Le Franco Phoney

At first, you might not notice anything missing from this photo, but if you were walking past it regularly, you’d notice the absence of the mannequins. I’ve written about them lots of times, but they’ve been missing for a few weeks now, and there’s a good reason. The man responsible for the mannequin scenes, George Davy, passed away a few weeks ago. He was allowed to add his mannequins on this plot of land instead of the roundabout (for purported health and safety reasons of crossing onto the roundabout from the road). Apparently, he cheekily extended the area little-by-little, leaving some of the villagers less than impressed. However, the turnout for his funeral was large, and I’m sure that both he and his scenes will be missed. Nobody seems to know what will happen to his little plot of mannequin land, but it looks like its short era has come to an end. RIP, George Davy, and thanks for bringing a bit of fun to St Jean de Sixt.

Shopping in Annecy the other day, a child no older than twelve approached me and pushed a clipboard towards me. On the clipboard was a piece of paper to donate to a deafness foundation, complete with the symbol of the foundation in one corner and some signatures from people who had donated up to €20. A couple of things seemed odd to me. Firstly, this wasn’t like a read-a-thon where he was gaining sponsorship for challenging himself to something: this was out-and-out hassling people for money, as you see paid university students do with big bibs or t-shirts on to identify them as charity workers. Secondly, he had no bib or t-shirt (and was dressed in a dodgy tracksuit). Thirdly, he wasn’t old enough to work. Fourthly, he was in a rather posh kitchen and homewares shop where the staff are frosty at the best of times: I’m guessing they wouldn’t let someone into their shop to hassle people for money under most circumstances. And finally, the paper didn’t look all that authentic, as the signatures from that day were in different colours, but he had just one pen in his hand.

So, I asked him for some identification. He pointed to his ears to and moved his fingers as if he were signing, and perhaps he was, but wouldn’t he be able to lip read by that age? I repeated myself, motioned in different ways to suggest an ID card, and eventually showed him my own, but he just shook his head and shrugged.

I said sorry and shook my head back, then walked away. I felt guilty and annoyed in equal parts: guilty for not giving money to someone who seemed to be collecting money for a charity, but annoyed that he expected me to believe him. Would a deafness foundation really send kids out to collect money for the charity they benefit from on a schoolday? But then, I’m basing this on the values I grew up with in Australia and my experience as an adult seeing people scam others. Maybe things are different in France, and I find those cultural unknowns hard to learn and adjust to. Was I in the wrong? Was he bonafide? Should I have donated?

As you can see from this photo I snapped last week, winter has arrived and covered all my flowers in snow. This particular flower is now under about 60cm of fluffy snow. Because of the snow dump, the La Balme area of La Clusaz was open for skiing last weekend, and I was there for first lifts on Saturday morning.

The powder covering the hill was untracked, but after a few runs in snow that was falling sideways due to very strong (and cold) winds, my friend and I stopped for a hot chocolate to warm our chins and toes. I was lost in my hot chocolate when a guy came over and asked something in French which I paid no attention to, concentrating instead on the steam from the cup in my hand. My friend answered in French then poked me out of my relaxed state. My snowboard, the guy said, had fallen off the ski/snowboard rack in the strong wind, then taken itself further down the hill and off the piste entirely. Nobody could catch it and nobody could see it. He pointed to the track it had made under the telecabine, which disappeared within metres, and my friend and I started searching. We decided to stop because the snow was as deep as our legs. We took the telecabine down to see if we could see where it had landed. We didn’t. We found a piste security man named Gilles who said he’d look for it, but that it was probably buried under the light, fluffy snow and wouldn’t be found until spring, presuming it wasn’t stolen when it did reappear through the snow. The snowboard is old and worth little, but it’s been a great powder board that responds well, and the bindings are comfortable and cost a bomb when I bought them, so I didn’t want to lose this board. Going back up the telecabine, one guy said if he found it, he’d keep it. Another guy said he’d lost his skis, and whoever found them handed them in and he’d do the same too.

I pointed out the last track of the snowboard to Gilles and he surveyed the angle of the snow and picked his path. He said he’d meet us at the bottom. Back in the telecabine, my lovely friend offered to come back during the week and snowshoe to the top of the telecabine (a couple of hours at least) so that we could continue the search on foot if Gilles didn’t find it. We watched him from the telecabine on our way down as he climbed with his skis over rocks, damaging his bases. The longer he was gone, the less chance of seeing my snowboard again. Seconds felt like minutes and minutes felt like hours etc. I’m sure you know that numb feeling where time is standing still for you, while everyone else around you is oblivious to your crisis and you wonder how they can carry on. About ten minutes later, Gilles arrived – with my snowboard! He found it! I hugged him, I kissed his cheeks and I shook his hand. I told him in French that I loved him. He seemed used to this reaction but I didn’t care: I was grateful beyond his comprehension.

The snowboard had slid under the snow and travelled around 100 metres before it hit a tree and rested. The only sign of it was 1cm of orange binding that acted like a tiny beacon which he spotted after some time searching nearby. My resolves from the experience:

1. I’ll never rest my snowboard or skis on that particular rack again; and,

2. I owe Gilles gingerbread too (along with the guy from the post office who I mentioned recently).

Recently, I had an issue with the French post office which accepted a tube-shaped package to be sent to England, but after I paid for it, they sent it back to me as a rejected item and expected me to pay for it again, chocked up so it couldn’t roll. I took the item back to the UK the following week and reposted it without a problem, but it’s sparked a bizarre chain of events. At the same time, I posted a present to my mum from the UK post office, saving me room in my suitcase for my favourite British goodies that I can’t get in France. Ten days later, it turned up in my letterbox in France: Royal Mail has sent it to the clearly marked “Sender” address instead of the one on the front of the package (also clearly marked), next to their big stamp. I’ve now filled out the form and hoping for a reimbursement.

Meanwhile, the French post office has warmed my heart after last month’s frustration: the man who accepted the tube-shaped parcel was working when I took in more parcels with my mum’s. After joking that Royal Mail are worse than La Poste, he made a point of saying he’d found nothing in his regulations book against sending tube packages overseas, then insisted on paying for one of my small packages by way of apology for the first mess-up. How kind is that? Now I regret all that stress and anger that I released in my other blog entry, although from the reactions of my friends, it’s clear that I’ve been one of the lucky ones.

I’ve always been impressed with how many languages flight attendants speak on international flights, and in the past, easyJet has been no exception. On my flight over to England from Geneva last week, the two flight attendants greeting passengers were both unable to speak any French. I don’t think the attendant at the back could either because they asked me to translate for a French lady who had a problem. Her daughter had left her doudou (normally a soft toy, but hers was a scarf) in her pusher and she only realised once she had boarded the plane. With less than half the passengers loaded, I explained to the flight attendants that the French lady’s daughter would cry for the entire flight if she didn’t have the scarf. Apparently, they’re not allowed off the plane so cue ten minutes of difficulties in finding someone who could walk back along the short platform to where the pushers has been left for loading. Finally, a member of ground staff boarded the plane to ask what he was looking for, then explained the pushers were already loaded. Don’t they have contact with the people at the gate? The French mum gave up and returned to her unhappy daughter but the flight attendants were so grateful for my translation that they offered me a free hot drink. Yes, I scored a tea bag, cup, some hot water and two long-life pots of milk from the easyJet flight attendants! Fine, that doesn’t sound like a big deal, but this is easyJet, who charge extra for basics such as checking in a bag, using certain bank cards for booking the flight, food and drink on the plane, and now the horrible ‘speedy boarding’ (which allows people to pay to board the plane before the rest of us plebs race on to get a good seat). I’m not criticising them for their approach: they provide a fantastically cheap service for quick trips away (even if their staff aren’t as multilingual as I previously thought). But I’m pretty sure anyone who has flown easyJet will understand my satisfaction at being offered a freebie out of gratitude. Hooray!

A quick visit south last week was my last hope for warm days before winter kicks in, so Corsica seemed like a good place to start. Although the island is closer to Italy, it’s under French governance (after various others including a bout of independence and even a self-made king — King Theodor von Neuhoff). This was handy for me, as I was able to speak to the locals, and this is where The Good comes in. Corsicans do not pull that face that so many Savoyardes pull when they hear my accent: they not only understood me when I opened my mouth, but they often chatted in further detail with me when they were under no obligation to do so. This was the first of many Goods, although this is no doubt considered normal behaviour in many parts of the world

The next Good is the views. Check out the coastline:

If you look closely, you can see buildings perched on the side of the cliff face in the distance. These are likely to fall into the sea one day when the cliff breaks off, joining the other broken bits of cliff pictured in the water. Corsica has a bit of everything: beaches, pretty walks, old bunkers, mountains, ski resorts, and Europe’s largest chestnut tree, which was kind of handy since a few days of rain meant fewer beach-side jaunts and more free time for other activities. In many places, the cows roam free on the roads, and although this could end in tears on dark and stormy nights, it was a pleasure to slow down to get around the slow-moving mooers, like the one pictured, on the mountainous roads. We had just passed this cow’s mum a few metres earlier and there was much mooing going on between the two of them.

The weather in Corsica seems to be very localised. One rain-free morning, we headed for the coast and swam at one of the first beaches we reached. It was only fifteen minutes away from where we were staying in Porto Vecchio, but it rained all day in town while the blue skies continued at the beach. Another Good.

The best Good of all was the Corsican hospitality: staying with friends is always great, but staying with Corsican friends is the best. My friend Jean-Pierre had said for years that I should “come to Corsica: zee most beautifoool island in zee world” and now I understand why. The most beautiful island lived up to its reputation, and much of it would have been missed if JP and his partner hadn’t gone out of their way to be personal tour guides.

And yes, we picked chestnuts from Europe’s largest chestnut tree, which I’ll be roasting some day soon.

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.