Le Franco Phoney

One of the most noticeable and amusing things about living in the French Alps is how quickly conversation turns to snow when winter approaches. Months before the resort is due to open, people start predicting what sort of season it will be based on everything from long-term weather forecasts to how abundant the berries are on the trees in the mountains. I’m as guilty as the next person.

This year got off to a slow start with a very warm and dry autumn, causing the annual ski test at Le Grand Bornand, held before the official opening of the resort, to be cancelled. Nobody could talk about much else apart from when the snow was due to fall.

Finally, about ten days ago, the snow fell. Conversation went from ‘when’ to ‘how much’ and ‘how low’, with rain washing away the first dump of fresh snow on the lower pistes. Resorts all over the Alps opened on the weekend with eager skiers lining up. I was one of them, queuing at the La Balme area of La Clusaz, and at first tempted to stay on the piste to avoid the rocks hiding under what we all suspected to be the usual early-season flimsy layer of powder off-piste. All that changed yesterday when I hit some rock gardens on the piste. Even at an altitude of 2,600 metres, the rocks were poking through. Nicely hidden behind the steepness of the slope and on a narrow part of the piste, I heard my new skis crunch over the rocks like a train chugging along a track. I ventured off-piste instead. Result! Just one rock obscured my fresh tracks.

What a dire start the season eh? No, not really. The resort isn’t even due to open until 17th December! I’m happy that the snow is back (and indeed it’s dumping down right now, although rain is expected later in the week), but I wonder if the early opening was perhaps more for marketing or pressure to open prematurely. The pistes are patchy, and worryingly, the barrier at the top of La Balme that prevents people from sliding over the edge to their death has not been fully raised yet, leaving just the lower orange netting to waist height only. Falling over it would not be difficult. Pictured is how it normally looks. Those big zig-zag ropes attaching to the higher horizontal black rope to keep everything taut are not yet there and the orange netting is kind of hangy.

Anyway, enough about health and safety: I need to get back to talking about snow with my friends.

I talked about the art of the haggle at French garage/car boot sales (called a vide grenier ) in the past. Haggling doesn’t come naturally to me, but last weekend at the St Jean de Sixt vide grenier, I found myself haggling with the big guns.
Pictured is a ski binding. A ski technician friend spotted a pair of skis with these bindings on them, and said that the bindings alone were worth more than the €30 price tag on the skis. Since I needed a pair of bindings for some new skis, he suggested they’d be a cheap alternative to brand new bindings since the technology hasn’t changed much in recent years. I could trash the skis at that price. While we were standing there, a man asked the seller if he would reduce the price of a neighbouring pair of skis. The seller said no and the man turned to walk away. The seller changed his mind and asked for €25. The man offered €20 and after scoffing from both parties, the seller accepted, mumbling about it under his breath.

I figured I could also get this pair for €20, so I picked them up. The seller, aware that my friend and I had seen everything, promptly wrote out a sticker for €50 and slapped it on the skis I was holding, mumbling some more. I protested and said I’d pay €20. He was a big man – both in height and girth, and had a scary look on his weathered face. He snatched the skis from my and slammed them back against the wall they had been leaning on, saying I could have them for €30 and no less. Had I been by myself, I would have been so afraid of this scary man towering over me that I would have scampered away. Instead, I scoffed like a French man and said no because he had just sold the previous pair for €20. He scoffed back, so I scoffed some more, shrugged and turned to walk away. He picked the skis up and thrust them towards me, agreeing on €20. I said thanks and he didn’t reply. I handed him a twenty and he sarcastically said I may as well have it back since the skis were practically free, then ignored my friend who bothered to say goodbye. I didn’t even try. Upon closer inspection of the skis, they’re in almost new condition, with great edges, bases and top sheets. Bargain!

So, one angry French man later, I have a working pair of bindings and a decent pair of skis too. It was worth almost weeing myself after all.

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.

Last weekend, the town of Alex held a Vide Grenier — a giant garage sale where the locals bring all sorts of odd things to sell. I had to go: I love these events! Bizarre offerings included a variety of champagne bottle tops, a four-poster bed (assembled) and a monoski in excellent condition. The usual household goodies were on sale as well, and needing rustic-looking containers for the garden, I asked a woman how much for the two baskets in my arms that she was selling. She said €5 and I handed over the money without the French haggle. Haggling seems to be an important part of the process, and I felt like a fool for not trying to get her down to €4. No worries: I accidentally haggled over something else: I asked a man how much a large metal pot was and he said it was €10. I said ‘no thanks’ and he asked how much I would pay. I said €5, and something resembling the beard-buying scene from The Life of Brian followed.

“€5 for that? Look at the quality. You must be joking,” he said in French to me.

“It’s just for the garden,” I explained.

“But it’s for making jam!” he said indignantly. “You can’t put it in the garden.”

“I’m terrible in the kitchen, but good in the garden,” I joked.

“Okay, €5,” he said. “And a cherry each for you and your friend.”

Success! Without ever thinking he’d give it to me for €5, I scored a lovely jam pan which will never see jam again (now happily filled with petunia) and couple of tasty fresh cherries, and I’ve learnt the art of the French haggle to boot.

The road between St Jean de Sixt and Bonneville is sketchy at times to say the least. If it’s not boulders falling onto the road, it’s local drivers doing crazy speeds to catch up behind you and tailgate you around the twists and bends that ensure the average person stays in second gear most of the time. Add in slippery, snowy roads in winter just to make things more exciting.

It’s hard enough to drive along this road in a car or small van unscathed in let alone a truck. I do not envy the driver of this log truck. Those logs are longer than this photo can justify, and you can see how close some of them are to the rocks which often overhang the road, causing the driver to take up both sides of the road to avoid scraping his or her cargo. Height, as well as width, is therefore important on this road! The cargo made it through the pass unscathed.

During the ten minutes of being stuck behind the truck, we had to stop twice to let oncoming traffic clear so the truck could get around the next corner.

I was relieved to be behind the truck despite my longer presence on the road increasing the chance of falling rock landing on me: the local who zoomed up behind me didn’t bother tailgating me once he saw what lay ahead. Now that’s rare.

Pictured is a letterbox down the road from where I live. You can tell it’s a letterbox by the handle, lock and nameplate at the bottom right side of the box/house. To get an idea of the size of the letterbox, there’s a red tulip behind the letterbox, or if you’re more of a measurement person, that door for the letters to go in is around 25cm wide and tall. If you’d like to see a bigger version, click on the image.

At the top we have the Savoyarde coat of arms: this is visible in loads of places in Haute Savoie where the locals are proud of their past, when they were once a separate entity from France with their own duchy. There’s then a bit of a mish-mash of people — women and men in traditional dress selling bread and wheat and other goodies, but down the bottom, there seems to be a mountaineer or musician (or someone dressed in more recent clothes anyway) at the top of the staircase, and more bizarre still is the nativity-looking woman next to the letterbox door who is holding a lamb, with a lamb looking up at her. Regardless, ten out of ten to the creator for getting most things to scale (apart from that huge lantern under the Savoyarde coat of arms), and the inclusion of a cat, some ducklings, some decorative clogs, pretzel and belier (local goat-like sheep thing) all hanging on the walls, mini flowers, logs and wheat, and the tiny love hearts cut out of the wood. I think there’s even a squirrel and a snowman’s head included, amongst a few other tiny objects. I just wish they’d included a miniature letterbox with the house, in the style of the house, with its own miniature letterbox in the same style, and so on until there’s just a tiny dot somewhere on the other side of the road…

I went for a walk the other morning and found a mannequin being serenaded by another mannequin. I stopped to have a look at the silent scene and drank in the detail. As you can see from the photo below, the mannequin on the ladder is holding a real guitar. But wait, there’s more.

Apart from the girl on the balcony being serenaded, there’s a newly-married couple of mannequins behind the pretty little chalet with all those lovely, well-maintained flowers. The bride seems to have no hair or face, but the groom is decked out well with a top hat and a scarf around his neck. But wait, there’s more. A baby is sitting with a woman who, let’s face it, is dressed in much the same way as the baby. Who knows why the baby is propped on a log or why there’s a married couple with a bald bride in amongst the serenading couple’s scene. I just love the randomness of the scenes that regularly appear in this cluster of gardens and buildings.

And it’s great to know that the scene-setter has not given up; during the summer holidays, some of the mannequins were vandalised. They were placed head first in a water tank with their legs sticking out. Maybe this is why the bride’s face is blank — her features washed away by water. In a wave of crime the same weekend, some number plates were stolen and some houses, including mine, were strawberried. Someone threw strawberries at houses, causing no damage but a lovely smell. I’m pleased that even when vandalism does strike here in St Jean de Sixt, it’s not on the scale of what I’ve seen in the cities I’ve lived in.

Anyway, the little chalet pictured is no doubt just a storage shed. Is this not the most ornate and well-decorated storage shed that has ever existed? May the mannequins and flowers continue.

I remember as a teenager, when my form of rebellion was to enjoy going shopping with my mum, being totally disgusted by a good friend who I’d gone shopping with (Mum was busy that day) who had stolen a poster while I remained totally unaware walking out of the shop with her. I was angry that she involved me by association, and I just didn’t understand her need to steal it, then show off about it when we met friends on the bus home.

Yes, I was the goody-two-shoes kid at school, who never smoked dope, never stole anything, and never wagged school. The only detention I had was thanks to Luke who decided put chalk dust in my hair from a blackboard duster. With equality in mind, I did the same thing back to him and the teacher sent us both for detention. Luke, if you’re reading, you’re responsible for ruining my otherwise perfect record at school.

However, things seem to have taken a tumble recently when I helped a French friend steal. Yes, I aided a thief. He wanted dirt, and he knew a place where he could find it – a public park. Granted, the dirt had recently been dumped there by someone else, and my French friend assured me that it wasn’t stealing since he was merely reusing something that someone no longer wanted. When I suggested he could just buy some, he refused, saying that the mountains are full of dirt, and that he only needed a few square metres. So, we trundled off in his car and I directed him into parking his car for easy dirt loading.

While I waited for him to shovel dirt, a man walked past with a dog and said hello. Then a lady stared at us from a distance, and I was sure she would call the police. Seeing I was worried, my friend suggested he come back later without me, so we left with just a little dirt. He joked as we drove further away that a blue car was behind him — could it be the police? To be honest, I’m not even sure I should be writing about this just in case the police hunt me down and demand answers.

My friend went back later for more dirt. He told me that a whole group of school children went past, with the teacher saying hello politely. A guy on a quad bike rode by while the teacher tried to get the kids to stop running away. A teenager also walked past looking scared, which my friend attributed to the teenager imagining there was a dead body or something in the dirt. Thankfully, there was no body, and I’m hoping that my goody-two-shoes reputation can be restored quickly. I’ve tried to help that along immediately after with a charity donation, while my dirt-loving friend donated a spare mattress to the homeless. Maybe a guilty conscience is a good thing!

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 recently saw a blog entry entitled: “Travel Inspirations: Looking Further Than Your Own Backyard” and it got me thinking about how I explore. I’ve travelled a bit, and lived in three different countries, crossing the equator to do so. Is it because I’m Australian and we tend to value exploring the world? Is it because I’ve achieved a financial independence that my foremothers were always denied by the ones who were supposed to love them most? Is it because as a society, we never seem to be happy with what we’ve got, and look further afield for satisfaction? For whatever reasons, I tend to look way beyond my backyard for travel inspiration. And I think that’s a problem. Let me explain why.

Everywhere I’ve lived has gems that I’ve never discovered. When people discover I’m from Melbourne, they mention the Twelve Apostles or The Grampians, or broader Australian attractions such as the Great Barrier Reef and Uluru (aka Ayers Rock). Have I travelled to any of these places? Nope. And now that I’ve spent more than three years in France, I’m doing it again. When I first arrived, I was so excited to learn of a cheese maker in Thônes who does tours, the farm across the road from my place in La Clusaz where you can feed the cows in winter when they’re bored in their sheds, and the farm just up the road that sells fresh eggs and butter which I thought I’d visit regularly for such treats. There are cheese caves in Le Grand Bornand where visits can be arranged! Have I done any of these things? Nope. Okay, I’ve discovered all sorts of other great things around this area, but why do I look beyond my own backyard when there’s still so much more to explore on my doorstep?

This week, I asked my friends if they do the same. One has been in a cheese cave at Le Grand Bornand, but it was to do with work. Nobody had been on the cheese making tour, and one friend had fed the cows right opposite my old place in La Clusaz when she was with some children. I trumped them all with my multiple visits to the goat farm, with extra points for regularly buying cheese from it. But still, we’re all a bit hopeless.

So, my challenge to myself and to you is to explore more of the local treats in your area and see just what’s there to discover and enjoy. Time starts now.