Le Franco Phoney

In the lead-up to Christmas day, I was excited to have my very own, real, potted Christmas tree for the first time in my life. Strange, you might think, that someone can reach their thirties and never have had a real Christmas tree despite celebrating the holiday every year of their life, but I guess the heat in Australia always put my Mum off buying a real one, and the reliable plastic one was easy to put up and didn’t drop needles all over the place. The neighbours in Australia had a white Christmas tree, which now seems a bit peculiar, given the warmth of summer had usually kicked in, and while the white Christmas tree sat in their front window, we’d be having water fights on the hot pavement.

Not only had I not ever had a real Christmas tree until last Christmas, but for the previous five years, I had missed out on anything resembling a Christmas tree due to my last few abodes being too small or poorly laid out to fit one in. I was determined to change that last year, and on the first day of December, I was the proud owner of a Canadian pine tree. I decorated it with tinsel, baubles, chocolate bells and my own home-made gingerbread. I marvelled at it every morning and again every afternoon when I turned the lights on. I watered the pot and lovingly laid Christmas presents under this wonderful thing that twinkled and grew right there in my loungeroom. It was there for me when I needed a tree. It still looked lovely on Christmas Day, although some of the gingerbread and chocolates had gone missing by then.

Twelve days later, I knew I should have taken the Christmas tree outside, but it was so pretty, I left it inside. Besides, I needed to find someone who had room to plant it. I didn’t want to take it to the forest and plant it just in case it introduced any non-native tree problems. And I specifically wanted a potted Christmas tree that could be replanted because I always feel so sad when I see these once lovely, proudly decorated trees stripped of all those decorations and tossed on a cold balcony to die and eventually be removed when someone can be bothered. I loved my tree so much that I took my time to find a new home for it, and after a few attempts, a family in La Clusaz offered to take it and plant it in their yard. All I had to do now was undress the decorations from the tree and get it to their yard.

I undressed the tree tonight. In the process, most of the lower branches dropped the few remaining needles that hadn’t already dropped off, while the needles from the upper branches trickled through the tree with every bauble removal. I think the tree is dead. A visiting friend helped me get it outside, and it’s now dumped in the snow, surrounded by its own needles. Accuse me of having an overactive imagination, but seeing that tree out there tonight was like seeing a nearly-dead body, with the needles being the blood leaking from the body. And I feel guilty. I’ve killed the tree that brought me so much happiness in December! Had I found it a home earlier and not been so selfish, the tree might still be alive, nay, thriving today! Instead, I now have a dead tree in my front yard — the one thing that I wanted to avoid doing. Worse still, I know I’ll be cursing it dropping more needles when it goes to the tip in the back of a car. I know a Christmas tree is probably one of the most objectified things in the world, but I wanted to make sure mine would revert back to just a tree once Christmas passed. So, Christmas tree, this is your blog entry, to say thank you for the lovely December, and I’m so sorry for killing you.

Should I just get a plastic tree next year?

In France, the 6th of January, Epiphany, is celebrated with a sweet treat. La galette des Rois (wafer of the kings) is a puff pastry pie-like thing with a layer of almond paste, known as frangipane, sandwiched between the pastry. It’s a special cake because it contains a porcelain figurine (now usually something plastic), which entitles the finder to be king of the household for the day.

Some history of the cake can be found here, but I’d prefer to talk about the here and now. Pictured is my very own wafer of the kings, which I bought at the local bakery yesterday. As you can see, it’s more like a pie than a wafer, and you get more than just a baked good when you buy this beast. Apart from the hidden figurine, the cake also comes with a cardboard crown for whoever finds the figurine to wear for the day. It also comes in this cool paper bag which allows the pie to be lightly heated in a microwave without losing its crispness.

My bag contained logos from the Savoyarde region. You can see there’s the Savoie coat of arms in the centre, a skier on the left, a local flower, a chalet (hidden by the galette), a bottle of booze with the same coat of arms, and just out of the the shot is a kid with a ladder because the Savoyardes used to be very poor and they would send their kids away to work as chimney sweeps in big cities. I don’t know why the yellow thing at the top has elephants sticking out of it. This must be a Savoyarde memento I’ve yet to familiarise myself with.

The great thing about this pie is that you don’t have to carry it flat. It’s so dense, it’s like a giant biscuit, and I guess that’s why the bag works so well. I carried this one to a friend’s place last night and we cut it up and ate all but two pieces. The hidden figurine is still hidden (hopefully). Maybe it’s an elephant sticking out of a yellow thing. Can anyone tell me what that’s about? None of the French people here seem to know.

As I type this, I’m hearing cars toot their horns at midday on New Year’s Day. I guess they’re excited about 2010 because they’re tooting familiar chants. Perhaps they’re just on their way home from their night out, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they were drunk. Like anywhere in the world, the French Alps has its fair share of idiot drivers who take to the roads and put other people’s lives at risk. When I lived in the Meribel valley many years ago, the local police would stop suspicious cars and tell the driver to get out and leave their car there. I never heard of anyone charged with drinking and driving, but I did hear of the ’second gear’ rule, where, if drunk, you simply stay in second gear, which slows the car down to be a bit more in sync with the drunk driver’s reflexes and according to those drivers, will prevent an accident or at least minimise any damage.

Meanwhile, in La Clusaz, word gets around in the pubs if the police are stopping cars leaving town. Those who have lost their license can still buy a little two-stroke car that sounds like a lawn mover and goes at about the same speed. These cars, an old but popular model here pictured, need no license to drive! When you see these cars on the road, you know you want to be as far away from the driver as possible. The drivers could be drunk and may have bought the car because they lost their license for that reason. On top of that, they’re likely to cause accidents when they’re pushing their car to the limit of 45km/h in a 90 zone. They certainly cause traffic build-ups. But I digress. Last winter, a drunk driver in La Clusaz stopped to pick up three hitchhikers. Hitching is common in all age groups here because the buses seem to stop as soon as the sun goes down. And so, these three hitchhikers were school kids. The guy driving didn’t notice a huge bend in the road and drove straight into a tree down an embankment at high speed. He survived. The three kids did not. The loss of three local kids spun the locals into action. There was talk of some sort of car pooling last summer, but I don’t know if that ever took off. I did notice, however, that St Jean De Sixt declared ‘Operation Red Nose’ on New Year’s Eve, offering a lift home to anyone who called the central number. Volunteers drove (hopefully not in the lawnmower cars), and hopefully made the roads a bit safer for everyone.

Happy New Year. May it safer than some of the roads around here.

For four nights each year, Lyon lights up big time. Le Fête des Lumières (the Festival of Lights) is a chance for creative people who like bright things to impress us all with their imagination. Below are just a few of the light shows I snapped when walking around town.

Apart from the typical annoyances of overcrowded streets, street sellers shouting about their tacky illuminated santa hats and a taxi trying to reverse in a pedestrianised area, the fete was a bit confusing. I should have printed out the maps from the website and I should have researched the attractions a bit more, but I didn’t. There were some maps dotted around the streets, but the numbered dots to for attractions were not accompanied with a list of what the numbers were for. We eventually found the outlet providing paper maps with the numbers listed too, but by then, we had walked like cattle for hours and were ready to go home. And actually, it was the walk back to the car that I really enjoyed. The car was parked in the Croix Rousse part of Lyon, which is up a hill, made easier to climb with wide stairs up the long street. Along these stairs, people were selling soup, hot wine, fairy floss (called ‘Dad’s beard’ in France), hot dogs and all sorts of other foods, with some stands providing live music (everything from drum troupes to violins), giving the street a real atmosphere. At the top of the street is a garden, and in it were a whole lot of giant colourful neon flowers (pictured in the last photo, above). “Not subtle,” according to my friend, but that’s fine by me: flowers and lights are best that way in my books. Yes, the other displays were innovative and complicated, but the simplicity of the flowers really struck a chord with me. Every town should have them.

One of the benefits of learning French whilst living in France is that the more obscure words I’d be unlikely to learn in a French language class are more available to me. For example, a housewarming party in French is not chauffage de maison. The literal translation does not work. It’s pendaison de crémaillère, which translates to ‘pot hook hanging.’ I’d argue that it’s a stupid name, but is ‘housewarming party’ any better? In fact, after finding out more about the pot hook hanging, I think it’s a better name. Let me explain.

Historically, pots of food were cooked over heat, and they need a pot hook to hang the pot from. By having a party to celebrate the hanging of the pot hook, it means you’re going to cook a big pot of food for your friends who have come around to celebrate you hanging your new pot hook in your new pad. Warmth, sharing, full bellies: it’s everything you want for a nice evening in with friends.

Meanwhile, nobody can agree on the etymology of ‘housewarming’. Some say it comes from a Russian couple who provided bread with salt to a passing dignitary, and others say it’s a Scottish tradition of bringing hot embers to a friend’s new house to literally warm it up. One source even says it was a shoemaker in London who cooked a hot pot stew for friends to celebrate a new home, and in the process of cooking, warmed his house. None of these match what I always thought ‘housewarming’ meant: I presumed you invited your friends around to warm up the house with their love. Regardless, shouldn’t it be called a homewarming party? Because anyone can own a house, but you have to make it your home.

So, last night, I partied at my own hanging of the pot hook celebrations, which involved no pot hook, no bread with salt, no embers and no stew. The house, however, is now a warm home, so it’s time to find my next obscure French phrase to question.

Here is a photo of some horses standing outside a local community hall in Thônes. Let me explain. Last year, I wrote about the hay bail competition and the cows and tractors for sale at the local fair called la foire de la Saint Maurice. I couldn’t find the hay bail competition, but I did see the best young cow of 2009 presented with an award. She did a poo as soon as her proud owner had taken the award. The local horse riding school had some well-groomed horses out on display, which is why the horses are in this photo. The crowds at the cow competition were too deep to get a decent photo, so the horses were second best. Well, third best if the hay bail competition had been on.

As I wandered around the fair, I noticed that some things are always the same: the beer stands were surrounded by a stagnant crowd of men, making it harder to get past for everyone else while the kids hung by the sweets stands. More than one stand-holder called out to me to check out his wares. There was a trash’n'treasure held by the local school, which was different only in that most stall holders had kids’ skis for sale, but that makes sense given the love winter sports here. So all in all, a typical fair. Topped off with some melted cheese in a roll, I’m going back again next year, determined to find the hay bail competition.

Oops! One of the cows falls over backwards!

Human-shaped fireworks burn while the parade of weird objects continues.

Now it's the elevated cow's turn to burn, with band looking on

Statue-still people from the parade now standing on the roof too, including one with a disturbingly pointy hat.

Despite the ongoing warm weather, the summer season in the Alps has come to an end, coinciding, not coincidentally, with school holidays. Le Grand Bornand likes to end the season with a fête. Of course, I went. Surprisingly, the crowds were bigger than for le Tour de France, and parents were made to park their baby buggies in a special baby buggy area before continuing to the heart of the entertainment, holding their babies. Seats were not allowed. Just after none o’clock, when darkness had fallen, the streetlamps were turned off, everyone was told to stand, and the fun began.

It started off well enough, with these two giant inflatable cows lobbing themselves towards each other, forcing the crowd to part (this is why chairs and baby buggies were not allowed). After a few cow tips, they met, hugged (or wrestled?) and then the fireworks started. In the foreground, I noticed the live band standing on top of build, beating their drums to some Spanish tune. I wondered if any of the other countries I’ve lived in would allow a band to stand near the edge of a tall building with no apparent safety equipment. I love this country!

The inflatable cows disappeared and these strange shapes on sticks started parading through the crowd, choosing their own path. This involved small fireworks on the way through, and once again, I found myself wondering if this would happen elsewhere. Fireworks in the shape of people were lit against a wall, and the band played on. What did all this mean? What were the strange parading objects meant to represent? As the odd parade banged, burst and snaked through the crowd, one of my friends, who had seen last year’s end of summer fête said to me: “It’s nowhere near as random as last year.” I’d really like to know how it could be any more random than it was.

The shed behind me suddenly made a noise. Actually, there were fireworks on its roof. I was right under these great, low-exploding fireworks that really made me feel like I was engulfed by sparks on every side. It was magnificent! All concerns of randomness went while the fireworks continued for much longer than anyone expected.

The grand finale was even better. At first, I thought something had gone wrong. One of the fireworks on top of the shed didn’t seem to go off, but it seemed to ignite a neighbouring firework which then flew directly toward the band. I envisioned the band catching fire if they didn’t run away quickly. However, all fears were allayed when the firework actually flew directly behind the band, and right onto the giant Catherine wheels which had been set up behind them. Bang, bang, bang: off they go, and nobody needs to sue France for death, burning or falling from buildings. The band continued and the guys who had been traipsing around in the parade were now human statues in front of the Catherine wheels. Look closely and you’ll see one with a white, pointy hat. How on earth did they get away with that?

When the fireworks stopped, a few formalities were made (eg, pre-recording of cute-sounding kid thanking everyone for coming), the street lights were turned on again, and parents were virtually running back to the baby buggy park to put their dead-weight, sleeping kids back into their baby buggies.

So, that’s summer officially over. Unofficially, it’s boiling hot and lake is calling.

On Friday night, La Clusaz hosted the inter-village games known as Les Gamineries des Aravis which involves participants from the local villages (La Clusaz, Le Grand Bornand, St. Jean de Sixt, Thônes and Manigod) as well as a team of tourists. As you can see from this photo, the event features It’s a Knockout-style games, with events such as this one with two team members trying to knock a team member off the other surfboard. Other events included:

• blindfolded rollerbladers having to pick up two small, water-filled balloons and deliver them safely at the end of a go-cart style course (helped by a team member yelling which direction to rollerblade in);
• dizzy contestants carrying glasses of wine (of course! it’s France) over to a barrel and successfully emptying the glasses into barrels (the majority fell over before getting to the wine glasses);
• a trivia quiz with questions about the local area;
• four team members with their right legs fixed to a plank of wood and their left legs fixed to another plank, navigating a course with bike ramps and corners; and,
• tug-of-war in flippers, goggles and snorkels on a beach volleyball court.

Points were scored and teams cheered. A local school or group were selling home-made cake for a flat €1 per slice. The winning village holds the event the following year, unless it’s the hosting village, in which case the runners-up get to hold it. With this knowledge the locals were out in droves, wearing village colours. Le Grand Bornand were the winners in these stakes, with large numbers wearing matching pink Mexican hats and ponchos, and pink glow-sticks for after dark. They had air horns (annoyingly loud), a bass drum (a relief after the air horns) and cow bells (downright quiet compared with the air horns and bass drum). But did their solid presence help Le Grand Bornand win? Who won? It was the team who answered the question about the width of a local bird’s wing span. Which team was that? The tourists. The tourists beat the locals at their own game! However, the games must be held in the Aravis valley, so the team who came second were nominated to hold the games next year. Who was that? La Clusaz. But La Clusaz held the games this year which means they can’t hold them again next year. So, the team who came third were nominated to hold the games next year. Who was that? Manigod. So, while the announcer confused us all by announcing Manigod as the ‘winners’ in third place, the supporters cheered and made their way to the bar. The tourists probably went home with a slice of €1 cake.

That’s not a spelling mistake. The other night, I went to a meuhriage. Pictured are the bride and groom. Notice anything odd? Yes, that’s a man dressed up as a bride, with black fishnet stockings on, marrying a man in pink glasses. They’re both actually straight.

So what was this all about? I wish I could give you a satisfactory answer to this question, but I’m at a bit of a loss myself, apart from having a great time on the night. I received an invitation to the event, which required us to dress up for a real marriage, from the lovely people at Radio Meuh — a local radio station that plays funky music and is played in shops in La Clusaz and beyond thanks to the wonders of the internet.

The bride is Tedeo. Ted used to DJ at a local club here before hanging out with the Radio Meuh crew. The groom is Arnauld. I’m not actually sure what Arnauld does. Tedeo’s “dad” for the day, Philippe, is the brainchild behind Radio Meuh (no photo I’m afraid — sorry Philppe). I probably should have asked him what the meuhriage was all about, but he was busy DJing while the bride and groom did their thing.

Without hearing it from the horse’s mouth, I can only presume that the Radio Meuh crew figured this would be a good marketing campaign. It worked: a photo of the happy couple made it into Le Dauphine newspaper the following day. However, it wasn’t a real wedding: there were no embarrassing, long-winded speeches by drunk family members, the bride did not fall over, spill food down the white dress or cry at any point of the day, and the music was far too good despite their attempts to cheese it up with typical wedding numbers.