Le Franco Phoney

Shops here in the French Alps keep strange hours. For example, the supermarket in La Clusaz is closed from 12.30pm to 4.30pm, and rumour has it that the reason for this is so that tourists have to buy their lunch from the bakeries and restaurants and thus spend more money in town. In fact, most of La Clusaz closes for the inter-season months of May, October and November. And as I’ve written about in the past, convenience stores are more like inconvenience stores, while “fermeture exceptionelle” (unexpected closure) is a sign well used here in France, and one I’ve struck when attempting to go to a Chinese restaurant in Annecy, the post office in Bonneville and of course, the government office in Annecy for car registration. When I made it to the post office in St Jean de Sixt before it closed for the weekend at midday on a Saturday, I was then told that my item wouldn’t leave until Monday because nobody picks up the mail on the weekends. Shop keepers apparently have a comfortable life and they don’t need to open as often as I’d like them to.

So why am I still surprised to see this sign? Pictured here is a sign for a shop in Annecy called “Espace Déco” (a home decorations shop). The sign then reads:

Opening hours

Tuesday, Thursday, Friday: 12.30pm - 2.00pm

Monday, Wednesday, Saturday: by appointment or call (number blurred out by me)

So, that’s a total of four and a half hours per week for customers to just happen to walk past while the shop is open. Does anyone ever really bother to call a number just to touch an item for sale and discover its price? I’d feel kind of obliged to buy it if I hauled the shopkeeper out of bed or wherever just so I could browse a few serving trays. How are these shops still in business? The only reason I can think of is that people must think it’s more exclusive if the shop stays closed most of the time and then they make the effort to come back. I think I’ve found the most exclusive shop in the Alps.

The Winter Olympic Games (les Jeux Olympiques in French) are in full swing, and I’ve been following the sports on French television. The French athletes have been a bit unlucky so far, and at first the commentators blamed it on badly-made courses. I think they’ve given up on that angle now but they certainly haven’t stopped saying: “Ooh la la”, nor the variation: “Ooh la la la la”, nor the variation of the variation: “Ooh la la la la la la”. Seriously, the commentators are la la laing so many times that I’m losing count. As the Men’s Cross-country Relay went on (and on and on)  last night, the commentators became more and more worried, using more “Ooh la la”s, when the Norwegian approached from fourth place, and eventually made it to second place, ousting the French team to fourth place. Vincent Vittoz from La Clusaz was in that team, and it was pretty much his last chance of winning an Olympic medal after many years of trying, so the commentators were hoping for him as much as I was that he would get at least a bronze. There’s still a chance he might get one because the French team have complained about Sweden (or is it Norway?) bringing two pairs of skis instead of one. If their complaint is successful, Vincent and the French team will move up to win bronze. And the commentators are sure to la la la themselves into oblivion if that happens.

Between the Ooh la las, it’s often difficult to hear much else because the commentators like talking over each other. During the replay of some figure skating last night, I wondered if they’d forgotten to turn off a few microphones as there were no less than four people talking at the same time. Really, I’m not joking: four people at once. The French do seem to have a knack of being able to talk and listen at the same time in everyday life, so such commentary probably shouldn’t surprise me as much as their moment of absolute silence when Ladies’ Downhill hopeful Marion Rolland hurt her knee and fell just seconds after she started her run. The French commentators had been excited about her run and they switched directly to her when she was getting ready to leave the gates. Bing! Off she goes! As she veered directly to her right and off the course, only one commentator let out a single, sad “Non”. Ten seconds must have passed before any of them could muster up the ability to speak. The catastrophe of another French athlete going down was just too much.

As I write this, the French are ranked equal sixth in the medal tally. Compare this with my native Australia — a country renowned for producing sporting champions, which has a whole three medals, putting them in sixteenth place. We’re better at summer sports really. Us Aussies are rapt with our best ever winter Olympics medal tally despite it being nowhere near the top-ranking countries. So, France, don’t fret: you’re doing alright. And may Vinny get that bronze.

So, here at Le Franco Phoney, I provide a written commentary on life in the French Alps, and from an ex-pat’s perspective. I’ve discovered an illustrated version of life in the Alps from a true French person, Caro (that’s Madamoiselle Caroline to us), who I had fun skiing with last week in La Clusaz, and who has since illustrated that particular day on her blog, including a stick figure of me on telemarks. Although her entries are in French, the illustrations mostly speak for themselves and she’s not scared to make fun of herself in order to give the rest of us a laugh. And now that she’s mentioned it, our mutual friend, Tim, does indeed look a lot like Sam Neil.

Although we don’t share the same language, nor her talent for drawing, we do share a love of snow, and the photo of her planted next to a tree, deep in snow is something I’d experienced just one day earlier on my snowboard (being waist deep in powder is more of an aerobic workout than you can ever imagine). And looking at her older blog entries, there are plenty of amusing illustrations of what life is all about here in the Alps, along with life in general (like having a husband who says he’s helped because he’s put the washing machine on after she’s spent the day cooking, shopping for her kids’ clothes and looking after her kids). She’s my new favourite illustrator and new favourite blogger. Enjoy!

Well well well, January is over. Where did it go? To match the speed of the month, I’m speed writing this entry as I have lots of observations to tell you about. So, first up, the Christmas tree. Not only did I kill it as I mentioned a few days ago, but then the snow dumped overnight (see photo) just to add insult to injury. It’s as if the mountains are laughing at it, rejecting it from the outside after I rejected it from indoors. I still feel a bit guilty.

Next up: today’s not-normal-ness. Today, I saw:

• not one, but two cars parked across different roads, blocking all traffic
• two women with prams walking side-by-side on a road with no footpath — and on the side where cars approached them closest from behind
• a man in a bright, almost neon purple one-piece who was not skiing and two monoskiers
• a Swiss-registered car going down a hill with its front wheels locked

Drivers, would you park across a busy street in your own city? No? Then don’t do it in mine! Parents, would you turn your back on traffic when in charge of a baby? No? Then don’t do it on slippery, snowy roads! Men in bright purple one-pieces, and monoskiers, just….why would you? Man in Swiss car, pump the brakes rather than keeping your foot on them, or better still, if you want to drive out of a ski resort when the roads are covered in snow, either have snow chains or snow tyres, or wait until the sun has melted the snow: it’s only a few hours!

Beginner style: both hands on handle.

More advanced: feet used for braking, steer with one hand, other hand out for balance.

It can hurt if you fall the wrong way...

In January, La Clusaz opens a piste by the ice rink on Thursday nights for night skiing. They switch on the flood lights and you can borrow a local sledge called a paret (pronounced “paa-ray in French”) as long as you have some identification. I’ve added some photos showing how it’s done. With friends visiting this week, we decided to have a go. We got to the ice rink but the flood lights weren’t on. The paret man wasn’t there, but plenty of people with their home-made parets were.
Eventually, we heard that the event had been cancelled “because of the storm”. As you can see from the photos, the few snowflakes that were falling were tiny. There was no wind. What storm? Well, apparently, the same storm that stopped La Clusaz from hosting moonlit skiing last night. If there are clouds hiding the moon, there’s no light, so that’s fair enough. I heard there wes going to be floodlit night skiing instead. So how can a storm stop the regular night skiing and not Saturday night skiing? My friends had unfortunately gone by Saturday night, so they didn’t have the chance to try a paret for themselves, but part of me wonders if the cancellation of the Thursday night skiing session had anything to do with the tourist office not wanting to run the same event twice in one week. Obviously, Saturday night is more profitable.

Finally, the snow. It snowed lots this week and I decided to head up for first lifts this morning with my snowboard. It was -15, not including the wind chill. Despite the snow being fluffy and powdery — and almost as knee-deep as it was yesterday, the extra-cold snow on my boots made my toes numb, and my nose was also numb, being the only exposed part of my body. I chickened out after one run and waited for a few hours at home before returning with the telemarks. Still cold, but not like 9am with its long shadows.

Candide Thovex, who allegedly fell out with the La Clusaz Tourist Office a few years ago, ending the his Candide Invitational (now replaced with the La Clusaz Free Sessions), has proved once again that he’s still got it.

A few days ago, Candide won the Redbull Linecatcher 2010 competition. This was his first competition entry since breaking his back two seasons ago on the Big Bertha jump at his own Candide Invitational competition. Here’s a quick video showing one of his runs and the three tricks he did that helped him win the Redbull competition:

Candide spent a lot of time in places other than La Clusaz last year, but his absence has made the hearts of locals grow fonder, not weaker: he was busy shaking people’s hands in the car park of La Balme last week. The day was over, and it was cold, but he still hung around chatting to kids and adults alike until finally they all seemed satisfied with their Candide time and he could go. I’m hoping he gets more time to ride in La Clusaz this year as he’s not only a nice guy, but an inspiration to watch on the snow.

I’ve just had a big clean-out at my place in preparation for moving house. One of the things I decided to get rid of was a boat oar. How did I end up with a boat oar in a ski resort? That’s a good question, and I can explain it, but the bigger question is how the boat oar ended up in a ski resort before it belonged to me. That, I can’t answer. Here’s what I know. A few years ago, I celebrated my birthday with lots of friends in my big front yard, but I had no sports equipment. No worries: we used a heavy plastic plate as a frisbee and we found a ball that the next door neighbour’s dog dropped for us to use. But we needed a bat. And that’s where the oar comes in. A birthday guest discovered it dumped outside the local poubelle (rubbish hut) across the road. We used it as a bat for the day, with the neighbour’s dog attempting to catch the ball before any of the people playing Rounders, and I kept the oar as a memento of the lovely day we all had. It has since stood dormant and on display outside on my porch. I have no idea who dumped it, but I’ve often wondered if they have driven past my place and seen their old oar, and whether it gave them any satisfaction that it had been saved from a future at a rubbish dump.

Fast forward a few years and I find myself with so much extra stuff that the oar had to go back where it came from: the poubelle. So, last week, I took it to the same place I found it, then walked back to my place to continue cleaning out my stuff. Five minutes later, I took an old suitcase I no longer need and a Mexican hat over to the poubelle. Where was the oar? The oar was gone! Within five minutes in a sleepy area outside the main village, somebody had seen the oar and decided to make it theirs. As the oar-keeper for the past few years, it was a gratifying moment for me to know that the oar had found a new home (or perhaps a fire to fuel). I love that the French around these parts see value in one person’s trash. Indeed, when I took the suitcase and the hat to the poubelle, I saw a pair of ski boots and some nice storage boxes, which had also been left beside the poubelle for others to take. Ten minutes later when I went back with a big rug, the suitcase was gone and the boxes were gone, but the hat and the ski boots remained. This was gratifying also to know that the functioning suitcase would get some use — and that someone valued it over a pair of ski boots. Darkness arrived soon after, but I can almost guarantee that the boots, hat and rug were found by new owners.

Garage sales don’t really exist in France. Instead, there’s the Vide Grenier (empty attic), where people group in a public place and display all their housewares that they want to sell. I guess the dumping of stuff at a poubelle fills a different gap, much like the old council collection days we had in Australia, where you’d leave your unwanted — and often broken — bulky homewares such as TVs, dishwashers and car parts for the council to take away. Normally, more than half of that stuff was reclaimed by others who saw some value in it before the council came to collect it. So I guess that no matter where you are in the world, people will always seek out junk.

Now, if only someone would dump a nice coffee table…

Coming back a few days ago from the tropical weather of Queensland, Australia, I was pleasantly surprised to see snow falling from the sky on my first morning back. Of course, it’s not winter yet, and it might all melt, but there’s more snow predicted for the foreseeable future, so perhaps the winter base is laying its foundations.

Les impressive was the loss of my suitcase, which was discovered spending more time in Malaysia than my flight’s three-hour stopover. When it eventually arrived two days later, the frustrated delivery man asked me why I hadn’t answered my phone: he had been lost and had driven for a very long time trying to find my place. He managed the smallest grin when I pointed to the suitcase and explained that the charger was in there.

Meanwhile, Bruno the cat has been busy killing small furry things which I think are voles. He’s been leaving them on the doorsteps of the empty apartments in the same building, totalling nineteen bodies and three heads, plus a bird which he somehow managed to sneak inside when his temporary carer wasn’t looking. I’m not sure just how many he left on my own doorstep while I was away, but it’s clear that he has adapted well to life in the mountains. That is, at least, until this white stuff starts settling.

The annual ski sale by the ski shops — the braderie — takes place in La Clusaz this weekend. This is where the shopkeepers all pile into a big public building and sell off any old stock at reduced rates. At the moment, La Clusaz is quiet, with many restaurants and shops still closed between seasons. All this will change by Friday when locals from near and afar arrive to bag themselves a bargain. This is definitely the time to buy up big and pay little, so if you’re nearby, you might consider dropping in to see what’s on offer. I’ll be looking for fat skis while Bruno bemoans the return of the snow.

Take a good look at this book because I think it says a lot about the region I live in. The book is called Perrillat: a Savoyard name (14th-21st Centuries) — origins, family history, emigration. That’s right: the Perrillat family has been traced back to the 14th Century and this book, written by a more recent Perrillat, includes photos, excerpts of letters and other evidence of the family name’s impression on the area.

Indeed, I’ve seen the name everywhere: at construction sites, on fuel trucks, on shops, on farms, and on everything in between. It’s one of a handful of super-large families in the region that are so big that they don’t know some of their own family members. For example, one of my friends rented an apartment off some Perrillats last season. They invited me in for coffee (jaw droppingly rare for such a local family to be kind to such a non-local girl who can barely speak the same language as them), and I mentioned that I knew one of their family members — a ski instructor with the same surname. They asked who, and when I told them his name, they shrugged and said casually that it’s a big family.

As you might remember from a previous blog entry, it apparently takes three generations of family to be buried here before someone is considered a local in La Clusaz. The existence of this book comes as no huge surprise. Where else in the world would you find a book available in bookshops that focuses entirely on a local name? How many people would buy such a book to make it worthwhile? Who is the book of interest to? I guess if just half of the existing Perrillats bought the book, it would probably pay for itself, and any sales on top of that are a bonus!

The off-season in the Alps means the road workers are busy resurfacing roads before winter hits. For the past four off-seasons here (that’s two years), the road workers have been changing the layout of the roads and car parks and updating the drains underneath at the same time. It’s involved a lot of work, so I’m not surprised it’s taken this long.

However, there’s a road that joins Thônes, ten minutes from here, to Annecy-le-Vieux which has not been so lucky. When I first moved to La Clusaz exactly three years ago, this road was only open on one side, forcing traffic through single file. Then winter came and the roadwork signs and lower speed limits stayed in force but the workers were never there. Finally, by June 2007, the road was fixed! It was lovely to drive on, and cyclists were happy that they had a bike lane.

Then disaster struck in August 2007 — just two months after the road was finished. A dam on the hill above burst and caused a flash flood on the road. People had to dump their sodden cars and save themselves from the flow of water, but no lives were lost. The road was, of course, closed. Within a few days, it was re-opened, but roadwork signs reappeared and the cyclists’ lane was once again closed. The road workers never appeared, but the lower speed limit — to protect the absent workers — is still in place to this day. This week, the workers turned up! In three years, the road has been fully functioning for two months, yet trucks use it every day.

Meanwhile, the private driveway to my apartment was also fixed up this week. There had been huge pot-holes at the bottom of the driveway, plus a concrete drain with pointy corners that jutted out about 20cm near my garage. The entire driveway has a kind of wave system in its unevenness which acts as a rollercoaster ride. So, the lovely owners of the apartments resurfaced the driveway, but I think they must have run out of money. The potholes at the bottom are gone, but the drain is still jutting out, with the roadwork only covering the first half of the driveway. In addition, they’ve left the stones loose, so the sun warms the tar underneath each day, leaving splattered tar marks on the side of cars driving on the driveway, along with chip marks from the stones. The loose stones have started to diminish and the waves are coming back. Before,  I just avoided the potholes. Now I can’t avoid the stones or the tar, while most other obstacles remain. Still, it could be worse. I could have had roadwork signs and speed limit restrictions for the past three years.

The word refuge in English is often associated with a place to take shelter by those who need it. Although the word looks the same and is pronounced in much the same way in French, the meaning here in the French Alps relates mostly to that of a typical mountain hut that provides food and shelter for travellers. Some are literally just a hut with bunk beds and some form of running water , working on an honesty box system to cover the cost of wood for heating and maintenance. Others are fully-operational restaurants that provide big meals, a sip from the typically Savoyard bottle of home-made booze with a dead snake inside, and heated accommodation with an indoor toilet. The indoor toilet is particularly handy in the cold winter months.

The refuge I went to last week was somewhere in between these two extremes. Refuge de Bombardellaz provides hearty food without the gimmick of a snake in a bottle, although I didn’t see what the accommodation was like as the refuge only took us an hour to get to from the car park at Les Confins. The refuge is only open in summer, which explains the outdoor tables, but I can’t help thinking how at least some of the wide path to the refuge would be great to slide down on a snowboard.

Click on the image for a bigger version

Having never been to this refuge before, my friends and I were equipped with a map, which was handy, because although the way is marked at most track intersections, the signs are missing from some, and we needed the map to check. The first signpost at the car park said the refuge was 55 minutes away.  We had a lunch booking in half an hour, but we figured the sign’s time estimate was for the elderly, families with young children, or injured people. No worries: half an hour is plenty of time! After half an hour, we passed a sign that said the refuge was 35 minutes away. What? At this point, I realised that we were, in fact, lower than the lowest common denominator of walker: we were the unfit. On we marched. After a further 30 minutes, the next sign said it was only ten minutes away, and to be perfectly frank, it would have been only ten minutes away had the road been flat. It was not flat. It was all uphill to the refuge. Ten minutes of walking up a hill turned into five minutes of walking, five minutes of stopping to catch my breath after pretending to be interested in a nearby flower, three minutes of walking, another few minutes of stumbling, and then a final push once the refuge was in sight. Now quite late for lunch, I felt cheated by the signs — and perhaps a little guilty about my level of fitness. The staff welcomed us warmly despite our tardiness.

As the wide-angle photo here shows, the refuge provides views of the peaks of La Clusaz, the neighbouring valley of Le Grand Bornand, and the mountains all around.

Lunch eaten and heart rested, we walked along a more narrow path that led down towards Le Grand Bornand until a crossroad gave us the choice to climb back uphill to Les Confins. Despite both walks ending in these treacherous uphill challenges, they were otherwise easy and enjoyable. Chuck in the reward of a hearty lunch with beautiful views and you’ve got a pretty good day out.