Le Franco Phoney

I wrote a little while ago about the demise of the St Jean roundabout, with the shed removed and no more mannequins on display. So what’s that you see pictured above? Yes, the mannequins are back! There’s a couple sitting at a table with a bottle, and behind them is a policeman with binoculars. I have absolutely no idea what all this means, as usually the mannequins depict a holiday or event happening locally. Is this a warning that the police will be checking for drunk drivers tonight or something?

Who knows. And frankly, who cares! My faith in France flouting ridiculous health and safety rules has once again been restored (although this was helped along with the monster truck display a few weeks ago too. Happy days.

Pictured is a Krispy Kreme custard-filled, chocolate hand-dipped donut (halo by me). How on earth does this relate to living in the French Alps? It doesn’t really. I just wanted to find an excuse to talk about these delicious donuts. See, there are lots of foods that I miss here in the Alps. Vegetarian supplies aren’t in much demand, so during my visit to England last week, I stocked up on Beanfeast vegie spag bol, Quorn vegie products and Haloumi cheese (which isn’t just for vegetarians, obviously, but very hard to find anywhere in the Alps). As I waited to board my flight with my bags full of English goodies, I kept my little bag with my single Krispy Kreme donut close to me, careful not to squash it. Then I saw a lady with an entire box of Krispy Kreme donuts. Then another lady. Then a teenage girl. Presuming their boxes were filled with the typical dozen, that’s 36 donuts on my flight, not including mine.

Once seated on the plane, the stewardess saw my bag and quizzed me about whether these donuts really are as good as everyone says. “Of course!” I said, “They’re fantastic.” She explained that she has resisted sampling them because she doesn’t want to start a new addiction. We chatted and joked about a donut for a few minutes — the longest I’ve ever spent talking to any airline staff apart from the check-in man who made me take some of my British food goodies out of my overweight suitcase despite my friendly pleas that I was only carrying minimal hand luggage — which was a few minutes later brimming with 1.5kg of food that had been in my suitcase. Maybe I should have arrived at the check-in desk with a Krispy Kreme donut to sway him.

When the stewardess got on with her pre-flight duties, the man sitting next to me carried on. “You shouldn’t have mentioned the Krispy Kreme donut,” he said, “because if you fall asleep, it won’t be there when you wake up.” As the conversation continued, I learnt that my donut, just like the one pictured here, was not his favourite. He wanted a simple sugared donut with raspberry filling. He said my donut was safe: chocolate icing is all wrong even on a Krispy Kreme, and anything but jam filling is just as bad.

As soon as our donut discussion came to an end, he turned his head to look out the window, and eventually buried his head in a newspaper. My donut managed to soften this otherwise silent seat neighbour!

So, I was wondering what would happen if Krispy Kremes came to France. Would we all finally discover a language that we all understand? Would Savoyardes, other French and non-French people all just be friends? And would the shop owner keep a few of the favourites hidden so that there’d be some for the regulars coming in later on? Would they be pronounced “Krispy Krem” by the French, causing massive confusion for locals serving the tourists (”what is zis ‘crispic ream‘ thing zey are talking about?”). Perhaps I could open a shop on the St Jean de Sixt roundabout that no longer has a hut on in. Imagine the new friendships! Imagine the donut love! Imagine the chaos of the queues. Maybe, then, the roundabout mannequins wouldn’t seem like such a health and safety risk.

The title of this post might conjure up images of the usual roundabout shock in France — someone actually using an indicator at some point. However, my roundabout shock a few days ago didn’t relate to cars at roundabouts at all. The St Jean de Sixt roundabout has changed. It’s become boring. Can you spot what’s missing? Here’s an ‘after’ shot:

Can you see what’s gone? The hut has vanished. I walked past the other day and noticed a man on the roundabout next to some planks of wood that were once the hut. It’s a shock but not just because the hut has gone. The reasons behind it are rather more depressing. But first, let’s reminisce.

Now here is a photo of the roundabout last summer when we had some historical French figures in traditional attire gracing the roundabout. Some garden fence had been placed at the front to make it that extra bit more homely. Without the hut, what use would these mannequins have been, just hanging around on a roundabout? The hut made it.

And just last month, we had the ski instructors in various shapes and forms to celebrate the massive meeting of French Ski School ski instructors. The roundabout was literally the talk of the town…well, amongst my friends anyway. What’s not to love about a white plastic ski slope and some ski instructors complete with goggles and hats and everything else gracing the roundabout?

So, this is all hearsay, but I’ve heard that the hut was removed because the man who puts the mannequins up is no longer allowed to. Apparently, it’s against health and safety for him to continue, so he’s been told he can no longer do this. I guess there’s no point in having the hut without the figures, or perhaps there are new plans ahead for the roundabout. What I find sad is that in a country where health and safety is sometimes alarmingly amiss (who needs a fire staircase on a wooden chalet?), it’s struck at surely the dumbest area possible. Okay, the guy could get run over or cause an accident if he drops one of his mannequins while he’s crossing to the roundabout, but it seems to me that far riskier health and safety issues remain unaddressed. I’m sure it’s for everyone’s good, but I can’t help wondering how less joyful my days will be without the surprise of what the roundabout holds from week to week. RIP St Jean de Sixt roundabout goodness. I miss you already.

Monday was the first day of the French ski instructors’ week-long competition. “ESF” stands for Ecole du Ski Français (French ski school), and their outfit, as seen on the roundabout here in St Jean de Sixt, is red. A friend and I drove to Chinaillon — part of the Le Grand Bornand ski resort — where all the action was happening, but we discovered a bit of action on the way there. As we drove through town in my very old Golf cabriolet, people in red outfits were everywhere, and while we stopped to let some walk across a pedestrian crossing, one yelled out in French: “Oh, a convertible! Here, I’ll just put my skis in the back.” Thankfully, before he could do so, the other instructors had cleared the pedestrian crossing and we were on our way.

In Chinaillon, the red outfits outnumbered the rest of us. We sat at a café at the bottom of the pistes to watch the entertainment. We couldn’t see the races, but lots of instructors had taken advantage of the pub further up, and they found some innovative ways to get to the bottom of the piste. One sipped his drink while flying past at high speed, as if relaxing on a sunlounger rather than bouncing down the lumpy piste. Many others had empty plastic beer cups hanging around their necks. One instructor skied over some skis laying on the snow, left by one of the other café customers who either didn’t see or didn’t mind, and then a couple of ESF cowboys skied past, complete with fake guns, cowboy hats and gingham shirts. One poor instructor tried to get a lift down on the back of his mate’s skis, but he skied off too quickly and the instructor slid down skate-style in just his ski boots. Funniest of all was the instructor piggy-backing another instructor. It was going really well until he had to slow down, and then there was a crash, a tumble and lots of laughter.

On the way home, we passed the decorated roundabout in St Jean de Sixt, which has changed a few times already. On Monday morning, a policeman mannequin was arresting a ski instructor while the other three ski instructor mannequins (pictured in last weekend’s photo) continued to ski down their plastic slope. By Monday afternoon, the policeman was gone and a ski instructor mannequin was installed on the roof of the little roundabout house — complete with his competitor number on his bib. Can you guess what the number was? If you guessed higher than 68 and lower than 70, you’d be spot on.

Hooray! After months of no action on the St Jean de Sixt roundabout, we finally have some mannequin action! They used to change so regularly, but I think this is the first time this winter that they’ve come out. Where else in the world would you find a roundabout with French ski school instructor outfits on it? There’s even a white ski slope, skis, poles goggles and hats, and a judge mannequin in the background. Why the judge? Read on.

The judge is there because these mannequins represent the French ski school version of a nativity scene. Each year, around 3000 members of the French ski school compete against each other in all sorts of snow-based competitions, and this year Le Grand Bornand are holding it for the second time in the competition’s sixty-year history. It’s a bit of an honour for ski resort really, and that’s why the roundabout has been decorated for the event. The judge shown on the roundabout could be judging anything from a boarder cross competition, to downhill skiing. This covers all their disciplines, so telemarking, cross-country skiing, and even freestyle competitions are included. More info, in French, here.

Apart from the competitions, there is loads of entertainment, and I’m pleased to see that the Radio Meuh DJs will be pumping out some grooves between the other DJs, bands, booze and cheese tastings on offer for free. So, thank you, St Jean de Sixt roundabout, for alerting me to the festivities of next week, which may have otherwise passed me by.

Here, you see a big chicken on a roundabout. The big chicken has several significations for me personally. Firstly, let me point out that the name brings back fond memories. We nicknamed a guy The Big Chicken years ago when I lived in Les Allues. He was a very overweight man who worked on the ski lift there, and when he saw some friends of mine devouring a whole chicken for breakfast on their way up the ski lift, his eyes were bulging with envy, and so, he became known as The Big Chicken.

But even before I knew of The Big Chicken in Les Allues, I had passed this particular big chicken many times. The metallic sculpture lives on a roundabout above the toll road that takes you towards the Alps. The first time I saw it, I was in a bus, so demanding a detour for a closer look was out of the question. The next time, I was driving as part of a convoy, and I had no way of stopping without losing my friends. Every time since, I’ve been in a hurry to drive back to England or back to the Alps and I’ve never taken the time to stop. That is, of course, until last week, when the road trip was much shorter and therefore more relaxed on timing. Now, I finally have my snap of the big chicken and I cannot describe just how happy this makes me.

You may be wondering why there’s a big chicken on a roundabout. Like many French roundabouts I’ve written about, this one signifies the produce from the region — Bresse. The area breeds good chickens for eating, and with their AOC status, they fetch a higher price than other chickens. The locals are very proud of their chickens, as this roundabout might suggest. The roundabout is visible from a great distance as the metallic sculpture is much higher than most roundabout decorations. Check the size of the car against the giant chicken. I wonder how many parents have had to stop after their kids have cried: “I want to stop at the big chicken.” Or is it just me? Before setting off, the obligatory photo of me standing in front of said big chicken with my best chicken stance (one leg raised, hands on hips, neck unnaturally forward) was taken. Now, if only I could get a photo of the Les Allues Big Chicken doing the same…

I’ve just come back from a quick visit to a friend in Zermatt. What an experience. After an amazing drive through the Alps (including an odd roundabout stuck in the middle of a two-way road, without any other intersecting roads), we arrived in Täsch. No, not Zermatt. Noooooo. No, to get to Zermatt, you must park your car (pay), then take a train (pay for that too) to the resort. Without your car, you might need a taxi (a battery-run car — not free either) to your accommodation, and if you’re skiing in summer, you’ll probably need a taxi (more money) in the morning, rather than walking uphill through town with ski boots on. Once you’re at the lift office, you’ll experience wallet shrinkage as every last Swiss Franc is squeezed out of it to pay for the day pass (CHF90) which is only valid for skiing until early afternoon, and if you can still afford a taxi back to your accommodation, perhaps you can use one of the other lifts to really feel like you’ve got your money’s worth out of the day (but remember to subtract the cost of the taxi home in ski boots).

Okay, apart from Zermatt being far too expensive, the place itself is great. The Matterhorn — or Cervino in Italian or Cervin in French —  dominates the town’s views, and it’s hard to find a postcard that doesn’t include it. The people are friendly and the food is varied. The village is pretty, relaxed and full of watch shops. One watch shop proudly advertises a watch brand with the quote: “Master of complications” and how true that is. Some cost more than €100,000 for the luxury of complication! The summer snow conditions were the best I’ve experienced, with a great cover that was a firm in the morning, but not rock solid, and softer later on, but not slushy. With only t-bars on the glacier, our legs — unaccustomed to skiing in summer — were tired before midday, but we kept at it because the snow was so good, dodging the racing teams and watching the few snowboarders on the piste do great things in the snow park.

Getting to the glacier for skiing involves three separate lifts: one telecabine then two telepheriques. So, after a morning of skiing, we then had to stand in two telepheriques before finally getting to rest our legs in a telecabine. Worse still, the connections between lifts are more than a few metres, making tired legs ache that little bit more between lifts. By the time we reached home, we were too tired to take any scenic lift rides, and it was too late in the day anyway.

We decided to go swimming. Zermatt has no public pool, so we went to a health spa. You might not think that CHF20 (€13) is worth it for a quick swim, but this pool was not just any pool. There’s a heated indoor pool, plus an overheated indoor/outdoor pool, complete with alternating water seductions such as bubbles for your feet, a whirlpool, bubble beds with mountain views, various water jets, some water fountains you can get a back and head massages from and two separate spas. The entrance fee includes a towel, which is handy, as we had left ours at home to save weight when carrying our bags between the car, the train and our accommodation (not far away enough to warrant a taxi, but far too far away to lug skis equipment and clothes). We stayed until closing, two hours later.

A French reader of my blog sent me these photos of a roundabout where he lives, based on my previous posts about ornate French roundabouts. He said: “April, I thought you’d like to see my local roundabout since you write about French roundabouts on your blog. I’m sure you can find something funny to write about it if you decide to put it on your blog.”

Actually, I’m so impressed with this roundabout that I don’t know if I can find anything funny to write about it! What’s not to love about this roundabout? It’s in Morbier, which is why there’s a giant Morbier cheese (appropriately with a section cut out of it to show the layer of ash that runs through the centre), and although I don’t understand why there’s a grandfather clock in the middle of this roundabout, I do appreciate that it’s made mostly of plants. How can this be? How cool is this clock? It looks like it has a coffin lining of satin which is a little freaky, but this roundabout really illustrates just how well the French do roundabouts. Not only does it have a decorative clock and cheese, but it’s also very informative. It tells you what time it is, and it tells you where you are (Haut Jura, as it says on the right). It’s also a friendly roundabout, as it says “Bienvenue” (”Welcome”) on the left. Does a better roundabout exist? I challenge you to find one.

If you’d like to see a bigger version of the roundabout, click on the photo.

Just a few weeks ago, almost a metre of snow sat outside my door here in La Clusaz, and the sunny, south-facing hill behind me was still covered in snow too. As I look outside my door right now, I see green grass. Further in the distance, the snowmen and the kickers have melted into the thin layer of snow that’s acting as a piste for now. Spring arrived with a snap less than two weeks ago, and the warmth of the sun is melting the snow faster than I remember in seasons gone by.

Fortunately, I took some photos of some ice formations underneath the Fernuy telecabine (aka bubble/gondola/egg, depending which country you’re from) before they melted away. Now, the stark, brown rock shows no sign of the pretty ice formations that grew throughout winter.

But first, let me start with a photo of the St. Jean de Sixt roundabout. As you can see in the photo below, taken about a month ago, it’s festive, and wintry, and it has been like this since December. The decorative lights have gone, the snow has melted, and the roundabout awaits new adornments for spring. You can click on the image text below for larger images.

The final photo shows a sunset from last week after the last snowfall we had. I haven’t altered this photo: the sun really did make the trees orange like that, helped, obviously by the snow sitting in them. The clouds at the top have made the mountain vanish into the sky while the sun changed the colour of the trees until they finally darkened with the night sky. The photo really doesn’t do the scene justice. You’ll have to take my word for it, or see it for yourself next time. It really was magnificent.