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.

Okay, I know this is just an unfortunate translation, but it made me giggle, wondering exactly what lads’ services the occupants of this car were offering. For non-Brits, ‘lads’ is a bit of a stereotype of those guys you see on bucks nights/stag nights/bachelor parties doing things that only they find amusing. Thankfully, La Clusaz isn’t a lad hotspot, and I’ve no idea where the name for this business came from. The services offered actually include rental property management, cleaning and taxi service.

In the same vein, French speakers can snicker when they go to England and see the restaurant chain Zizzi because in French a ‘zizi‘ is a little boy’s term for their private parts. That’s right: Brits are eating in a restaurant that roughly translates to ‘willy‘.

Of course, there are plenty in English alone, with my fellow Australians calling those things you wear on your feet ‘thongs’ (which in Britain is a skimpy type of underwear, while the footwear is called a ‘flip-flop’), and the things you wear in winter to keep your legs warm ‘pants’ (which the Brits call ‘trousers’ because ‘pants’ are, again, underwear).

Getting back to French language surprises, an American friend went into a French lingerie shop and said she needed ‘a slip’. In English, that would mean a skirt-like type of underwear. She soon discovered that it’s French for ‘underpants’, and she can only hope that the shopkeeper didn’t think she needed a pair that urgently. Have you stumbled across similar mix-ups?

There’s a bar in Annecy which specialises in looking grungy. The toilet walls have been repainted so many times that they’re about an inch thicker and the bar’s walls are plastered with posters of rebellion, such as this Sex Pistols poster right by the stage.

I love venues like this. They have that feeling of being the real thing: they’re all about the music, as opposed to a nightclub with its designer lights, strategic colour scheme, doof-doof music and manicured people conforming to the dress code.

Meanwhile, stepping into this grungy bar in Annecy feels like being transported to a New York dive bar. Denim and beer are perfectly at home among the peeling paint and plastic cups. And yet this grungy bar is still innately French. Right next to the Sex Pistols poster is a sign saying that food, including the typically French croque monsieur, is available all the time.

So between all that rebellion and rock, head-banging gig-goers can take five minutes to dine on their favourite French snack. I imagine a French bloke with his Doc Martins and heavy silver necklace tucking into his croque monsieur with a serviette to wipe his hands on after and perhaps a little salad garnish. It’s the French way.

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.

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.

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.

The influx of holiday-makers during French school holidays is obvious both in St Jean de Sixt (excessive tooting, car alarms sounding, drivers not stopping for pedestrians at crossings, general agro) and in the ski stations of La Clusaz and Le Grand Bornand (parents condoning kids pushing in queues, families up against other families in ski hire shops as the last bits of equipment go out the door, massive influx of one-piece ski outfits — often worn by non-skiers who seem to think being in a ski resort requires antarctic layering). So, here’s a sign from inside the La Balme télécabine/bubble/gondola. See if you can identify its meaning before scrolling down.

Here’s what it could mean.

1. Don’t wear a business shirt and pants in a ski resort unless you want to look even more out of place than those people trying to fit in (sometimes literally) with their 80s one-piece ski suits.
2. That goes for your shoes too.
3. Don’t stand when the cabin is empty.

Of course, if you know the La Balme télécabine, you’d know that there are no seats at all! So, on those days when the cabin is extremely crowded (so, that would be ten less than the ‘allowed’ number, which strikes fear in my heart) and you’re stuck in a position that was comfortable for the first minute but not for the remaining fourteen, with the man next to you breathing foul breath on you, this sign is rather taunting: “Look how much space this man in a suit and business shoes has in his cabin, which has seats, unlike yours, and he’s not even bothered about sitting.” How I’d like to change places with him on those occasions.

By now, you’ve no doubt figured out (or read) that this sign requests that you do not lean against the door. But let’s face it, if you haven’t figured out that you’re wearing the wrong outfit while taking a télécabine to the pistes, you’re probably not going to notice this sign anyway. Consider going home.

More tourist tests soon.

I love shopping when the sales are on, and I love that the new stock sits expensively beside the cut-price old stock so that I can prove to myself that I’m getting a bonafide bargain. Sometimes, I stray to the new stock and end up spending way more than I intended. That’s the trick, isn’t it? Shopkeepers lure you in with the promise of amazing bargains in the hope that you will rid them of old stock and buy some of this shiny new stuff, suggestively placed right next to the bargain bins, while you’re at it.

Apparently, not all shops do this. I came across this sign in a shop in Annecy having a ‘total stocktake sale’ yesterday. The sign says: “Don’t touch the new collection. Thanks.” If you’re good at French, you might notice there’s a missing letter in “novelle” which should be “nouvelle”. Racks of old clothes formed a horseshoe shape around this central rack of new clothes, and two bins of mixed accessories right in front of it. You could say it was the centrepiece, drawing the attention of every shopper, from bargain-hunters to aimless browsers. Are they not cutting off their nose to spite their face in this shop? Why put the new stock on the shop floor if you don’t want people to touch it? Will jeans break if someone touches them? I touched them and the woman adding more sale prices a few racks away didn’t say a thing. No alarms went off and the world carried on.

Okay, we’re all familiar with the dog in a bag fashion statement, but that’s for the likes of Paris Hilton, right? Wrong. If your image of a dog in a bag is one of a white fluffy thing in a bling bag on an equally bling shoulder, think again.

Yesterday, a friend in my car snapped this photo of a dog in a bag. Yes, that fluffy blur is actually a black poodle, but we couldn’t catch up to the tough guy on the chopper-style motorbike because he was whizzing around so fast. So, here’s the blur instead, and you’ll just have to trust me on this one. Not only is that a dog in his bag, but it’s a bit of a pink bag for a dude in black on a slick motorbike. Could it be his girlfriend’s dog in a bag? Has he been asked to transport said dog from one location to another? And since it comes with it’s own handy carry-case, perhaps he just popped the girly bag over his shoulders and started up his engine. Who knows.

Now, my friend mentioned that she had just seen a twin-dog bag in Leipzig on a goth who was on his way to a goth festival  happening there last weekend. He was all decked out in a ‘romantic’ goth outfit, which apparently consisted of black, plus white ruffles—kind of lucky considering both dogs were white. They matched his outfit. Dog-in-a-bag fashion continues! Apparently, they were well behaved. I’m guessing they know that their owner is a goth and are so scared he might dye their hair black too that they’re as good as gold when he’s around.

Meanwhile, summertime in the Alps signals the start of dog-in-a-bag season. A few years ago at the Fete du Reblochon in La Clusaz, I saw this (sunburnt) lady checking the dog in a backpack  on her partner’s back. Did they perhaps start the non-bling dog-in-a-backpack alternative to the bling dog-in-a-bag fashion? Again, who knows. What I do know is that the dog on the motorbike seemed pretty relaxed about the whole thing. His mate in La Clusaz, on the other hand, seemed a bit embarrassed. Black motorbike dog is cool.