

Lunch eaten and heart rested, we walked along a more narrow path that led down towards Le Grand Bornand until a crossroad gave us the choice to climb back uphill to Les Confins. Despite both walks ending in these treacherous uphill challenges, they were otherwise easy and enjoyable. Chuck in the reward of a hearty lunch with beautiful views and you’ve got a pretty good day out.

Just on the edge of Lac Leman (also called Lake Geneva) sits the medieval village of Yvoire. It dates back more than 700 years, and is full of pretty things. And tourists. Like me. The first great thing I noticed was the absence of cars, which are banned from town. In their place: flowers. Pots of flowers line houses and businesses, while a bed of flowers planted near the pretty port form a giant peacock sitting on the grass. It’s easy to lose a whole day here, even though activities are limited. It’s all about the views, walking along the coast, checking out the antique shops, and stopping for snacks regularly. In fact, it was during an ice cream stop that I overheard the following few facts about Yvoire (according to the waiter, that is):

Facts 1 & 2: Yvoire has 1.3 million visitors per year , and 85% of them come in July and August.

What can I say? I was there during peak time, so maybe he’s right!

Facts 3 & 4: There are only 75 inhabitants within the village walls, although another 700 live around them.

Judging by the vast number of restaurants and shops selling tourist faff, I’m surprised that 75 people still want to live in the centre of town. I’m taking his word on the first of those two facts at the very least. The old, rusted tin outer layer of the church spire was replaced in 1989 with stainless steal and gold leaf, which means it’s still shining today, as pictured. It’s also very easy to spot from Switzerland, on the other side of the lake, on a sunny day. Like the church, some parts of the town really don’t look as old as they really are, but perhaps it’s just that the blemishes are hidden by all those lovely flowers. The town on a whole is very charming, and I can’t wait to go back next year — probably in July or August.

Beyond the big chicken of Bresse lies Fontenay Abbey. Close to Dijon, this abbey was a harsh place to live. The cold stone walls were built way back in 1118, and the heating was kept only to a minimum, with just the kitchen, the hospital and one other room heated, where monks would warm their freezing hands in order to continue writing. During the nineteenth Century, the abbey was turned into a paper mill, but by the twentieth Century, restoration work had begun, and today you have a tourist attraction.

The two buildings that you see in front here were added later, as you may have guessed by the style that’s a bit more modern than the twelfth Century! There are privately owned areas that the public aren’t allowed to enter. And, in fact, if you sit on the grass right next to the public walkway, a man will come over and ask you to get off the private property. Yes, I sat on the grass.

The most interesting things about the abbey were meant to be the lifestyle of the monks, the big ceiling made of wood that was like an upside-down boat hull, and the water mill. However, most of us on the tour were more interested in checking out the bats, the beehives and the jumping fish in the pond by the water mill. We also learnt that it’s quite difficult to take a good photo of a jumping fish.

I digress, but that’s kind of what I did during the tour of the abbey. I think, perhaps, in my ten years of looking at stuff that’s older than anything we have in Australia, I’ve seen so many abbeys, monasteries, churches and castles that I’m now just a bit underwhelmed unless they’re amazing. But the jumping fish, I’d go again to see them.

Oops! One of the cows falls over backwards!

Human-shaped fireworks burn while the parade of weird objects continues.

Now it's the elevated cow's turn to burn, with band looking on

Statue-still people from the parade now standing on the roof too, including one with a disturbingly pointy hat.

Despite the ongoing warm weather, the summer season in the Alps has come to an end, coinciding, not coincidentally, with school holidays. Le Grand Bornand likes to end the season with a fête. Of course, I went. Surprisingly, the crowds were bigger than for le Tour de France, and parents were made to park their baby buggies in a special baby buggy area before continuing to the heart of the entertainment, holding their babies. Seats were not allowed. Just after none o’clock, when darkness had fallen, the streetlamps were turned off, everyone was told to stand, and the fun began.

It started off well enough, with these two giant inflatable cows lobbing themselves towards each other, forcing the crowd to part (this is why chairs and baby buggies were not allowed). After a few cow tips, they met, hugged (or wrestled?) and then the fireworks started. In the foreground, I noticed the live band standing on top of build, beating their drums to some Spanish tune. I wondered if any of the other countries I’ve lived in would allow a band to stand near the edge of a tall building with no apparent safety equipment. I love this country!

The inflatable cows disappeared and these strange shapes on sticks started parading through the crowd, choosing their own path. This involved small fireworks on the way through, and once again, I found myself wondering if this would happen elsewhere. Fireworks in the shape of people were lit against a wall, and the band played on. What did all this mean? What were the strange parading objects meant to represent? As the odd parade banged, burst and snaked through the crowd, one of my friends, who had seen last year’s end of summer fête said to me: “It’s nowhere near as random as last year.” I’d really like to know how it could be any more random than it was.

The shed behind me suddenly made a noise. Actually, there were fireworks on its roof. I was right under these great, low-exploding fireworks that really made me feel like I was engulfed by sparks on every side. It was magnificent! All concerns of randomness went while the fireworks continued for much longer than anyone expected.

The grand finale was even better. At first, I thought something had gone wrong. One of the fireworks on top of the shed didn’t seem to go off, but it seemed to ignite a neighbouring firework which then flew directly toward the band. I envisioned the band catching fire if they didn’t run away quickly. However, all fears were allayed when the firework actually flew directly behind the band, and right onto the giant Catherine wheels which had been set up behind them. Bang, bang, bang: off they go, and nobody needs to sue France for death, burning or falling from buildings. The band continued and the guys who had been traipsing around in the parade were now human statues in front of the Catherine wheels. Look closely and you’ll see one with a white, pointy hat. How on earth did they get away with that?

When the fireworks stopped, a few formalities were made (eg, pre-recording of cute-sounding kid thanking everyone for coming), the street lights were turned on again, and parents were virtually running back to the baby buggy park to put their dead-weight, sleeping kids back into their baby buggies.

So, that’s summer officially over. Unofficially, it’s boiling hot and lake is calling.