Le Franco Phoney

Cross-country skiing. What a dumb thing to do when there are chairlifts that take you to the top of a hill so you can enjoy the slide down. And that’s why it’s taken me until this year to try it — a week before the lift system opened in La Clusaz. Had the lifts been open, I would have been on them, and a friend and I were so desperate to go skiing, we thought we’d try this ski de fond thing out. To give the sport a fair review, let’s pretend that downhill skiing doesn’t exist.

Pictured is the reason why downhill skiers get laughed at when trying to cross-country ski. First of all, riding ‘switch’ (backwards) isn’t really possible thanks to the scales on the bottoms of the skis: my friend pictured is actually standing still, with his best switch pose (along with another pose later for ‘off-piste’ which really doesn’t work with skis as thin as slices of bread). Without trying, we both managed to slip backwards on the up slopes so we’ve blown that ‘impossible’ theory out of the water. Also pictured are typical items of downhill skiwear: waterproof, baggy skipants and thick snowboarding mittens. Cross-country skiers sport lycra leggings, thin gloves and bum bags. We did well to leave our jackets at home at least, and to wear sunglasses instead of goggles. Alas, our loud skipants ensured that we didn’t fit in and I could almost hear the aged French men who lapped us cackling to themselves about our appearance and lack of ability.

We chose the easy piste at the top of Les Confins (La Clusaz) to start with, which involved uphill and downhill segments, and although the uphill parts challenged my respiration, the downhill slopes were the hardest. On normal skis, I would have thought them almost flat. On these french fries, the slopes were like massive cliffs. I survived them thanks to a technique as wrong as my outfit: I used my poles to slow me down by poking them in the snow in front of me. My arms ached for three days after all that jolting, but the views and the decent exercise made up for it. Meanwhile, the old French guys lapped us for a second time.

After our first lap (and as the old French guys went past us for a third time), we agreed to stop, in case it got dark before we did another lap. We had all afternoon, but we pretended it was later than it was. We had the photos to prove we’d tried it so we left. The single lap was enjoyable from an exercise perspective, and I’d consider trying it again.

Now, let’s return to the world where downhill skiing does exist. Give me downhill or telemark skis over these weird uncooked spaghetti skis any day! They have no edges and the bindings are fiddly. Even the pros look like they might wobble and fall over at any point. I’ll leave it to them to look unstable while I take my fat skis off-piste at the top of the chairlift.

I took this package to the post office last week and it was rejected. Two rounds of tape was perhaps not enough? The address wasn’t clear enough? Nope. It offending element was the brown packaging paper. I wrapped a festive biscuit tin, complete with my homemade gingerbread cookies, in paper made especially for posting. I double-wrapped the paper, then folded in the ends and taped it all up, and wrote the address and sender details clearly.

The man at the post office explained that brown paper packages were no longer acceptable. Cardboard boxes are now the way forward. He mentioned ripping and lost addresses and suggested I gaffa tape the entire package and rewrite the address details in a thick marker pen.

Apparently, La Poste around these parts have a new mails sorting machine that uses suction to move the packages. The man behind the counter also explained that my letter for La Clusaz, 1.7km up the road, would be sent to Grenoble, more than 100km away for sorting, before heading back for delivery unless I bought a first-class stamp. In a world where train tickets cost more depending on the distance of the destination, letter travel seems to be in reverse: pay more, go less distance. I took full advantage and sent that letter on a journey!

Now, back to the package. Did I wrap it in so much gaffa tape that even a thief would fail to open the tin? Nope. I used plastic wrap from the kitchen then made a border of gaffa tape so the address appeared in a square ‘window’. If that suction machine — the one that puts an end to logical packaging — is going to get clogged up with my packaging, I want it to do a decent job of it.

One of the most noticeable and amusing things about living in the French Alps is how quickly conversation turns to snow when winter approaches. Months before the resort is due to open, people start predicting what sort of season it will be based on everything from long-term weather forecasts to how abundant the berries are on the trees in the mountains. I’m as guilty as the next person.

This year got off to a slow start with a very warm and dry autumn, causing the annual ski test at Le Grand Bornand, held before the official opening of the resort, to be cancelled. Nobody could talk about much else apart from when the snow was due to fall.

Finally, about ten days ago, the snow fell. Conversation went from ‘when’ to ‘how much’ and ‘how low’, with rain washing away the first dump of fresh snow on the lower pistes. Resorts all over the Alps opened on the weekend with eager skiers lining up. I was one of them, queuing at the La Balme area of La Clusaz, and at first tempted to stay on the piste to avoid the rocks hiding under what we all suspected to be the usual early-season flimsy layer of powder off-piste. All that changed yesterday when I hit some rock gardens on the piste. Even at an altitude of 2,600 metres, the rocks were poking through. Nicely hidden behind the steepness of the slope and on a narrow part of the piste, I heard my new skis crunch over the rocks like a train chugging along a track. I ventured off-piste instead. Result! Just one rock obscured my fresh tracks.

What a dire start the season eh? No, not really. The resort isn’t even due to open until 17th December! I’m happy that the snow is back (and indeed it’s dumping down right now, although rain is expected later in the week), but I wonder if the early opening was perhaps more for marketing or pressure to open prematurely. The pistes are patchy, and worryingly, the barrier at the top of La Balme that prevents people from sliding over the edge to their death has not been fully raised yet, leaving just the lower orange netting to waist height only. Falling over it would not be difficult. Pictured is how it normally looks. Those big zig-zag ropes attaching to the higher horizontal black rope to keep everything taut are not yet there and the orange netting is kind of hangy.

Anyway, enough about health and safety: I need to get back to talking about snow with my friends.

Ahh, France. Did they start the Slow Food revolution? What a great idea Slow Food is: enjoy your food, cooked lovingly for taste rather than speed. The concept seems to have oozed partially into France’s fast food. Pictured is the only vegetarian burger option at Quick, which is France’s answer to McDonald’s. Given that many restaurants have no vegetarian option, I praise Quick for their non-meat alternative, albeit the usual goats cheese deal. This burger is meant to have tomato in it too. Can you see any? There’s one slice hidden at the back that my bights have yet to reach, but I digress.

Back to the Slow Food revolution. Quick seems to have chosen just the elements of the Slow Food revolution that work for it — namely slowness.

I was unfortunate enough to have to eat at Quick after a friend said he was craving a burger. We had to wait for both burgers, fat fries, and condiments. I’m not sure how packages of salt and sauce can be held up, or why mayo turned up when we didn’t request it, then had to wait again while our trusty server went on a mission to find the correct condiments. The wrong fries turned up but we were so hungry by the time the rest of our food came that we thanked the server and walked away.

Pictured is the burger I bothered waiting for. What a waste huh? Burnt on top with one tiny bit of tomato inside, no cheese flavour, but some sort of oil-based mayo making up for that loss, I didn’t get a bit further before giving up. At least if I splurge on dessert, I enjoy it. Here was the equivalent in fat and sugar without the enjoyment factor. And it was slow. And they burnt it and still served it. Fine, it’s fast food, but that’s my point: it’s not even fast. If I’m going to buy fast food, I want it fast because I’m going for the food hit rather than the taste. Just gimme my food!

So, I ate a few skinny fries, watched my friend down all his food — along with the burnt ‘tomato and cheese’ burger (talking marks because  those ingredients are alleged, and I’m still not convinced it should be called anything but the cardboard burger).

I went and bought a crepe instead.