Le Franco Phoney

Yes, apparently the French aren’t happy with just eating fully-grown snails. Now, you can buy snail eggs. I read about this in a magazine a few weeks ago and decided to keep the article as a worthy snippet for my blog.
The words basically say that in these times of ‘thin cows’ and with the financial crisis, if you want to impress your friends at Christmas, why not replace fish caviar with snail caviar. At only €49 for 30 grams, it’s a bargain (apparently). I’m struggling to think of any eggs I’d like to eat less than snail eggs. I’m struggling to justify spending anything like that amount of money for the ‘privilege’ of doing so. Just. Yuck.

Happy New Year too.

There are lots of cool stories about wildlife in the alps, like the dahu, pictured to the left. The dahu, now extinct, had four legs and looked a bit like a mountain goat, but it had one important difference. As it grew to full size, two of its legs grew longer than the other two, allowing it to walk on steep mountains and stay completely upright. They became extinct because they were too easy to catch. The French folk loved the taste of the dahu, so they would creep up behind one and say, “Dahu, dahu…” and the dahu would hear its name and turn around. However, with the two longer legs now being the uphill legs, it would fall over straight away, allowing the hunters to catch them very easily!

By now, you may have guessed that the dahu is not a real animal. It’s a legendary story, but sadly just a story about a mythical creature that never existed. There’s even a piste here in La Clusaz called ‘Dahu’, which is odd, as it’s a pretty flat access track.

And then there’s the marmot. Now, I first learnt of the marmot during my first season as a ski bum. I had seen these plush soft toys in the shops that looked like an American gopher, and just presumed that’s what they were. Then people started talking about marmots. They sleep through the cold part of winter, waking up in April to bask in the sun on the rocks re-emerging from the melting snow. I spent four seasons looking for a marmot. I heard they hung out under one of the chairlifts in Meribel, and I checked each rock beneath the chair every time I was on it. I never saw a marmot.

By my fifth season, I was well and truly convinced that the marmot was a made-up animal — a marketing ploy by the French tourism board to sell plush toys (see photo to the right, above) to unsuspecting tourists who were destined never to see a marmot in real life, since they didn’t actually exist.

And then, it happened. I saw a marmot. Actually, I saw two! Some friends and I had headed over to Chamonix late in the season. When we stopped for lunch, one of them pointed out the marmots, busily arranging some scraps of food that the chef must have left for them. They were a level below our outdoor eating area, which was surrounded by perspex. So, I tried to take a photo. The result, sadly, is lacking clarity due to reflection and distance, but here it is (pictured to the right). I decided it needs this red star around the marmot just to make it clear.

So, last summer, I decided to go on a marmot mission. I put my walking shoes on and armed myself with my (pre-SLR) instant camera and food supplies and I walked to the hills! I walked and walked and never saw a marmot. I sat on a rock and ate my packed lunch, waiting for a marmot to poke its head out. Nothing. I had already waited for a few hours and I was getting bored. Lots of other people were wandering around so I presumed that the marmots had gone into hiding until everyone went away. Resigned to not seeing a marmot, I descended the rocks and hills. And then — in the distance — I saw one! It hadn’t seen me and it was sitting on a rock right next to a path. My luck was in! I got my camera out and took a photo from afar. Alas, the zoom on my old instant digital camera was hopeless and I knew the photo would be like a Loch Ness monster sighting — kind of small and blotchy and a little bit blurry (see photo to the left). Taking small, slow steps, I honed in on the marmot. Too late! It saw me and scurried under a rock. “No worries,” I thought, “I can wait a bit longer: it’s a sunny day.” So I sat on a close-by rock and waited. And waited. And waited. The camera was propped by my eye so I didn’t have to make any sudden movements when it did return. Finally, its little nose emerged, followed by the rest of its body. And just as it did, a family of tourists approached. It was a catch-22: if I had asked them to wait, the marmot would have heard me and run away again, and if they got any closer, the marmot would have heard them and run away again. And it did. So, I sat and I waited again. And I waited. My arm muscles grew sore from holding my camera by my eye, so I put my arm down for a moment. And of course, the marmot returned before I had put the camera back near my eye. I moved my arm slightly, in an effort to fluke a photo without it being by my eye, and the marmot saw and ran back in. So I gave up and went home.

I decided today that I would not let the marmot beat me. I wanted to take a proper photo of a marmot now that I had a proper camera and a few hours to spare. So, I set off late in the afternoon and headed for a different area, which is normally a lovely piste on the way down from the La Balme ski area. I passed some cows that were roaming un-fenced near their farm and watched as a dog herded them. The cows were running to avoid his wrath and I continued up the hill. I passed some giant, man-made rock sculpture. I spotted a gardening glove — odd for an area of rocks and cattle, but perhaps it was a left-over the man-made rock sculpting. I spotted a disposable camera. I guess someone fell over in the snow during winter and lost it. I stepped over a variety of types of poo. I spotted a bone, which to me, looked like the remains of a goat’s tail bone. Perhaps one of the wolves I’ve heard about had eaten it when it strayed from its herd. I had reached as far as I wanted to go and still hadn’t seen a marmot. I decided to return home, defeated again by the marmot. As I walked towards a rise, a little red-brown slinky thing appeared from the other side of the rise. A marmot! We both froze and stared at each other. As I raised my camera, the marmot turned around and slinked away to another rock and watched me cautiously. There was grass in the way and it was much further away than the other marmot had been, but I snapped a photo as it contemplated climbing another rock (see dodgy photo to the right). As soon as I did, it ran out of sight. I went past the rock it had been on and found one to sit on, hoping it would emerge. Alas, the marmot stayed in hiding and I eventually gave up again.

So, that’s three photos which all look a bit like the dodgy Lock Ness monster photos we’ve all seen. If I hadn’t seen the little buggers scurrying around each time I took my dodgy photos, I would still be thinking a marmot is as mythical as the dahu or just a French marketing ploy to sell plush animals to tourists. And of all my friends who have seen marmots, none of them have photos. Coincidence? I think not. Google has images of marmots. Here’s one of them (see left). But Google also produced images of dahus and they never really lived. So, the marmot: fake or real? Judge for yourself.

Nothing says ‘You live in the country’ quite like experiencing the local fairs. If donkey racing at the Fête du Reblochon was not enough, last weekend’s fair in Thônes, the Foire de la Saint Maurice, topped it off. Now, just to give you a bit of background, the 22nd of September is the memorial day for this particular saint, who is the patron of many and varied things, including soldiers, weavers and, of all things, cramps. Thanks, St. M, but I still get terrible cramps in my right foot when surfing, so can you do something about that please. Eating a banana before surfing just doesn’t seem to work anymore.

Anyway, back to the fair. Thônes, pronounced ‘tone’, is a small village between Annecy and La Clusaz. Its highlights are tours of a local small cheese factory, a steep rock climbing area, and a choice of two supermarkets. Parking is free: it’s not a busy place. But that all changes with the fair. The never-used car park at the end of town, that sometimes has a truck parked in it while the driver takes a sleep break, was completely full of cars, with fair-goers making full use of the free shuttle bus to town. The roads were lined with parked cars, but I decided, being more local than many of the visitors, that I should try my luck in the Lidl car park. This involved going through two ‘No entry’ gates, which others with the same thoughts as me had kindly left open. Anyway, the signs are more of a suggestion than an order. My luck was in and I parked my car.

The fair itself offered the usual regional stands: sausages, cheese, cheap clothes and sweets. The rural aspect of the fair was reflected in the row of horses tethered outside the town hall. But three other things really made it stand out as a rural fair for me:

1. tractors for sale;
2. cows for sale; and,
3. the hay bale competition.

Yes, that’s right, a hay bale competition. Sadly, I did not have my camera to capture the moment, but the competition was a bit like a pole vault competition, except instead of people vaulting themselves over the teetering horizontal pole, they were chucking over bales of hay. I think I must have arrived at the time when competition was fierce, as the pole was high and the bales were low: someone must have made some freak high bale throw and nobody else could attain the same height. I couldn’t stand the tension in the crowd and opted for a crepe instead. Bring on the apple and donkey fête in Serraval next weekend!

In a bit of a role reversal, I went to England for the weekend with a French man. Hearing his observations about London and Cambridge — the two cities we visited — brought a smile to my face as I remembered thinking some of those same thoughts when I first moved to the UK years ago. The full English breakfast, or ‘fry-up‘, was a big hit, as was Camden market. The new, funky Stables area of the market, complete with wi-fi café and private stables for each group, decked out with chairs and tables, impressed us both.

A low point was using the Tube. I asked why. He said it was the smell. I no longer notice the smell and I had forgotten it had one. He noticed a tube stop called Ealing Broadway and said: ‘Ealing. Does that mean you can go there and get better?’ If you add an ‘h’ to the front of Ealing, you will see what he was getting at. French people don’t pronounce ‘h’s, so he had figured out that Ealing Broadway was a place you could go to for healing.

Once in town, he didn’t understand why people queued when there was room further ahead or why nobody in the shops replied to him when he said ‘bye bye’ to them on our way out. In France, it’s polite to say hello and goodbye, and even nicer to thank the shopkeeper whether you buy something or not. In England, shop staff don’t bother making eye contact with you, let alone greet you on your way in or out! Regardless, he could not break the habit and I heard ‘bye bye’ followed by silence many times over the weekend.

Walking in central London, the French man was weary and he wanted to stop for a drink in a ‘traditional English pub’, so I took him to the first small, dark pub we came across. ‘No,’ he said, ‘this is too dark.’ So, I took him to a trendy wine bar. ‘But this doesn’t feel like a pub,’ he said. I explained that English pubs were traditionally small and dark, but he wasn’t happy until we found a less-dark pub. He tried a half-pint of London Pride, commenting that it was warm before falling asleep in his chair with a few drops left in the glass. I was on the phone arranging to meet a friend and hadn’t noticed his closed eyes. Within minutes, the pub landlord was hassling me to wake him up or get out. The sleepy French man felt refreshed from his few minutes of respite and we continued on to Trafalgar Square. Any beer he consumed after that point was always something marked as Extra Cold.

In Cambridge, he wanted to find out more about a product created by university students. We split so that I could shop while he went to a college for more information. We met an hour later and he looked dejected. ‘I see that British red tape is as bad as French,’ he said, explaining that he had been told from one college to go to another college, who then told him to go back to the first one. He was, however, given a course outline for post-graduate studies! He has no intention to study in Cambridge, but it’s good to see the British staff are on the ball for luring in foreign students. Highlights were, apparently, the Mathematical Bridge on our punting trip, bacon, and brown sauce (thanks to the lovely Railway Lodge, where we stayed). Speaking of food, Marmite joined warm beer, the Tube and British weather as elements of the UK that the French man hopes to avoid on his next UK visit. Fry-ups and Krispy Kreme donuts will, however, be sought out!

Last Saturday night signalled the second Balade au Clair de Lune (a walk during the full moon) in La Clusaz, which means all the street lights in the village centre were turned off and the place was lit, instead, with just the moon light and candles dotted all over town. The river that runs through town had candles placed on lots of rocks poking up out of the water, and street entertainment (bands, comedians etc.) was plentiful.

Pictured is a bike with sparks flying off it—one of the roving acts. I particularly like how, after the entertainers had asked everyone to stand back so they didn’t get burnt, a family on the right thought it appropriate to stick their kid on the road in a pusher. No escape for the kid!

Walking around and watching some of the family entertainment, I was a bit shocked when one of the guys dressed up as a television presenter (with his waist up inside a box that looked like a television) started to pretend to snort cocaine through his cigar as part of his act. I guess the kids watching didn’t get it, and according to my French friend who watched with me: “This is France! Making fun of snorting cocaine is acceptable.” I suppose I should have realised this after seeing a television advertisement one morning for shower gel that involved a nude woman and close-ups of her breasts. But who am I to judge? The night was as much of a success as the shower gel no doubt is.

August in La Clusaz means one thing: cheese. The Fete du Reblochon is held annually, and this year, it celebrated 50 years of enjoying AOC status, which means any cheese sold under the name of Reblochon must be made locally. The fete starts at midday with crazy people attempting to ski down a white, plastic sheet with ancient wooden skis in temperatures hovering around the mid-thirties. Once they’re done, this turns into a giant slide for kids, who spend the rest of the day — and the evening — rolling down it. With cows, goats and donkeys dotted around, traditional bands play traditional music while traditional dancers wear traditional costume and bounce around on the traditional stage.

Meanwhile, the locals start drinking.

A parade consisting of various farmyard animals and local floats makes its way through town in the afternoon, while displays of cheese-making, wool-spinning and ancient bread-making are going on beside the stage and bar.

Meanwhile, the locals keep drinking.

Plates of cheese and tartiflette are served to the masses, who spend their time eating, drinking and wandering around the displays, farmyard animals, wood-chopping exhibitions and entertainment they can participate in. It’s all good fun for kids, adults, farmers and city-dwellers alike.

Meanwhile, the locals are drunk…and probably serving behind the bar.

Before the sun went down this year, a donkey race was held with various high-standing members of the community participating as jockeys (a fireman, a policeman, a farmer, a ski instructor…and a few others of similarly respected jobs). Everyone was invited to bet on a jockey, but the real fun was watching the stubborn donkeys find new ways of refusing to move.

Meanwhile, the locals took the opportunity to drink some more while the bar wasn’t busy.

As night fell, the band played on and the bar was the place to be. Alas, La Clusaz is in the mountains and by midnight, most people had departed to find somewhere warmer indoors.

The locals, however, probably kept drinking after the rest of us left. The Fete du Reblochon is an absolute treat.

The first Saturday in August is not a good afternoon to drive to Annecy: the Fete du Lac — involving ninety minutes of fireworks — ensures the roads are busy from midday, with some central roads blocked off later in the day. The fireworks, however, are well worth the traffic. Grandstand seats are constructed around the city end of the lake and for those lucky enough to get a seat (they’re expensive and they sell out quickly), an abundance of entertainment happens along the lakeside, invisible to the masses of people without a grandstand seat.

I was lucky enough to view the fireworks from the closest apartment block to the lake — on a floor high enough to see the fireworks from the lake up. This year’s theme was fireworks around the world. The Australian fireworks went off to the sounds of Kylie Minogue and AC/DC, while Scotland, of course, had bagpipes. The French used red, white and blue fireworks to match their flag, but I wonder how they feel about those colours also being used on the US flag, the British flag, the Australian Flag, the New Zealand flag and the Netherlands flag, just to name a few.

I captured some of the fireworks with my camera, although the long exposure I was using meant that the loveheart fireworks did not really look like lovehearts. I did, however, capture a wall of gold, fireworks that glittered or shined on their way down (not that you can see this in a still photo), fireworks that had mini balls of fireworks explode at their ends, and the grand finale that lit up the sky for ten minutes and left a cloud of smoke when the courtesy lights came on for those in the grandstand to depart. The night costs millions of Euros and I have truly never seen such amazing fireworks as those displayed each year at the Fete du Lac.

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I’m doing a road trip from the South East of France to the South West, and I’ve noticed a few things. Only in rural France…

…do you see the rebelious elderly block off a car park by parking their car across the entrance so they can play patonque (a bit like lawn bowls but without the grass);

…can you speed through a village (30km/h zone) at almost double the limit and have the police wave a thanks to you when you slow down because they’re crossing at a zebra crossing;

…are you required to stop when travelling on some main roads to give way to traffic from a side street on your right because of an ancient French law;

…do you see every signpost framed and mounted on wood just because they’ve got so much of the stuff;

…do they set up automated lights for a ten-metre stretch of roadwork, which the locals ignore and drive through when the light is red because the lights take five minutes to change to roadwork-green (ie, orange);

…do you see a family of four park their car by the side of the road, fold out their picnic table/chair set and have a picnic next to their car when there is a perfectly good nature reserve right next to them (with a picnic table free for use).

July 14 — Bastille Day — in France is just like Guy Fawkes day in the UK: it involves a ridiculous amount of fireworks, entertainment for the kids, a variety of home-fireworks-related injuries, and it has something to do with independence from the monarchy.

I headed down to Annecy early and managed to go wakeboarding before the festivities began. While we were on the lake, we saw a windsurfer: a rare sight on the calm Lake Annecy.

Before the fireworks began, the kids (including us big ones) were kept entertained with wandering minstrels playing various household items as drums and rollerbladers in crazy outfits, along with fire-throwing clowns and an Indian band with twinkling costumes. The fireworks were the typical mixture of some really brilliant or pretty explosions slotted in between a range of mediocre ones, which leads me to wonder why anyone bothers with the ’stocking filler’ standard fireworks when they could just do ten minutes of amazing stuff and save everyone about half an hour of staring at a sky filled with the same old same old.

When the fireworks finished, the ‘party’ began. This mostly involved teenagers trying not to take their eyes out while lighting bangers and other small fireworks in amongst a crowd of people watching a band on the makeshift stage in the park by the lake. I took a photo of the band. They sounded like a German Octoberfest band but they looked far cooler with their green laser lights. They even managed to attract some dolphin balloons along to watch. We went for ice cream instead.

The steering on my car felt funny this morning so I stopped and saw a flat front tyre. I was pretty sure driving on it would ruin the tyre and the wheel, but being impatient, I decided to drive in first gear to the close-by garage with an air pump. Within ten metres, the wheel started making loud noises, and the farmer from across the road looked over. He saw the tyre and said he had an air pump. Actually, I didn’t understand his French, but he motioned me to the next driveway where he pulled out an air pump to fill the tyre. Sadly, it stayed flat so I got out my spare tyre. Old VW Golfs have this ‘compact’ tyre-wheel combo that you fill up to a high pressure and drive at a moderate speed to the closest tyre shop. It saves room and weight, but this farmer and his mate who arrived were not convinced. They told me to get one of my winter tyres. I sprinted back up the road, then realised my keys were in the car. It was 25 degrees outside so I was baking. I walked back down, collected the keys, walked back up, collected the tyre, and walked back down with my hands  covered in grease from the tyre.

When I got back, two problems arose: firstly, the snow tyre had no wheel attached and the farmers had no tools to switch tyres; and secondly, the ratchet thingy that came with my car did not fit the wheel nuts, so the wheel was stuck on the car anyway. Eventually, one of the farmers realised that the nuts had plastic covers on them and that the ratchet thingy was indeed the right size. So, back to the emergency wheel/tyre. The two farmers popped it on, tightened it up and discovered it too was flat. They pumped in some air and the tyre inflated. Relief! The lovely farmers spent more than an hour sorting out a tyre for a girl they didn’t even know. Of course, this happened at midday, which meant I’d have to wait until 2pm before the shops re-opened from lunch. No worries: it was already after 1pm by the time the emergency wheel went on and I repacked my car’s boot to fit the flat tyre, then loaded the winter tyre in the back seat (that tyre was of no use to anyone, but it had a lovely day cruising Annecy with the roof down as my passenger).

The closest tyre shop is ten minutes away. I managed to take sixteen minutes on my emergency tyre, driving at a moderate speed and waving cars past, so I didn’t have long to wait until 2pm. A boy there told me I would have to buy two new front tyres (the law in France states that your front two tyres must be the same model and your back two tyres must be the same model, even if the two at the back are different from the two at the front). I asked him why they couldn’t just repair my existing tyre. He said that when tyres get “close” to not being road-worthy, the shop is legally bound to change them. When I told him they were only five months old, he backed down, and eventually, his boss fixed the problem (something to do with the seal between the tyre and the wheel) and charged me €15 which probably went straight into his pocket since no receipt was offered or given (or requested - I really didn’t care at this point). I chucked the ‘compact’ tyre back in the boot and decided close enough was good enough when trying to get the jack back in the tiny compartment with the spare.

The two farmers were so generous their precious time, yet these two blokes just saw a presumably clueless girl and tried to make a profit. Anyway, I now know how to change my (rather specific) spare wheel and that I can hold my ground against less generous French men. I might make the farmers a cake or something. Suggestions welcome!