Le Franco Phoney

This week, I braved yoga in French. No worries: a fellow Aussie with better French language skills was joining me so there was safety in numbers. With a camping mat under my arm, we headed to the class in the centre of St Jean de Sixt. I should have chickened out when the teacher spied my mat and said it was too thick for yoga. Instant yoga fail! Thankfully, she supplied mats, but as the last two to set up, we were at the front of the class. This scuppered my plan be at the back, where nobody would spy me misunderstanding the instructions or toppling over attempting to do the tree stance (pictured). I tried yoga one other time and after five minutes of failing to do the tree, I left, embarrassed, and much to the relief of all the zen people in the room.

The first few stances were okay. The third one was, of course, tree. Everyone in the room but me stood calmly on one leg. I wobbled and failed to hold the position until I realised I’m left-footed. I swapped legs and held the position for up to ten seconds at a time — a major improvement. After what seemed like an hour, she told us to change legs. Oops. I carried on with the same leg. Meanwhile, I didn’t even notice that my friend had been told off for using the wrong leg at the start. Perhaps our determination to use the wrong leg prompted her to ask in a loud, clear voice if she needed to speak in English. All eyes turned in our direction and we shook our heads and smiled as if we were both totally at ease with the yoga-based French words we’d never heard before.

A girl a few along from us took deep breathing to the extreme. She sounded like she was attached to a ventilator. No problem normally, but my Aussie friend had been diving that morning and I imagined the oxygen tank must have sounded similar. It took all my concentration to hold in the laughter and not look at my friend in case we both got the giggles. As if to test me further, a truck idled in the car park outside with orange lights flashing, lighting up our relaxingly dim room like a disco. I concentrated on my aching arm muscles to again suppress the laughter, although ventilator girl would have no doubt smothered it anyway.

Will I go again? Yes, but next time I’m getting there early so I can go up the back and as far away from ventilator girl as possible.

Yesterday was a really beautiful day for Le Bélier marathon here in La Clusaz. Participants who climbed the five peaks of the resort either walking from 7.30am or running from 9am were grateful for the cooler morning temperatures after a few weeks of hot weather, but the sun drilled down, making the finish line a warm place to be before midday.  I noted last year that skis are always somehow in the picture no matter what time of year it is, and this year was no exception. Although there was no cow bell attached this time, this girl was holding a pair of alpine skis, presumably waiting for her mates to finish the race. Having seen one French girl  complete the walking race looking like she’d just walked out of a fashion magazine, I wondered if she too had walked the race with the skis over her shoulder. After the other local offerings this month, including the stuffed hog on wheels, donkey ‘rides’ and a cow van, nothing would surprise me.

It’s been a few years since I mentioned the Fete du Reblochon, but watching the parade the other day made me realise it’s time to bring it up again. Where else in the world would you be ‘chased’ by a stuffed wild boar on wheels, led by a man dressed as a country bumkpin?

The boar was projectiled towards the crowd that had gathered for the parade and the man directing it seemed pretty happy with his job. Other highlights of the parade were the kids throwing hay and some sort of seeds that stung as they hit bare skin, and the men carrying an enormous amount of hay on their heads (like massive grass affros), the deafening bell ringers and best of all, the free samples of Reblochon cheese. The Fete du Reblochon is a really enjoyable day offering all sorts of rural entertainment. It swaps the Ferris wheel for a donkey race, the target shooting for wood chopping, hot dogs for local diot sausages, the man selling that amazing kitchen chopping device that peels, grates, chops, dices and more for the woman explaining how cheese is made, and the showbags of sweets for bags of cheese. It’s a great day out.

Now, back to the boar. Spain might have the running of the bulls and Rio might have Carnival, but La Clusaz is possibly the only place in the world that has the stuffed boar on wheels. And at least one person (the guy pulling the boar) thinks that’s a win.

When I was a kid, a pony ride involved getting on a pony and having some horse-loving teenager lead the pony around a paddock. I always wanted to gallop off by myself, but I was far too young to know how to. No worries in France. These are your options.

First up, we have the Northern version. These poor little ponies get attached to a piece of metal where they walk around and around on asphalt with overweight kids on their backs. They looked so bored. Worse still, the beach was just down the road, and I imagined their little pony eyes seeing the water and imagining running free on their little legs along the sandy beach.

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At the other end of the scale is La Clusaz. Even if the helmet is oversized, at least it was offered here, and it seems nicely co-ordinated colour-wise. Pictured are my visiting friends who were told to follow the path of the other ponies through a trail amongst trees with stream flowing beside it. The slight risk of getting lost was far more enjoyable for both rider and pony than the version up North.

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Meanwhile, here in St Jean de Sixt, we’ve by-passed ponies altogether and gone instead for donkeys. For one day only, the donkeys were available for hire. Rather than riding the donkeys, the kids had to direct them around a small course (such as the wooden logs pictured, which the donkeys were meant to walk over). This donkey was more interested in the tasty weeds than walking, but the kids seemed pretty amused.

Some 597 swimmers braved the unusually chilly water of Lake Annecy yesterday to complete a 2,400-metre race. Registration was somewhat subdued, with rain dolloping down, but the clouds cleared and the race finished with blue skies and hot sun. A few extra participants weren’t timed — the life guards. Pictured is one of many huge Newfoundland rescue dogs who swim the race with a life guard and save people who look like they’re starting to drown. Thankfully, we didn’t see anyone drowning on the day, and the dogs seemed to be in more photos at the end of the race than the racers. The winner was Damien Cattin-Vidal in just 27 minutes and 43 seconds. My two friends came in at just over an hour with many of other breast-strokers, while the last person finished in just under 1 hour and 45 minutes. Well done to everyone!

Some of you may remember the menu translated into English that included salad of goat, greedy coffee and a stove of Saint Jacques. That menu was easy to giggle about (although perhaps the ‘rib steak of the butcher’ was not so funny for the butcher).

Now, along comes a drinks menu that’s a bit more alarming — and it hasn’t even been translated into English. Fellow ex-pat Aussie in France, Chris, sent me this.

He says:

This is from a little restaurant in Provence at Fontaine-de-Vaucluse. I know the price is only €2 but I think I’ll have a whisky.

And I’m right there with him.

As far as I’m aware, the words for ‘baby’ and ‘foetus’ in French are roughly the same (‘bebe‘ and ‘foetus‘). Is there some French joke I’m really not getting or is this just really strange?

Ever wanted to turn your old camper into a cow? Someone in Le Grand Bornand can help you. Although the eyes suggest the cow has been on the whacky tobaccy, the rest is in order, with a decent set of horns, four legs, an udder, a lovely tail hanging out the back, and a lovely big mouth and tongue chewing some hay. There’s even a tag on the ear.

The cow van has been on the hill up from Thônes to advertise last weekend’s Fête de l’Alpage (cow fields fete), which, as you can see from the photo, involved Reblochon cheese and probably a lot of cows. I missed it accidentally, but I’m not sure the fete could have been any better than the advertisement for the fete. In fact, I reckon I would have been let down if I’d gone and there were no other innovative cow art installations to take photos of. I’m looking forward to next year’s advertisement.

Yesterday, I was swimming in the pools pictured below. What heaven eh? What you’re looking at is a very large pool filled with hot spring water, and a smaller pool more suitable for doing laps. The big pool has a snail shell-shaped whirlpool, bubble jets under shallow seats, a big mushroom spilling water over the edges, sprays of water from pipes (ouch), and whole areas of bubbles under foot. All around are mountains and sunshine. What’s not to love?

I enjoyed the novelty and even emptied a bucket of cold water on myself after fifteen minutes in the Swedish sauna area. However, a two-day break of pampering spa time and treatments just isn’t for me. Don’t get me wrong, Les Bains de Lavey in Switzerland is a beautiful thermal spa with a very high standard of customer service, a wide choice of beauty treatments, and a lavish hotel with everything you’d expect, but I just couldn’t relax. Why? Because I’m not comfortable with nakedness in front of strangers. I struggle getting naked in front of the doctor.

Day One of my ‘Wellness’ package involved wearing just a paper thong and trying to gracefully get into a giant spa bath of water while the attendant watched. Once the spa time was over, there was the salt rub. Refreshing, sure, but lying for twenty minutes wrapped in plastic and a blanket is not my idea of relaxing, despite the calming music. I felt like I was in a body bag. Itches couldn’t be scratched and I was bored. Once unwrapped, the attendant watched me ungracefully dismount the table to rinse away the salt. I’m comfortable with my body, but I’m not comfortable parading in front of strangers covered in salt and a paper thong.

And then it got much worse. I had added a massage to my package and was greeted by a hunky young French man who, as he massaged my upper leg, told me to “let it go”. I said I was finding it difficult to relax. He suggested too much stress (nope), too much work (nope), and then in jest suggested not enough massages. Wrong again, young hunk. I couldn’t relax because I knew he’d soon be turning me over and seeing my paper-thonged body from the front while rubbing oil on my chest. Of course, to save my modesty, he had placed a towel over me at the start of the massage, which he held up above his eyes while I turned over half way through, then placed back down on me. But the towel doesn’t stay on. Why bother with the towel? He used it to cover my legs while he exposed my upper body and vice versa. Did I enjoy the massage? Kind of, but not really.

Day Two involved getting naked in front of the same attendant from Day One and some weird bath cocoon that sprayed hot water from above and underneath. I was covered in cocoa butter at the time, and was later slathered with mud by the same woman, then left wrapped up once more. No doubt many people love this, but it just wasn’t for me. Thankfully, the reflexology session later that day involved taking off my sandals only. Relief.

…would you see this offer of buying baguettes.

That’s right. Here is a sign offering a free baguette at the supermarket attached to the petrol station I was filling up my car at. Only in France.

Pictured is the memorial set up for the local resistance fighters during World War 2 who lost their battle and their lives. A quick overview: the plateau was the perfect location for the allies to drop a supply of ammunition and weapons for the resistance. However, the planes dropping supplies needed a full moon and good weather, so timing was limited. In February 1944, the first drop was planned, but the weather prevented most of the supplies from being dropped, and the locals had to wait for the next full moon a month later. By that time, the Nazis and Vichy government supporters were moving in. The March drop was made, but the deep snow made it difficult for the resistance fighters to get to their new supplies before they were killed.

Information boards are dotted around the plateau to explain some of the horrors and joys in more detail. The original chalet that was used as a hospital was burnt down by the Nazis, who also shot the sick and injured as they tried to escape. A single white cross in the middle of the cross-country ski circuit marks the spot where one of the injured resistance fighers was shot as he escape from the hospital.

Apart from the information boards, the plateau shows few signs of such horrors. Nature trails take visitors through fields of cows, entrusting them to close the gates after them, and the views from the hills of the plateau are beautiful. A number of refuges are open for lunch and overnight stays, and with today’s calmness juxtaposing the calamity of 1944, I felt like staying for more than the day.

The memorial pictured was built in the 70s after a competition was held for the best design. This one shows the shoulders and head of a person, with one arm raised and the other cut off, hampered by opponents. Outside are two black statues of people curled up — a stark contrast to the white, straight edges in the background.

Getting to the plateau is possible from Annecy or a back road near Entrémont, just down the road from St Jean de Sixt. My recommendation would be to take the road from Annecy. The back road is narrow, steep and scary enough in summer without the snow to make it slippery.