Le Franco Phoney

Tractor doing a wheelie at the start line

Today, I went to a tractor-pulling-stuff competition. Conveniently, it was on the way back from Dijon, where I had been to visit friends. Fellow author and now friend, Francesca, alerted me to the competition here, so off I went, expecting, as she did, flabby men pulling tractors. How wrong we both were! It was actually the tractors that were pulling a heavily-weighted trailer that grew more resistant every second it was being pulled. With front wheels hopping off the ground and a lot of smelly tractor fuel smoke (definitely not nitrous oxide), some of the tractors bellowed down the field, covering us all in a lot of dust, on their way to the finish line, while others puffed to a halt after just a few seconds.

It’s actually a very technical sport: there were ground-wetting vehicles (tractors) and ground-flatteners (also tractors) to keep the course in good shape between each go. Contestants were judged on how fast their tractors were, presuming they reached  the ‘full pull’ (the finish line). Each winning contestant did a wave of victory from their tractor as they returned to the start line. I was lucky enough to be standing near the family of the contestant driving the Rêve Rouge (red dream) tractor, which was red. His first and second runs were great! He had a winning time! As he approached the finish line for the third and final time, his tractor coughed and stopped with a bang. The family, who had been waving and clapping, were now upset and questioning what had happened. Swearing and lots of tutting commenced until they realised he was still the winner in his category with the fastest time. The group consensus was a problem with the radiator. No problems; he was towed away (by a tractor), still able to do his victory wave.

Driver of Rêve Rouge does his victory wave before breaking down

Although this event took place in the Swiss village of Tannay, it could well have been right here in La Clusaz, with a raclette cheese stand, beer tents on each side of the course, and very little else apart from some empty truck trailers which were deliberately used as raised viewing platforms. The event was almost anti-Swiss, with officials letting the public break the rules: I  managed to walk inside the non-public tractor parking lot twice to get to where I wanted, and then across the start line when the competition was over, with an official actually lifting the rope for me to exit while some other tractors were still driving on the course. There were no how-to-pee signs (like this one) in the portable toilets either. Cars parked where they pleased rather than in the large, half-empty field for parking, and to top it all off, I heard Lilly Allen’s F*ck you very much between races, with little kids dancing and bigger kids singing along as if it were a nursery rhyme.

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.

I saw this sign on a toilet when I attended a book launch in Switzerland recently. I know the Swiss are quite strict on things like noise pollution and residential car parking spaces and, well, just about everything else, but surely a man is allowed to stand up to pee! Okay, I’m not a guy, and maybe it doesn’t bother guys. So I asked some male friends what they thought. Responses ranged from “It’s unmanly,” to “It’s a luxury after a big night out when you can’t be bothered to stand,” and everything imaginable in between. One friend suggested it was for noise-related reasons, which does make sense given the bookshop location.

So, what is the purpose of this sign? To emasculate men? To make them feel special? Or to shame them into not splashing the seat?

More questions. Do men actually abide by such signs, or do they ignore the sign until they’re finished, then wipe away any tell-tale signs so nobody knows? Or do they deliberately leave a mess to show the sign who really is the boss?

Given that this is Switzerland, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d seen a surveillance camera pointing at the toilet seat. However, this was at an English book shop, so they’re obviously far too polite to go to such measures.

Now, the actual book launch…

In case you’re wondering what book was being launched, it was Mucho Caliente by Francesca Prescott. The book launch was great fun, with some really interesting questions asked of the author and some very amusing segments of the book recited. The story revolves around a woman who tries her hardest not to fall in love with a Latino superstar who happens to be on the same Spanish island as her and her friends. That’s about all I can tell you as I haven’t started reading my copy yet. I’ve been too busy thinking about toilet sign symbolism.

Following the previous weekend’s theme of shiny loud things in La Clusaz, a car rally arrived on Friday night and hung around all weekend. There were loads of lovely old cars ranging from old convertible Truimphs to big old Volvos, plus Fords, Jaguars, Ferraris, Porsches, Renaults, Mercedes, Peugots and a whole swag of other lovely curvy cars. You can kind of see four of them in this photo, along with the La Clusaz church.

With all these shows in La Clusaz, plus the opening of the chairlifts for mountain biking and other sports this weekend, La Clusaz is once again busy. Yet many of the bakeries and fast food places in town remain closed. I think, perhaps, that I’m a bit too used to this laid back lifestyle because a recent visit to Switzerland to see a movie in English opened up a whole part of my memory that had laid dormant. The cinema, in Geneva, is situated on the top floor of a shopping centre, which has all the things you expect in a shopping centre: lots of commercial clothes shops; at least one supermarket; a variety of restaurants; and some cash outlets, all on a number of floors indoors. Annecy, the closest big town to La Clusaz, has nothing like this. Nothing. There’s the Courier Centre which does have a supermarket, a few commercial clothes shops and two bakeries/cafés. There’s even a cinema next door (with all filmes dubbed in French). But it’s not really a shopping center. There are lounges to sit on, but you are not allowed to eat or drink on them. Security guards check constantly. People sit down to use the free wifi (pronounced “whiffy” in French). It’s a great multifunctional centre, but it’s not set up for a serious shopper. And deep down, I’m a serious shopper. It’s only when I have these realisations that I wonder why I’m living in La Clusaz, with the cow bells the only noise at night. And then I remember the lifestyle: the ski run across the road in winter; the walking tracks in summer; the wildlife; the shopkeepers who know my name; the close community; the fresh air, and so many other things. And that’s when I realise that shopping isn’t that great. And if that realisation doesn’t kick in, Geneva is only fifty minutes away.

Following on from my remarks on my local pizza box, I received this photo of a Swiss pizza box by Geoff in Switzerland. He wrote:

This is the box they use for pizza round our way. Not as bad as the man with the stick and the young girl, but do I really want to take a pizza from a toothless, homeless urchin? Still, I guess it is Naples, which probably means my wallet is being nicked as I take delivery of the pizza…

So, it looks like France is not solely responsible for weird pizza boxes. I particularly like the guys sitting down behind the urchin’s pizza, almost as if they’re holding it up in a two-dimensional world. And is that a seal that the men on the right are pulling from the water? Or a dead body? At least the pizza is the classic Margherita. They got something right.

Goeff actually found the photo of his local pizza box elsewhere on the web. It turns out that Mike from Zurich put it in a photo album and wrote:

I bought a pizza at my local döner joint because their pizzas come in boxes that have this lovely picture on them. It’s lovely kitsch art.

The ‘artwork’ has also made it onto Photo of the Day on a pizza blog, where it’s described as ’slightly creepy’. My interest in pizza boxes is now starting to match French roundabouts and I’m worrying that perhaps I need to get out more. Speaking of which, lots of photos and information about road tripping through central France will be available just as soon as I can get my hands on the photos.