Le Franco Phoney

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.

Tête de veau means “head of calf” in English. So, why would there be a sign offering tête de veau and vegetables in Annecy recently? Because people eat whole heads of calves here in France, as well as in Italy and Germany.

And at just €6, you can see why it’s popular! Well, to be honest, I wouldn’t eat it if someone paid me. However, a couple of stories spring to mind. Back in the year 2000, when I had only just left Australia and had been talked into a quick bus tour of Europe, one of the fellow tour-goers ordered tête de veau when we stopped in Lyon, the culinary capital of France, for dinner. He had no idea what it was, but decided, since we were at this posh restaurant after days of eating boring tour-group food at pre-arranged locations, that anything on the menu must be good and that he would enjoy whatever came out. How bad could it be? The head went back uneaten, and the guy felt too ill (and guilty for contributing to the market of calf-head cooking) that he abstained from food for the rest of the night.

Recipes tend to involve the tongue wrapped around the head (minus the bone by the looks of it, but don’t quote me: I became too queasy just reading about it and had to stop), along with some boiled potatoes, capers and a vinaigrette. Brains are often served beside the meat.

Now, apart from the whole culinary delight thing, tête de veau is also an insult aimed at Parisians. The saying goes (spelling unknown, but it all rhymes with “go”): “Parigot, tête de veau”, so it’s really just a rhyme used by non-Parisians to make it clear they think that Parisians have calves heads. It’s a bonafide insult, albiet light-hearted most of the time. The only reason I found out about this was after a weekend ski contest in Le Grand Bornand for kids from villages nearby. Apparently, Manigod (pronounced “manny go”) did very well, much to the disappointment of the kids from other villages, who started chanting: “Manigod, tête de veau”. Parents were shocked and embarrassed and word got out — all the way down to the Australian (me) who doesn’t even know any truly local kids. Apparently, kids saying it to other kids is less light-hearted!

So, did I buy a tête de veau? No way! I’ll leave that up to the locals.

After challenging everyone to visit attractions close to home, I drove for two hours to Lyon last weekend and visited la Demeure du Chaos (the Abode of Chaos) with a friend who lives nearby (do I get half a point since it’s near her house?). Imagine the setting: a beautiful village with very posh houses and residents, then smack bang in the centre, some guy with enough money (Thierry Ehrmann) buys a large house with lots of land around it and turns it into a doomsday museum. Residents from the picturesque village of Saint-Romain-au-Mont-d’Or aren’t happy about the museum and have been pushing to have it destroyed. I’m not sure how I’d feel if I lived next door to it, but reading the quotes on the walls and looking at the artwork of varying detail but all with strong passion made me think a lot about what’s happening in the world. The museum is open from 3pm on weekends, but we got there at midday and were too pressed for time to stay until opening, although we could have spent three hours taking in everything viewable from the outside. Below are just a few photos from the huge property (my first gallery of images in a while). If you want to check it out for yourself, go to 17 rue de la République, Saint-Romain-au-Mont-d’Or, which is just north of Lyon centre.

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.

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.

Below is a photo of a typical communal oven in France. A communal oven? What? Back in medieval times, these ovens, known in French as a “four banal” were used in many areas of the Alps as a way for villagers to cook bread. That sounds nice, doesn’t it. However, such privileges came at a cost: those wanting to use the oven would have to pay the village lord a fee, and according to some sources, home ovens were often outlawed so that villagers had no choice but to use the community oven. I can’t imagine living in such a rugged place during the drafty medieval days, let alone living without the heat of an oven. What a great monopoly for the village lord.

The oven pictured here, taken last week on a snowy day in Les Allues, just down the road from Méribel, and one of many communal ovens in the valley, is no longer the only oven in town. The locals tell me that the community oven is still used sometimes, but only for special occasions such as town fêtes. Looking at it closely, you can see the darkened wood and bricks from previous baking sessions.I guess the wood has been replaced more than once over the years, and probably some of the bricks too, but when I lived in Les Allues many years ago, walking past the big old oven always led me to imagine the villagers’ way of life and what a relief it must have been to have this great big warm room to sit in, waiting for their bread to cook. The oven sits in the centre of the village, which, although modernised to a certain extent, still bears the charm of an old French farming village despite its proximity to the pistes. The village has found a balance between the medieval charm of its buildings and the twin-tip skis and inverted camber snowboards that are now as prevalent in town as personal ovens. Les Allues have certainly seen some changes, but its communal oven remains, thankfully.

For four nights each year, Lyon lights up big time. Le Fête des Lumières (the Festival of Lights) is a chance for creative people who like bright things to impress us all with their imagination. Below are just a few of the light shows I snapped when walking around town.

Apart from the typical annoyances of overcrowded streets, street sellers shouting about their tacky illuminated santa hats and a taxi trying to reverse in a pedestrianised area, the fete was a bit confusing. I should have printed out the maps from the website and I should have researched the attractions a bit more, but I didn’t. There were some maps dotted around the streets, but the numbered dots to for attractions were not accompanied with a list of what the numbers were for. We eventually found the outlet providing paper maps with the numbers listed too, but by then, we had walked like cattle for hours and were ready to go home. And actually, it was the walk back to the car that I really enjoyed. The car was parked in the Croix Rousse part of Lyon, which is up a hill, made easier to climb with wide stairs up the long street. Along these stairs, people were selling soup, hot wine, fairy floss (called ‘Dad’s beard’ in France), hot dogs and all sorts of other foods, with some stands providing live music (everything from drum troupes to violins), giving the street a real atmosphere. At the top of the street is a garden, and in it were a whole lot of giant colourful neon flowers (pictured in the last photo, above). “Not subtle,” according to my friend, but that’s fine by me: flowers and lights are best that way in my books. Yes, the other displays were innovative and complicated, but the simplicity of the flowers really struck a chord with me. Every town should have them.

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.

Okay, it’s time to come clean: I’ve been in Australia for the past few weeks, but I had plenty of blog topics to keep me writing about France. By the time you read this, I’ll be holidaying on an island on the Great Barrier Reef before heading to Brisbane for a family wedding, then back in France next week.

Until then, I want to write about how easy it is to idealise a home country when living abroad. It’s natural for anyone to compare countries, but I’m now comparing France to an Australia of ten years ago. In that time, a lot has changed: toll roads; skim-milk Big M flavoured milk; water restrictions from drought; new stadiums; and slower traffic just to name a few. Although I’m a fan of the low-fat flavoured milk, having to restrict showers to three minutes, using the government-provided egg-timer on a suction cup for the shower tiles is not as attractive. I guess I’ve used Australia as my normality guage for other countries I’ve lived in. I have idealised my country.

For example, I explained to my French travel partner that he wouldn’t need to pack a rain jacket because ‘Melbourne is having a drought and it only rains a few times a year so we’ll be fine.’ It rained two days after we arrived, then again the next day, and then again the following day. At least that might prevent shower times from dropping further. Then, after parking the car outside a shop advertised as ‘Open 24 hours a day’, we noticed, as we walked up to the door at 6.59am, that the staff were just unlocking the door after being closed overnight. I guess they just didn’t specify which days they’re open 24 hours.

When we spent a day snowboarding at Mt Buller, we hired equipment rather than lugging our own from France. Our first attempt to hire failed massively. We had our equipment fitted and had chatted to the ski technician about where we live in France and how pointless it would be to bring snowboards with us from there just for one day. His assistant then asked for a credit card. Apparently, my debit card isn’t good enough because there’s a risk that we’ll flee the country with, shock horror, very old ski hire crud including smelly boots, damaged snowboards and heavy bindings. I asked my partner if he had a credit card, but like me, he only had a debit card. They said if my driving license had been Australian and not British, it would have been okay. Errr, what? Common sense did not prevail and they said the risk of us not returning their old, worn out hire equipment was too great. We were stupidly honest with them about only having French debit cards, which are labelled only as ‘Carte Bleu, so on our way to the next shop, we agreed to give them a Carte Bleu debit card and not tell them it was a debit card. It worked and we hire some equipment.

Idealism shattered, I’m pleased to say that the positives have by far outweighed the negatives: friendly shop assistants; native birds tweeting outside my mum’s house; great food; a return to sunny weather; a fantastic city to explore, and so much more. I still call Australia ‘home’.

…but I’m still looking forward to winter in the French Alps.

On my last road trip, I came across this signpost in a lovely little village called Aignay-le-Duc. As you can see from the big photo, that’s actually three layers of sign posts, plus a couple facing a different direction. Want to get to Echalot? If you’re approaching from the road in front of these signs, you’re going to struggle: the close-up, side-on photo below shows how well it’s hidden in the main photo. The village has, perhaps, decided that placing directions to their own local shop signs might distract tourists. I can see it now:

Driver: “Hmm, which way to Echalot?”

Passenger: “Oh who knows, but look, there’s a patisserie to the left!”

…and then they’d be heading in the wrong direction. But at least they’d have happy bellies and the locals would be a bit richer.

Something else you might notice in the close-up photo is that one place is listed twice, but written differently. Not only is there an accent on the newer sign for Etalente, but an ‘e’ has been replaced with an ‘a’, making the place Étalante.

As for those villages listed below Etalante and Echalot on the old sign (somewhere ending in ‘Les Juifs’ and somewhere else on the Seine), I can only presume that at least some tourists have put their faith in the ‘Autres Directions’ (other directions) sign pointing left — and ended up in entirely the wrong place. Not to worry: they can always find the patisserie and stop in for a snack while they try to figure out where they are.