Le Franco Phoney

On a walk through St Jean de Sixt yesterday, I noticed the garden scene below. Something’s a bit NQR (Not Quite Right), right? That’s not a real person! That’s not a real café either. The donkey is only two-dimensional. And, in fact, that’s a fake house there in the background. Let me explain.

These are just some of the props that used to grace the St Jean de Sixt roundabout at different times of the year. The guy who used to put the mannequins on the roundabout together with the corresponding props is obviously missing his roundabout antics, and is now turning his attentions to creating scenes away from the roundabout, closer to his house.

I had walked past a week earlier one evening and I saw a scene full of life — minus the actual life. The red mannequin dude in the background hadn’t moved, but there were chairs and tables populated by mannequins (including the one with the hat right in front of the camera, watching the scene from a distance while he was gardening at night). Apparently, mannequins party at night.

It might sound silly, but it’s a real treat to walk past this area in St Jean and watch the scene change over time. Security cameras and fences aren’t needed here, and that’s what I truly love. The mannequins have not been undressed, the donkey has not been turned upside down or stolen, and the fake café has no graffiti. I heart rural living.

I broke my front tooth a few days ago. How? Well, how do you think I did it, given that I live in a ski resort, I love the half pipe on my snowboard, I prefer to attack moguls on my alpine skis, and I’m only just getting the hang of telemarking. Any of these would provide a great story to accompany the stitches in my lip and the jagged tooth I picked up after my accident.

Actually, I tripped over the shoelace of my snowboard boot in a car park and landed on my face. Yep. I hadn’t even touched the snow before my day was done.

My lip needed two stitches according to the doctor who looked, and acted, about ten years old. He started by ousting my friend from the room, then he sprayed some sort of numbing spray on my lip and said: “Just let me know if you can feel anything and I’ll give you an injection instead.” I’m not sure which bit of “ARGGHHHHH” the doctor didn’t understand while he pushed the needle through for the first stitch, then continued to pull the string through. Instead, he said: “Oh, that’s not very good because you moved: I’ll have to do it again” and pulled the entire length of string back through, which snagged on my flesh and stung every millimetre of the way back out. He did give me the injection after this, but he really couldn’t have made my experience much worse. After Doctor Pain’s actions, I was prepared for some sort of hell at the dental surgery.

But wait, I have to wind back a bit here, because the first person to help me when I tripped over was actually a dentist. He found my tooth, prevented me from fainting, and gave my friend the number of a good dental sculpter friend of his. His wife handed me tissues to sop up the blood spurting out of my lip. As my friend went to make the call to the dentist here in La Clusaz for some emergency patch-up work, a skier walking past stopped and said: “My dad is the dentist here, but he’ll be at lunch now. The appointment was arranged for me while I tried to slow the fountain of blood from my lip. So, that’s two dental connections in the car park alone. While I mourned the breakage of my otherwise strong and previously presentable teeth, I did feel a lot of gratitude for all these lovely people who had stopped to help, and I was just lucky that they had suitable dental knowledge. Okay, we can fast forward to the dental surgery now.

So, a few hours after the trauma of Doctor Pain and a stitched, swollen lip, I headed to the dental surgery. I have never met a nicer dentist than this man. Well, the one in the car park was pretty nice too, but of all the dentists who have worked on my teeth in various countries, this one was definitely the nicest. While he sculpted a new, improved-shape front tooth for me, we had a chat about a different son of his, who I know to look at, but who I don’t know personally. But this is the joy of living in a village. He knew the (only) other Australians in town, and we found common ground. I explained (with a numb tongue and probably lots of saliva) that I was still waiting for my Carte Vitale (as described just a few days ago, here), and he was very sympathetic and charged me less than he could have. In fact, he charged me less for sculpting a new front tooth than Doctor Pain charged me for stitching me up and splashing some Betadine around.

I would love to have my old front tooth back, but if I were to use a cheesy wedding speech cliché: “On this day, I don’t feel like I’ve lost a tooth. Instead, I’ve gained a dentist.”

La Guêpe Ride is an annual event held in La Clusaz which sounds a lot like Gay Pride to French people. Apparently, this is another one of their plays on words, but nobody really understands why, since the event is a telemark ski weekend! Festivities include a parade of telemarkers bombing it down the slopes of l’Etale, at least one person dressed as a wasp (”gûepe” is French for “wasp”), booze, freebies, and the chance to try telemarking with a ski instructor for free, along with all the special equipment. Last year, the “telesnow” (a snowboard with telemark ski bindings attached) made an appearance, but I didn’t see it this year.

I did, however, see a girl in this rather ugly Burton one-piece. Yes, it’s yellow and black like a wasp, but I’ve seen her wearing it all season when everyone else was in normal gear She’s a great skier and I have a lot of respect for her for that, but I just can’t see how that justifies the outfit. She was there to match telemark skis with people’s abilities. Sure enough, she had a chat with me about a ski I was just about to try.  She knows her technical stuff and she was very amiable, but I just kept staring at that outfit. She spoke quickly in French. I got that the brand new, next year’s model Black Crows skis I was about to try out might be a bit snappy for me due to the wide nose on them. She went on, but I missed most of it, trying to concentrate on understanding her French but failing dismally and staring at the furry hood and the yellow zigzags.

Anyway, she was right: I felt like a beginner telemarker all over again, wobbling with every turn and feeling the skis take me where they wanted to go. I took them back after one run and said they felt like shovels on my feet to the yellow-zebra girl, but I’m not sure if she understood my French. No worries: all the staff and the other telemarkers hanging around are very accepting of ‘etrangers’ (foreigners and non-telemarkers), so I didn’t feel that my bad French was a problem for this lot. In fact, telemarking is a bit like owning a VW camper: you’re part of a special club and you give others in the club a special wave when you pass them. I switched the Black Crows for a pair of K2 Work Stinx and fell in love: they coped with the springtime superslush but were still forgiving of my dodgy ability and let me stay in control. After a few more runs and some burning thighs, I jumped back on my own telemarks and burnt my thighs some more before the parade of wasps could catch me and hassle me with their club-hand-wave to stay.

As I’ve described before, I’ll never be considered a local here in La Clusaz. In fact, it takes about three generations for someone to be gain that privilege. Because I’m not local, it’s always nice when familiar faces whose names I don’t know say hello and stop for a chat. Yesterday is a perfect example. This afternoon, I popped out for a quick slide down the mountain. When I arrived at the first drag lift, the (normally grumpy) guy checking the electronic tickets said: “You’re late today.” For the past month, I’ve said hello to him every time I’ve seen him. Sometimes I’ve had a reply; sometimes I’ve had no acknowledgment at all. Grumpy? Maybe. Or shy? I’ve persisted in saying hello because even if he is grumpy, I refuse to let it rub off on me, and I’ve embraced the way the French say hello to strangers. So, back to the moment. I explained to him that I had finished my work early. He nodded and told me to be careful on the hill. Achievement #1: get grumpy/shy drag lift man to talk. Achieved. Bonus points for his apparent concern for my well-being.

At the very next lift queue, the ticket-checker also said hello. I said hi back, and to my surprise, he told me that my accent had improved significantly since last year, which led to a quick conversation about how important it is to be able to communicate even if you don’t know all the verb tenses or the entire vocabulary. Achievement #2: Have a conversation with a stranger and actually understand everything he says, and speak well enough for him to understand everything I say. Achieved.

The reason I was surprised (and still am) when he said that my accent had improved is because the only words I had uttered were: “Bonjour. Ça va?” These words (”Hello, how are you?”) are not the most difficult to say. In fact, they are some of the first words I ever mastered in French. I’m certain that my accent on those words is exactly the same as the first day I learnt them. La Clusaz can sometimes be xenophobic, and although this guy is probably not a ‘local’ (in the La Clusaz sense of the word, and therefore an outcast like myself and most of the people I mix with here), he already knew I was not French and he still made the effort to have a conversation with me. Achievement #3 (not mine): give a foreigner warm and fuzzies by patiently speaking French with her. Achieved.

Many years ago, I recall a supermarket visit that involved a woman telling my mum and I about her son in a mental institution who was being allowed to visit for Christmas. We didn’t know her: we were just checking out frozen turkeys for the festive meal when she walked up and said she would need a bigger turkey this year because her son was visiting. Instead of ignoring her, my mum said “Really?” and smiled, and that prompted the woman to talk at us for a good ten minutes (hey, it might not sound like long, but when you’re in a frozen turkey aisle, it really is) about her son, the dogs in the sky (!?) and various other topics that actually made no sense. My mum just attracts people like that. It’s what she’s good at.

It looks like it might be genetic. Just last week when trying on a pair of boots, a little old lady informed me that she is old and sick and “look at my feet.” I looked at her feet and they were indeed as old and sick as she had explained. I didn’t understand much of her French, but I was left pretty speechless after burning my eyes with the image of her twisted, dry, bruised and lumpy feet with yellow toe nails. I escaped, feeling just a bit ill.

I’d hoped it was a one-off, but it was not. Today started with a man who saw I was buying three plates. Yes, today, I bought three plates. I will use them to sit my gingerbread houses on, as my friends never give my my own plates back. I’ve learnt to buy the cheapest I can find, and I was in the cheapest shop with all the world’s crazy people. The man in front of me at the checkout turned to his, erm, I can only assume it was his minder, and said in French, “Looks, she’s buying three plates. Three plates. That’s what she is buying. Three.” She pulled him away while I did exactly what my mum does - I smiled as if it was normal. These people are not normal. Later today, a woman came running up to me. Now, I had baggy jeans on and a blue hoody, complete with dreadlocks loose almost to my behind, yet she seemed to think I had a red supermarket apron on and was an ideal worker to ask directions from. “Where are the detergents?” she demanded, impatiently. Eager to help (will I never learn?), I said I wasn’t sure but I thought they were over- Too late! She heard I wasn’t a native French speaker and dismissed me as a BAD store worker who was probably taking a local French person’s job. “Oh,” she said as she walked off in a huff. I felt like yelling out in English: “No worries, any time, glad to help such friendly people as yourself. And have a great day, sunshine.” Instead, I carried on and was grateful I was not in the frozen turkey aisle.

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!