Le Franco Phoney

Before you study this photo, look at the logo for my blog. A beret-wearing cow with a curly moustache, holding wine and a baguette. It’s missing a bike and a stripy top, but it’s pretty stereotypical of the French. I did once see a man in a stripy top riding a bike with a baguette in his backpack, but only once. I’ve done a mean thing and embraced an unfair stereotype about the French.

Now, let me rewind a little. When I first arrived in France and spoke only English, the most I could explain to people was “Australian”, complete with full Aussie accent and a finger pointing back at myself. Those who finally figured it out would usually say “Ahh, kangourou” (because the French do spell it differently), and just in case I didn’t understand the exact same pronunciation, they would often mimic a kangaroo with their hands pulled up near their chest. I love this aspect of human nature, and I’ve used a variety of hand gestures to mimic various words I don’t know in French when trying to communicate.

However, none of those French people ever said “Ahh cactus” for a reason.

I can only guess that some French man with no moustache who doesn’t like bread, refuses to own a bike and prefers soft drink to wine whilst wearing only solid colours without lines has got his revenge on at least one nation who keeps the French stereotypes alive. I can hear him now: “Bof! Zeez or-strah-lianz sink zhey are so smart. I will make up a stupit stereotype about zhem.”

And so, here is an American native plant stuck next to a sign about kangaroos. Good work, Jean-Michele (or Jean-Paul, or Jean-Philippe or Jean-Pierre or whatever his double-barrelled name is). I, for one, deserve it.

Coming back a few days ago from the tropical weather of Queensland, Australia, I was pleasantly surprised to see snow falling from the sky on my first morning back. Of course, it’s not winter yet, and it might all melt, but there’s more snow predicted for the foreseeable future, so perhaps the winter base is laying its foundations.

Les impressive was the loss of my suitcase, which was discovered spending more time in Malaysia than my flight’s three-hour stopover. When it eventually arrived two days later, the frustrated delivery man asked me why I hadn’t answered my phone: he had been lost and had driven for a very long time trying to find my place. He managed the smallest grin when I pointed to the suitcase and explained that the charger was in there.

Meanwhile, Bruno the cat has been busy killing small furry things which I think are voles. He’s been leaving them on the doorsteps of the empty apartments in the same building, totalling nineteen bodies and three heads, plus a bird which he somehow managed to sneak inside when his temporary carer wasn’t looking. I’m not sure just how many he left on my own doorstep while I was away, but it’s clear that he has adapted well to life in the mountains. That is, at least, until this white stuff starts settling.

The annual ski sale by the ski shops — the braderie — takes place in La Clusaz this weekend. This is where the shopkeepers all pile into a big public building and sell off any old stock at reduced rates. At the moment, La Clusaz is quiet, with many restaurants and shops still closed between seasons. All this will change by Friday when locals from near and afar arrive to bag themselves a bargain. This is definitely the time to buy up big and pay little, so if you’re nearby, you might consider dropping in to see what’s on offer. I’ll be looking for fat skis while Bruno bemoans the return of the snow.

I was chatting with some friends the other day who said they were in the supermarket when an English song started playing on the overhead radio. It wasn’t just any song: it was Lilly Allen’s F*ck you very much. French families and teenagers were wandering around the supermarket while Lilly was singing expletives. Nobody batted an eyelid apart from my English friends who chuckled at the situation. I understand from living here that not all French people speak English, but many do — and very well too, and surely someone at the supermarket’s head office — where the songs are, I presume, chosen and approved — must have seen the song title and realised that even though the swearing is not in French, it’s still not something customers would expect to hear when picking up their cheese and bread.

It reminded me of the time I was in the waiting room of a medical centre in La Clusaz. Music was playing and I listened to various French singers crooning on the radio about l’amour and les oiseaux (because the French always sing about birds). Then a Nirvana song came on. There I was, sitting with little French kids, listening to “Rape Me”. I shouldn’t be surprised, as this seems to be the most popular Nirvana song on that particular radio station and it was inevitable that it came on, but I when I thought about hearing that song in a waiting room in England or Australia, I also imagined the station quickly being switched by the receptionist. Meanwhile, here in La Clusaz, the song was only interrupted by a doctor calling my name.

Yes, this is France and French is the national language. No wonder nobody changed the radio station! But when I try to speak the language, I’m often greeted with frowns or shrugs from those who don’t have any tolerance for my bad French. When I visited the local vet the other day and tried to describe a tube of liquid that my itchy-eared cat, Bruno, needs, the receptionist frowned upon hearing my accent and my inability to remember the name of the product. I guess she figured this was going to be hard work. Her expression seemed to say (in French, of course): “Find another vet.” But before I’d said more than ten words, a kitten ran over her desk and I found myself gushing at how cute it was. She too started gushing like a proud mum, explaining that the cat had been dumped in a bag at the front door and that she thought he colleague would adopt the kitten when she came back from holidays. We had a ten minute chat about the kitten before I finally explained Bruno’s needs. She came back with the right medication and we wished each other a good afternoon before I left.

So, it seems that kittens build bridges between locals and strangers. Thanks Herisson (the kitten’s name — Hedgehog because his fur was spiky). I’m not sure Bruno is all that grateful when he feels the gush of yellow liquid in his ears, but I am at least.

1. Annecy. Last week, Annecy won the national contest to see which French city could bid for the 2018 winter Olympics. Congratulations to everyone involved so far. I’ll keep my fingers crossed until 2010 when the winning city is announced.

2. Candide Thovex was noticeably absent at the La Clusaz Free Sessions. He’s been busy working on his new project, Candide Kamera. The first video is beautifully shot, with a great opening scene looking down to Geneva airport, lots of amazing freeriding, and just a few tricks thrown in during filming. There’s also some footage of him being dragged out of a snowy river by his perplexed-looking friend. I wasn’t too keen on the ending, which reverts back to his old style, but at least he kept the time lapse footage to about three seconds, and there’s only one ‘nature’ scene of some deer. Check out the vid:

Interestingly, Candide’s website has a ‘coming soon’ page for the Candide Invitational. Does this mean there will be more in the future?

3. Bruno. Who is Bruno? Bruno is my cat, and despite this week’s new snowfall, it’s clear that spring is on the way because he has brought me his first mouse for the year. Not bad for a fourteen year-old, but I’d prefer no mouse and more winter.

I woke up a few mornings ago to discover that the green grass was covered with a blanket of white, sparkling snow. Across the road from my place, a group of friends were having a snowball fight and one wandered further away to kick snow for the dogs to play with. See? Even the dogs love the snow, although Bruno, my cat, is less than happy about it.

Anyway, what really makes it officially winter is what happened on Saturday night. We ventured up to the carpark at La Balme, which is normally empty after dark in November. That all changes when there’s fresh snow in the vast open space. We made it up the slippery, snowy road that leads to the car park and discovered another car was already there. We saw its headlights go from side to side: its driver had the same thing in mind — handbrake turns! It’s been years since I’ve been in a car skidding sideways in the snow, and I was a little apprehensive, but it was great fun. We took it in turns with the other car to slide from one end of the car park to the other, fishtailing all the way, and ending with a 180-degree slide to go back again for more.

After three circuits, four more cars arrived. Now, the car park is big, but it’s not really big enough for six cars. No worries, the delivery van (!) driver took his van to the lower, smaller car park and went crazy there, leaving five of us all trying to hog the car park’s remaining untouched snow. After many more slides, we left the others to it: it was just too crowded, and I think we both felt a bit too old in such a young crowd. It was definitely one of those great relive-a-teenage-pastime moments, but better than that, I felt really local, with the others waving to us and smiles all around. It’s rare that the carpark is completely free of cars in winter, and even rarer for so much snow to fall to cause a spray of snow over the entire car when sliding sideways. This must earmark the start of winter.

Tomorrow, I will be snowboarding down one of the closed runs and catching freshies all day. Another sure sign that it’s winter! Bring on the snow.

For the past week, I’ve had the company of a medium-sized, slightly green, patterned lizard. My French book on animals tells me it’s a Lézard des Souches (a sand lizard). Bruno the cat brought me the lizard as a gift — his third this summer. Bruno is spritely for a cat of fourteen years, capable of spotting lizards from a-far and catching them even when they drop their tail in an effort to escape him. The first lizard was the largest at around 25cm (without her tail — and yes, it was female, as the female of the species are a lovely bright green), and relatively easy to catch with the help of a cloth: dump the cloth on the lizard and it stops moving; pick up the cloth with the lizard inside and dump the lizard back outside while the cat is still hunting for the lizard indoors. Result! The second lizard was smaller and also easy to catch using this method. The third lizard, however, found the narrow gap under my fridge before I had chance to catch him.

About twice a day, I’ve been hearing the lizard scampering around under my fridge, but he never came from under there long enough for me to catch him. I was worried he might die of fright: bad for the lizard and bad for the smell of my place. I offered him food: banana (stupid when I think about it – a lizard could never peel a banana to try the contents); some sliced apple; a piece of plum; a dead fly; a white flower, and a yellow weed. He wouldn’t come out. I found myself pulling apart the cupboard mounts next to the fridge in case he was stuck and unable to get out the way he got in. Still nothing. A fly even flew down under the cupboard and survived without being eaten by the lizard. Now, if you have to live with a lizard, the least it can do is eat the flies. Disappointed with the un-lizardness of my new lizard friend, I gave up trying to help him, and accepted I had a new housemate.

Today, day seven, the lizard took the plunge into the open space and the cat pounced immediately, taking less than a second to jump from his curled-up-asleep position on the couch to the fridge area. I think the cat landed his ample girth on top of the lizard, as, by the time I pounced on the cat in much the same fashion as he had pounced on the lizard, the lizard seemed to be pinned under his belly, without harm. Good one Bruno. As I lifted the cat off him, the lizard scurried into the dead end of the bathroom. I dumped the cat outside and caught the lizard. He did what the other two lizards had done: he hissed at me with his toothless mouth, then played dead, which is handy for catching them really. I noticed his tail had already regrown about 3cm, although it lacked proper colour. I ushered the cat inside while I dumped the lizard in a rock garden. Clueless to what I had in my cloth, Bruno ran back in and sniffed around near the fridge. He still is, and that was hours ago. I suspect he will keep looking for days, poor thing.