Le Franco Phoney

Yesterday, I was swimming in the pools pictured below. What heaven eh? What you’re looking at is a very large pool filled with hot spring water, and a smaller pool more suitable for doing laps. The big pool has a snail shell-shaped whirlpool, bubble jets under shallow seats, a big mushroom spilling water over the edges, sprays of water from pipes (ouch), and whole areas of bubbles under foot. All around are mountains and sunshine. What’s not to love?

I enjoyed the novelty and even emptied a bucket of cold water on myself after fifteen minutes in the Swedish sauna area. However, a two-day break of pampering spa time and treatments just isn’t for me. Don’t get me wrong, Les Bains de Lavey in Switzerland is a beautiful thermal spa with a very high standard of customer service, a wide choice of beauty treatments, and a lavish hotel with everything you’d expect, but I just couldn’t relax. Why? Because I’m not comfortable with nakedness in front of strangers. I struggle getting naked in front of the doctor.

Day One of my ‘Wellness’ package involved wearing just a paper thong and trying to gracefully get into a giant spa bath of water while the attendant watched. Once the spa time was over, there was the salt rub. Refreshing, sure, but lying for twenty minutes wrapped in plastic and a blanket is not my idea of relaxing, despite the calming music. I felt like I was in a body bag. Itches couldn’t be scratched and I was bored. Once unwrapped, the attendant watched me ungracefully dismount the table to rinse away the salt. I’m comfortable with my body, but I’m not comfortable parading in front of strangers covered in salt and a paper thong.

And then it got much worse. I had added a massage to my package and was greeted by a hunky young French man who, as he massaged my upper leg, told me to “let it go”. I said I was finding it difficult to relax. He suggested too much stress (nope), too much work (nope), and then in jest suggested not enough massages. Wrong again, young hunk. I couldn’t relax because I knew he’d soon be turning me over and seeing my paper-thonged body from the front while rubbing oil on my chest. Of course, to save my modesty, he had placed a towel over me at the start of the massage, which he held up above his eyes while I turned over half way through, then placed back down on me. But the towel doesn’t stay on. Why bother with the towel? He used it to cover my legs while he exposed my upper body and vice versa. Did I enjoy the massage? Kind of, but not really.

Day Two involved getting naked in front of the same attendant from Day One and some weird bath cocoon that sprayed hot water from above and underneath. I was covered in cocoa butter at the time, and was later slathered with mud by the same woman, then left wrapped up once more. No doubt many people love this, but it just wasn’t for me. Thankfully, the reflexology session later that day involved taking off my sandals only. Relief.

Before you study this photo, look at the logo for my blog. A beret-wearing cow with a curly moustache, holding wine and a baguette. It’s missing a bike and a stripy top, but it’s pretty stereotypical of the French. I did once see a man in a stripy top riding a bike with a baguette in his backpack, but only once. I’ve done a mean thing and embraced an unfair stereotype about the French.

Now, let me rewind a little. When I first arrived in France and spoke only English, the most I could explain to people was “Australian”, complete with full Aussie accent and a finger pointing back at myself. Those who finally figured it out would usually say “Ahh, kangourou” (because the French do spell it differently), and just in case I didn’t understand the exact same pronunciation, they would often mimic a kangaroo with their hands pulled up near their chest. I love this aspect of human nature, and I’ve used a variety of hand gestures to mimic various words I don’t know in French when trying to communicate.

However, none of those French people ever said “Ahh cactus” for a reason.

I can only guess that some French man with no moustache who doesn’t like bread, refuses to own a bike and prefers soft drink to wine whilst wearing only solid colours without lines has got his revenge on at least one nation who keeps the French stereotypes alive. I can hear him now: “Bof! Zeez or-strah-lianz sink zhey are so smart. I will make up a stupit stereotype about zhem.”

And so, here is an American native plant stuck next to a sign about kangaroos. Good work, Jean-Michele (or Jean-Paul, or Jean-Philippe or Jean-Pierre or whatever his double-barrelled name is). I, for one, deserve it.

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).

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.

I used this simple phrase the other day when I was in a giant stationery shop: “Je cherche les sacs en papier“. Okay, I should have said “des” not “les” but this basically means: “I’m looking for paper bags”. I wasn’t looking for anything fancy, such as this designer number pictured. No, I’d just like to have some brown paper bags to hold some seeds for the garden over winter and to see if putting my geraniums in paper bags from autumn will indeed keep them alive until next spring. So, after waiting patiently for at least five minutes while the only person serving anyone finished serving the previous customer, then faffed around looking for some important pen, then finally found it and bonjoured me. I asked the paper bag question and got a blank stare. Actually, I tell a lie: her face contorted as she raised one side of her lip and frowned while she jerked her neck back in shock. She didn’t open her mouth so I repeated my request to the contorted face, which remained contorted.

You may have guessed by now that this is another rant. I’m sorry. As often as I find a fantastic French person who is patient, friendly and generous with his or her time while I converse in my accent-ridden French, I find at least one who, like this woman, makes bad facial expressions, or huffs or rolls eyes or just walks away as soon a I start speaking. I know my French isn’t too bad because some French people, such as the mechanic (see previous post) who fixed my car told me when I picked it up that my French is great, and I was able to chat for five minutes or so with him about my car, mutual friends and how his sister lives in Australia. Sydney, in fact. She loves it. He dreams of going there one day and seeing the Great Barrier Reef.

Back to the shop. My French friend standing next to me understood me, so he repeated my request to which she immediately replied — looking at him only, of course, rather than that stupid etranger who was disdainfully taking up space with her presence.

If there’s one thing that wears me down and crushes my spirit, it’s that look on someone’s face when they hear my accent and shut off completely. However, an English friend has come up with an explanation. She reckons that English speakers are used to all sorts of accents because so many people revert to English to communicate with people who don’t speak their language. Of course, it’s a generalisation, but maybe all these contorted faces are happening because the French speakers are only tuned into French accents. This would certainly explain the subtitles on TV if someone from Haiti (a country where French is spoken) is speaking French. I mean it’s the same language!

Anyway, the woman explained to my French friend that they have plastic bags and material bags but no paper bags, so it looks like I’ll have to use the large roll of paper that I bought from the very same shop months ago to create my own paper bags.

My recent trip to the north of France highlighted a law which I never knew about. According to some sources, it’s illegal to feed pigeons in Paris. I’m not convinced this is a specific law — and I continued to feed a single pigeon beside me with churros from a nearby fair while the guy sitting next to me explained that the law was passed for health reasons and that although he had no objections, the police might fine me. Just as an aside, he then chatted for about twenty minutes about his background and asked about mine and my travel partner’s, then handed me a bracelet as a gift. I’m pretty skeptical of people being this genuine, but he really was happy that I accepted his gift and explained that in his culture, it’s offensive to refuse a gift.

I’ve done a bit of a web search (because if it’s not on the internet, it doesn’t exist, right?) and I’ve found differing views about this pigeon feeding ban. One website says there’s a €35 fine, while another website quotes one section of a law which is a bit hazy about the whole thing, but does suggest it might be illegal. Local councils apparently have some say in the matter, but an outright ban on pigeon feeding in Paris is something I could not locate. It may well exist: my French language skills simply are not up to the task of inquiring wholeheartedly into this, and nor is my motivation since I don’t live in Paris. However, for anyone planning a trip to Paris, it might be illegal to feed the pigeons, and that’s as helpful as I can be on the matter. On a far more helpful note, don’t waste your money on the dodgy churros at the fair at the Louvre end of the big park between the Louvre and the Champs-Elysées — you’re likely to reject their dryness and feed them to the pigeons instead.

As I mentioned in one of my last blog entries, I’ve moved house. I now live in St Jean de Sixt, which is the next village down from La Clusaz, so it’s not a very big move. A friend visited the new house on the weekend, and as we walked towards the bakery, just a few minutes away, we obviously looked local enough for not one, but two cars to stop and ask for directions.

The first car asked for directions to Aravis. My French friend explained that the entire region is the Aravis, so they were already there. They weren’t convinced and wanted to know where the football stadium in the town of Aravis was. She explained again that the Aravis is a region and that it could be one of any number of football stadiums. They still seemed confused by this, but then mentioned they had been told to head towards Le Grand Bornand. It seemed odd to us (because why would such a small village where snow sports rule be the home of the football stadium for this region?), but we pointed them in the right direction and they thanked us.

The next car was less polite. A man  in a white van tooted and stopped. I presumed it was someone I knew, so I stopped and looked. His passenger was then yelled at to ask us for directions. She asked us where Avoriaz is. Avoriaz about an hour and a half’s drive from St Jean de Sixt, and we explained that they were going the wrong way. The driver took over and demanded to know where straight ahead would lead, while holding up a stream of traffic behind him (he hadn’t actually pulled over, so all the cars behind were glaring at my friend and I, presuming also that we knew this guy). We explained that the road ahead would lead to La Clusaz, and then south over the Col des Aravis. We suggested he turn back to the roundabout and go towards Geneva, which is North, and the correct direction. Without as much as a thanks — and we were unaware the conversation had even finished — he drove off and headed towards La Clusaz.

If this is how tourists treat people who they think are locals, I’m really happy to be considered a foreigner for ever. And to the rude man in the white van, I hope you’re still lost and that your passenger took the train home instead.

I was chatting with some friends the other day who said they were in the supermarket when an English song started playing on the overhead radio. It wasn’t just any song: it was Lilly Allen’s F*ck you very much. French families and teenagers were wandering around the supermarket while Lilly was singing expletives. Nobody batted an eyelid apart from my English friends who chuckled at the situation. I understand from living here that not all French people speak English, but many do — and very well too, and surely someone at the supermarket’s head office — where the songs are, I presume, chosen and approved — must have seen the song title and realised that even though the swearing is not in French, it’s still not something customers would expect to hear when picking up their cheese and bread.

It reminded me of the time I was in the waiting room of a medical centre in La Clusaz. Music was playing and I listened to various French singers crooning on the radio about l’amour and les oiseaux (because the French always sing about birds). Then a Nirvana song came on. There I was, sitting with little French kids, listening to “Rape Me”. I shouldn’t be surprised, as this seems to be the most popular Nirvana song on that particular radio station and it was inevitable that it came on, but I when I thought about hearing that song in a waiting room in England or Australia, I also imagined the station quickly being switched by the receptionist. Meanwhile, here in La Clusaz, the song was only interrupted by a doctor calling my name.

Yes, this is France and French is the national language. No wonder nobody changed the radio station! But when I try to speak the language, I’m often greeted with frowns or shrugs from those who don’t have any tolerance for my bad French. When I visited the local vet the other day and tried to describe a tube of liquid that my itchy-eared cat, Bruno, needs, the receptionist frowned upon hearing my accent and my inability to remember the name of the product. I guess she figured this was going to be hard work. Her expression seemed to say (in French, of course): “Find another vet.” But before I’d said more than ten words, a kitten ran over her desk and I found myself gushing at how cute it was. She too started gushing like a proud mum, explaining that the cat had been dumped in a bag at the front door and that she thought he colleague would adopt the kitten when she came back from holidays. We had a ten minute chat about the kitten before I finally explained Bruno’s needs. She came back with the right medication and we wished each other a good afternoon before I left.

So, it seems that kittens build bridges between locals and strangers. Thanks Herisson (the kitten’s name — Hedgehog because his fur was spiky). I’m not sure Bruno is all that grateful when he feels the gush of yellow liquid in his ears, but I am at least.

As promised, here are some photos from le Tour de France during the stage at Le Grand Bornand and the time trial in Annecy the following day. As you can see, Le Grand Bornand was far less crowded than Annecy, which hasn’t seen the tour for fifty years. Apart from the photos below of the floats, a bed drove past, along with some fire engines branded as a bottles of water, spraying people along the way. There was also a giant washing machine, giant sweets bags, giant race horses and various other giant things. The same grappling for cheap freebies continued in Annecy where a lycra cycling t-shirt freebie that landed on my friend’s camera was swiftly nabbed by the woman in front of us who showed no guilt despite my gasp of disbelief. Neither of us wanted it, but I’m not sure she did either — apart from it being a freebie and therefore worth A Lot Of Money.

The atmosphere in Annecy seemed far more electric than in Le Grand Bornand; I guess that was from the bigger crowds and the knowledge that the competitors would be zooming past all day long instead of within twenty minutes. Most people were sporting a freebie hat (including myself) or some other free object, along with some way of identifying their nationality. Me, I wore my Australian flag like a cape, as did many other Aussies. Us Aussies are a friendly bunch even when we don’t know each other. In Le Grand Bornand, a family of travelling Aussies saw my flag (dangling over a road sign) and sought me out for a chat. Then later in Annecy, I heard: “Oi Aussie!” When I looked around, a woman in green and gold (Australian sport colours) was waving madly to me. I waved back. We then had the following conversation — from opposite sides of a very wide road:

Her: “Are you on the bus trip?”

Me: “Um, no. I live here.”

Her: “You live here? Wow you’re lucky!”

Me: “Yep.” (Now trying to catch up to my friends who had kept walking.)

Her: “So, how’s it going anyway?” (That’s Australian for how are you.)

Now, I’m pretty sure that only a fellow Aussie would yell to a complete stranger from across a road to ask how that stranger is. Having not lived in Australia for almost ten years, I was at first surprised by the question which I answered and smiled. But within a few minutes, I was feeling that lovely glow of camaraderie that Australians so often offer each other. While the tangible me caught up with my friends, the Aussie me imagined crossing the road to join the Aussie, buying her a beer, introducing her to all my friends, having a long chat about sport, and chanting “Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oi Oi Oi!” with her. Maybe at the next Tour de France.