Le Franco Phoney

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.

St Jean de Sixt isn’t a big ski resort: it has one drag lift and one rope tow and nothing else. The five pistes include two greens, two blues and a red. Despite its diminutive size, I discovered that St Jean has its very own snow park, pictured.

I found this mini-kicker, which actually turned out to be a small toboggan course, behind St Jean Sport, one of the two ski shops in town. The guys who work there talked me through it. Bored on their lunchbreak but without enough time to properly hit the slopes, they decided to bring the snow to them. They invited me to test it, which I declined, citing the rubbish bin as an obstacle I’d likely hit. “No!” they insisted, “that’s not where you land.” I could believe them, but there doesn’t seem to be all that much space between the bin and their toboggan “course” and when I suggested they could show me, they all declined. I’m guessing the fun was in the building. Bonus points for their usage of a sponsorship flag at the top of the run.

Months ago, I wrote about the noisy church bells in my friend’s village and how annoying they were at 7am on a Sunday morning. You’d think that, just a few months after that experience, I’d be wise to moving near a church, and yet here I am in St Jean de Sixt, close enough to the church to be heard by the bell ringer if I yelled out to stop that noise if only he’d stop ringing the bells. And yes, apparently, the church bells are still rung by a local here. Thankfully, the bells don’t go off at 7am on a Sunday morning, but they do go off at 8am on a Sunday morning, and every hour after that until 10pm. There’s also the “It’s lunchtime!” ring at midday, and the “It’s hometime!” ring at 7pm. Friends say: “Oh, you get used to them,” and I guess I have to a degree. Hearing the DONG DONG DONG is in fact great for time keeping: I’m much more aware of the hours ticking past, but as a light sleeper who rarely enjoys a sleep-in, the Sunday morning bells are still annoying, so I now have ear plugs on my bedside table at the ready.

What ear plugs cannot fix is funeral parking traffic. The surrounding streets are lined with illegally-parked cars, and my usual car park is jammed to the point that some of those cars are wedged in behind other cars which hopefully only belong to other funeral-goers. I know it’s wrong of me and a terrible thing to have a whinge about funerals: somebody has died, and all I care about is the fact that I have to lug my skis fifty more metres because my usual parking spots are taken. So, deceased people, I’m sorry. But then, the church should be sorry too because when I first heard the funeral chime, I presumed it was a wedding with all its cheery major key chiming. Church, shouldn’t you be more solemn? Like me when I’m grumpy carrying my skis past all the people wearing black?

I can see into the cemetery from my house, and after each funeral, the attendees walk slowly through the cemetery before leaving the church grounds and waiting in their cars of other funeral-goers to move theirs out of the way, but the body never seems to get buried there. In fact, the cemetery seems pretty full — and a bit sad for its occupants during winter, for although the path is kept cleared by a lawn-mower-sounding snow clearer, the snow on the graves remains, and fresh flowers are a rare sight (where can anyone put them?). On the upside, they get a great view of the mountain. I took this photo from the cemetery, with the lovely view of the l’Etale peak of La Clusaz, when I walked through it the other day for signs of fresh flowers. There were none, nor any funeral goers, nor any signs of the bell-ringer, but I’m going to check that out with the local tourist office. And if he does exist, does that mean he never gets a sleep-in?

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.

Reputations. England has the reputation of simply closing down when snow settles on the roads. France somehow manages to keep on going. Certainly, here in the Alps, a typical local driver tackles snow as just another winter obstacle on the roads filled with the slow cars of tourists (why not overtake on a corner?), speed humps (who bothers slowing down?), late-night drunks (what alcohol limit?) and iced up windows (why drive with a fully defrosted windscreen when you can have the novelty of a peephole instead?). However, the Alps are equipped for snow: local council tractors and trucks scrape the snow off the road regularly; cars are required by law to be equipped with snow tyres and/or chains in many areas; the locals have lots of experience in driving in the snow, and the tow trucks are on standby for any accidents.

Meanwhile, in England, train networks, major roads and airports have closed for days because they can’t deal with the snow. Actually, the snow seems to turn to ice faster and for longer in England. Tragically, a bus hit some ice in the South of England and at least two people died and many more were injured. When the first emergency services car arrived, it too hit the ice and crashed into the overturned bus. While the European Alps benefit from all those services mentioned above, the average Brit is left skating on thin ice, literally. And even with all these services, I’ve seen some extremely bad driving in the past few days. I’ve lost count of the cars with snow chains on even though the roads are now totally clear of snow. A day earlier when the roads were snowy, a man shook his fist at me (leaving me bemused and amused rather than angry) after I didn’t just stop my car while he and his family walked up my side of the road (I drove beside them while no cars came from the other direction). Hello: when you’re driving up a hill on slippery snow and you stop, chances are you might not get going again. It’s a road: walk on the side of it and not in the middle, especially when the roads are slippery. I should have shaken my fist back at him. That same day, I drove along a road and there was a tow-truck winching up a smashed car. It had smashed into the side of the road. Three hours later,  the tow-truck was still there — winching a different car which had smashed into another car which was waiting for a tow truck.

After seeing all this, I can’t help but wonder if England has the right idea.

Part of ski resort Le Grand Bornand opened last weekend and included a free ski test area, where you could choose any ski from scores of manufacturers and see how they go on, and off, the piste. I’m up with the lingo: it’s all about rocker systems, reverse camber and wide waists this year. But how on earth do I explain to the ski rep that I want to try a combo of any of those things? The result:

April (in slow French): “What’s that ski?”

Ski rep: “C’est blah de blah de blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. D’accord?”

April: “Okay.”

This resulted in me trying out K2 Misdemeanors even though I used to own their brother, the Public Enemy ski. What a waste of time: I know exactly what it’s like to ski on and it was a pointless test. But I took them out anyway as I was too embarrassed to explain in slow French that I hadn’t understood what he said and that I’d changed my mind.

Another instance was the Rossignol S7 ski. Now, two friends of mine have just got these skis and I was keen to try them out. Sadly, I learnt through my French friend who also wanted to try them out, Rossignol staff were very unhappy that three snowboards had come back within the first few hours totally wrecked from the rocky off-piste which has yet to form a decent snow base, and they had decided to take all off-piste skis away from the public too. So, no chance of trying the S7 I though. But then the Rossignol rep pointed to a pair of Roxy skis (picture) and said they were basically the same. Here we go again:

April (in slow French): “I’d like to try the …ummmm… Roxy ski.”

Ski rep (in fast French): “They’re all Roxy skis…”

April’s French friend:  “The Mumbo Jumbos.”

Saved by my French friend! Apparently, the Rossignol guy had actually named the ski, but my French is still so lacking that I didn’t catch the completely non-French-sounding “mumbo jumbo” in his sentence.

No worries. I have some great skis to try out and I’ll regain the confidence I just lost with my French language skills by ripping these babies up on the hill. Alternatively, they could feel like planks of concrete stuck to my feet that do float off-piste (don’t tell the Roxy rep I took them off piste - I promised I wouldn’t), but are more like two tethered elephants on piste. The Roxy ski rep asked me what I thought of them, and I bet she regretted that. She had to patiently listen to some idiot talking about “more muscle I need” and “not good on piste” without any further explanation as to why. Had she asked me in English, I could have told her about the elephants.

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.

It’s that time of year where snow lovers in the Northern Hemisphere are getting anxious about the upcoming ski season. Speculation has already begun on how good a season it will be, based on the lateness of red berries, the colour of autumn leaves, and which ways the cows prefer to face. Mushrooms, summer temperature, frost, the Southern Hemisphere’s winter, and bird activities are other indicators that I’ve heard of to describe how cold or warm, snowy or dry a winter will be. I’m still confused as to how each works and I vehemently question the accuracy of such methods, but they provide good banter nonetheless.

Anyway, if it’s a bad season or if you just can’t wait any longer, there’s always pine needle skiing. Yep. You ski on pine needles. I first found out about this a few months back when I took this snap by a bank ATM/teller in a town far away from the mountains. Next to this poster was some information about the sport and some contact information, so I had a look at their website (update July 2010: website no longer around) which has (edit: had) a great video, showing just how…errr…easy pine needles are to ski on. The video includes skiers on kickers, trunk slides, trunk tricks, and even a skier going switch mid-ski. The problem is that he then comes to a stop because he’s run out of hill. And then he has to walk back up because there are no ski lifts.

The video also shows footage back in the days of black and white film of people skiing on the pine needles with old wooden skis. Indeed, the poster says: “Ski all seasons. Why not? For 40 years, people from the South Basin have been able to do so.” What strikes me is that if people were doing this forty years ago and it still hasn’t caught on, then maybe there’s a reason.

Me, I think I’ll wait until winter, but if anyone reading this tries it or has already tried it, I’d be very interested in hearing how it was.

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.