Le Franco Phoney

The tourists have mostly cleared out of the ski resorts now, signalling an early start to road work and the closure of pistes worn down through a combination of warm sun, rain and people sliding down them. However, some tourists remain, as seen wearing novelty hats (sometimes with bells), snowblades and jeans tucked into their ski boots. There should really be warning signs against all of the above, such as: ‘WARNING: That long hat down your back with shark fins will slap you in the face every time you turn’; or ‘WARNING:  Those snowblades will throw you onto your face as soon as you hit a bump or rock, and right onto your bum when you hit ice’; or ‘WARNING: Your legs will get cold and soggy because jeans are not waterproof, and those lumps they cause between your ski boot and your leg will cause pain’.

In the absence of these warning signs, we have this one to the right, pictured in just some of the telecabines in La Balme. It could mean:

1. Beware of stick figures entering the cabin trying to be scary.
2. Leaning out the doors will turn you into a stick figure (as opposed to the suit wearer).
3. If you dance in the cabin, the automatic doors will open as a means of natural selection

The sign really means “Fall risk at the opening of doors” just in case anyone out there was thinking there’s a trampoline below each cabin to have a bit of a bounce on. I can only presume that some of the cabins at La Balme are devoid of this warning in the hope that some of the silly-hat-wearing snow-bladers in jeans will presume there’s a trampoline.

WARNING: stereotypes a-plenty a-hoy! Please take the following with a giant grain of salt or two. Here we go. French men seem to love being women. Pictured are three of my friends at last night’s ‘Priscilla party’ at Le Salto pub in La Clusaz, who not only dressed brilliantly as drag queens (complete with makeup, gloves, and even a  Chuppa Chup), but played their parts perfectly. Along with the other men dressed as women, they stroked their hair, flirted with each other and men, kissed each other on their cheeks like women and strutting around like pros (in all senses of the word). The place was heaving, with a bar outside and literally twice as many people there than squashed inside. Radiomeuh took up a small corner with the DJs dressed beautifully in women while they bashed out some appropriate tunes.

To say the least, I was impressed. I can’t help but imagine a similar party in my native country, Australia, which, thanks to the Aussie sense of humour, would no doubt involve more stubby holders, thongs (the type that go on your feet) and bikinis, but that’s presuming the Aussie guys can get past dressing as a woman without being considered gay. Sadly, the phrase “Not that I’m gay” is still considered necessary if a man shows any part of his feminine side. Not so in La Clusaz! Hooray!

The night’s theme left us girls a little confused. The drag queen outfit is harder to get away with, and while one of the bar staff had told me previously to come dressed as a hooker (the same one said last night: “You didn’t dress up” which means either I always dress like a hooker or I didn’t do a very good job), and while there were a few other hookers, there were also girls dressed as pimps, lots of super heroes, nurses, drag queens and even a couple of homies. The variety made the night more entertaining. Bonus points to the imaginative guy who dressed as a pregnant woman from Romania.

French advertisements can be really funny, and this one for Citroen cars makes me giggle every time I see it:

What do you think? Funny or lame?

How do you make Reblochon cheese? Well, that’s still a bit of a mystery to me, thanks to a rather odd night in Le Grand Bornand to learn more about it. The lovely people who run the resort put on a display of cheesemaking last week for the tourists — in a nice, warm tent-like structure, complete with seats for the audience and a little stage for the cheesemakers. So why is it still a mystery? Presuming my French is good enough to understand the guy with the microphone, I’d also need to be standing right next to the speaker to hear him, thanks to the crowd of locals (the musicians waiting to play after, staff ready to serve meals to those willing to pay for a plastic tray of steaming sausage, mushy stuff and cheese after the cheesemaking display, and friends catching up) who were hanging around the bar.

The kids at the tables just wanted some food and the adults looked bored, but we were all entertained when a piste basher trundled past outside, overpowering the noise created by the bar flies as well as the man on stage, who hammered on regardless. People tried to turn their attention back to the stage on its second zoom past the window. Why was a piste basher going past? Because the cheese tasting was not in the centre of town as expected, but further away at some place that was announced on a sign in the centre of town, but without directions or a map to show where it was. We circled the resort like a police helicopter before eventually finding some lights and a big tent by the cross country piste. It seems that nobody co-ordinated the half-hour demonstration with the piste basher staff. For me, it was a bonus anyway, since I couldn’t hear what the guy on stage was saying anyway. Cheesy entertainment indeed!

Shopping in Annecy the other day, a child no older than twelve approached me and pushed a clipboard towards me. On the clipboard was a piece of paper to donate to a deafness foundation, complete with the symbol of the foundation in one corner and some signatures from people who had donated up to €20. A couple of things seemed odd to me. Firstly, this wasn’t like a read-a-thon where he was gaining sponsorship for challenging himself to something: this was out-and-out hassling people for money, as you see paid university students do with big bibs or t-shirts on to identify them as charity workers. Secondly, he had no bib or t-shirt (and was dressed in a dodgy tracksuit). Thirdly, he wasn’t old enough to work. Fourthly, he was in a rather posh kitchen and homewares shop where the staff are frosty at the best of times: I’m guessing they wouldn’t let someone into their shop to hassle people for money under most circumstances. And finally, the paper didn’t look all that authentic, as the signatures from that day were in different colours, but he had just one pen in his hand.

So, I asked him for some identification. He pointed to his ears to and moved his fingers as if he were signing, and perhaps he was, but wouldn’t he be able to lip read by that age? I repeated myself, motioned in different ways to suggest an ID card, and eventually showed him my own, but he just shook his head and shrugged.

I said sorry and shook my head back, then walked away. I felt guilty and annoyed in equal parts: guilty for not giving money to someone who seemed to be collecting money for a charity, but annoyed that he expected me to believe him. Would a deafness foundation really send kids out to collect money for the charity they benefit from on a schoolday? But then, I’m basing this on the values I grew up with in Australia and my experience as an adult seeing people scam others. Maybe things are different in France, and I find those cultural unknowns hard to learn and adjust to. Was I in the wrong? Was he bonafide? Should I have donated?

The tourists have added a new annoyance to their tooting and barging: stabbing with their poles. Twice in as many days last week I was inadvertently (hopefully) whacked with skiers’ poles as they sat themselves down at the start of the chairlift ride or télécabin/bubble/gondola ride. One got me in the head, but that’s okay becuase I wear a helmet. The other one got me in the chest, then again half way through the journey up. When I asked him to mind his poles he looked completely surprised, as if he’d just noticed that he was holding onto them. Off the piste, the tooting cars continue. Oh, and special points to the Parisian car that tooted at a bus because it had stopped at the bus stop by the bus station. How dare that bus stop!

So, here’s the next symbol test from the La Balme cabin. It could mean:

• Keep your poles down here to prevent poking people in the head or chest.
• Exit to the left or right upon arrival (as opposed to blocking the exit while you adjust your goggles).
• The doors open outwards (what other way could they open?).

Actually, this sign means: “Caution: automatic doors”, because if you hadn’t noticed that they closed by themselves, you might try to open them when you arrive, and imagine how disastrous that could be! The doors might actually open seconds earlier than they should! Okay, there’s a chance that if they’re opened too early, people could fall to their deaths before the cabin has made it to the station, but if they’re stupid enough to try to push these purposely stiff doors open before the station,  I’m not sure a sign for automatic doors is going to help them anyway. I just hope they don’t whack me with their poles on the way out.

Last night, La Clusaz held its annual carnival, with groups dressed in 70s disco outfits, cops and prisoners, Star Wars characters, Cleopatras being carried by mummies, various superheros, and even a ladybird. The parade is held early so that kids, like the one pictured, can watch. A power ranger handed his sword over to this kid and motioned for the kid to attack him, which he did (had I remembered to charge the battery on my proper camera, this photo would have been clearer).

With plenty of kids around before 8pm, the DJ playing the loud party music in the centre of the gathering put on “Why Don’t We Just F**k” by Greg Parys. I know, I know, it’s an English word, but I can’t imagine many parents wanting their kids swearing in English or French or any other language. Some kids danced away to the song, while a boy of about twelve just next to me teased a group of local boys the same age by wearing a mask so they couldn’t tell who he was. How did he tease them? He rubbed his mask up and down with his hand. His mask was the head of a penis. He couldn’t have timed it better with the music, although the group of boys watching looked stunned despite their preference to look cool.

For all the entertainment provided, this kid was by far the most entertaining to watch. Eventually, one of the stunned boys walked towards him and ripped his mask off before the boy grabbed it back and ran away. The boys still looked stunned.

Like all public events in La Clusaz, the parade ended with fireworks, signalling bed time for the kids and pub time for the oddly-dressed adults. I suspect the stunned boys lingered outdoors, being too old for bed and too young for the pub, and probably watched the kid in the penis mask steal his way into a pub before turning to taunt them from the window. I can’t wait for next year.