Le Franco Phoney

That there is a giant Lindt Easter bunny, chained safely to the top of the Täsch train terminal in Switzerland to prevent me from attacking the ears just in case there’s chocolate inside.

As you can see by the name of the train station, I was in Zermatt last weekend, and this station is the last one before Zermatt where you must leave your car, since no cars are allowed in Zermatt itself (apart from small electric cars and buses which people must have hard-to-get permits for). Although excited to go skiing in the fresh powder on the Italian side of Cervino the following day, being welcomed by a giant bunny was a great start to the weekend.

The desperate last ski of the season turned out pretty well, with the sun shining on Sunday and few people on the hill after Saturday’s snow fall, allowing us to take fresh tracks off-piste for most of the day before heading out to more of the many closing parties in town that weekend.

Of course, getting to Zermatt is a bit of a faff unless you arrive by helicopter, with the closest airport being Geneva, four hours away. By car, it took our convoy around the same time from St Jean de Sixt to the Täsch train station, followed by the car parking, car park paying, car unpacking, luggage lugging, train ticket buying, train waiting, train travel, and then travel to accommodation. Driving directly there would have saved a lot of hassle. But this is Zermatt, the holiday home of the rich and famous who do often arrive by helicopter — and the rest of us who just want some decent snow.

My mum arrived a few days ago, and I’m enjoying seeing France through her Australian eyes. She’s reminding me of all the great and odd things about France that I’ve become so used to that I barely even notice. The scenery is the most obvious of things, with chocolate box-style chalets dotted around and hills of grass topped with white snowy peaks. Beautiful and enormous, I’ve grown to take the scenery for granted.

Meanwhile, she loved our visit to the post office. “Wow,” she said, “THIS makes a nice change from MY post office visits in Australia!” Why? Because the guy behind the desk said hello to us both, then asked how we were, then chattered away while weighing my two items of mail, then licked each stamp and attached them for me, then popped the envelopes in the mail outbox before finally tallying up the total. He also said goodbye and wished us a good day as we left. I’d never really thought about it before, but I can’t imagine any Aussie Post worker licking my stamps or posting my mail.

On a less positive note, there’s the roads. Clinging to her seat, my mum was terrified as I drove around bendy, narrow mountainous roads at a speed that she didn’t think possible. I’m not a fast driver, nor have I ever had an accident. Gripping her seat, she had to look away from the drop on one side of the road which had no barrier to prevent any cars from just dropping off the side. She’s lucky there was no fog, like on the road pictured, or random obstacles such as herds of sheep or tractors. Down in Annecy, we left a three-lane, well-made motorway/freeway and took the off-ramp directly onto a pot-holed mess of a road that had no road markings until beyond the first small intersection. “It’s like we’re in the sticks,” my mum said, while the car bounced between pot-holes, “except this is still the centre of town, right?” We certainly weren’t far away. However, back at home in St Jean de Sixt, it’s clear that we are. “I don’t hear any car horns,” she said to me, suspiciously. She’s right: outside of peak season, the only time the car horns go are for weddings on Saturdays, when the procession of wedding guests behind the happy couple toot their klaxons the whole way to the reception. She’s got that to look forward to at the end of this week — along with the clanging Sunday church bells which start at 8am.

Pictured is a bizarre racing track that has since been demolished in Méribel, which I snapped from my view on a chairlift on Sunday. It was part of the World Cup race for telemarkers, which involved the usual flag poles for the racers to turn by, with a jump half way through, then this big dome for them to loop around, followed by some skating on the flat area behind this dome before finally reaching the finish line just in front of the dome. The racers face back towards the mountain they’ve just come from. It was an interesting race to watch, but a bit difficult for the spectators to see the dome part, as you can see by the empty area behind the red fence to the left of the dome. The skating behind the dome went right by the spectators, who made lots of noise for any French racer, particularly the local ones, and went almost completely silent for anyone else. By 3.30pm, when the racing was all over, the pistes bashers were flattening the dome.

Having just one day to catch up with friends in Méribel and hit the (surprisingly well-maintained after a month of no fresh snow) pistes, I missed the end of the race and the prize-giving ceremony. However, I did get lots of telemarking advice from the lovely Roddy (who telemarks just as well switch as he does going forward), saw some table-top dancing at one of the piste-side restaurants, and sampled the delicious food from The Den, which used to be Pizza Express. The snow is great in Méribel at the moment, with the pistes covered with man-made snow and this week’s high temperatures likely to make the pistes as slushy as April conditions, pleasing many snowboarders who have had to contend with rock-hard ice for the past month. The sun is so warm, in fact, that I wonder if La Clusaz will have many pistes open by the end of the week. Will winter return before spring takes over?

Here is a photo of Vernazza, one of the five villages that makes up the Cinque Terre in Italy. I was there last month, walking the paths —  often just some stones raised off the slanting ground to flatten it — between the five villages. I could go on about the pesto, the gelati, the welcoming atmosphere, or the loudness of children, but this is a blog about France, not Italy. So why am I mentioning Italy? Because it’s only through going to a country where none of my (two!) languages are spoken that I realised just how much improvement I’ve made in French. The Cinque Terre itself is full of American tourists even at low season, so getting around the five villages isn’t so difficult (and walking on the paths, you never know whether to say “hello”, “buon giorno”, “hola”, “guten tag” or “bonjour”). However, on the way to the Cinque Terre, I was in a restaurant where I wanted a fruit juice. I know the word in French, but not in Italian. None of the Italian staff knew the English or the French word, so I followed the staff to their drinks fridge and pointed. I ended up with iced tea. Apparently, juice is just not available in some restaurants in Italy. The language frustrations continued right up until we reached the border back to France: we stopped just before the Frejus tunnel to fill up with petrol (there was a petrol strike happening in France at the time). There was some problem with my bank card and the man said something in Italian. I asked if he spoke English. Nope. French? Yes. Result! We managed to establish that the card was fine but the machine’s connection sometimes played up, and fears that he was charging me twice were alleviated when he explained in French what the writing on the first cancelled receipt said. Thanks Italy — for the food, the welcome and for the reassurance that my French has improved more than I realised (but your kids really are very loud).

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!

Friends warned me about Corsica before I left home, from: “They’ll ignore you in shops if you’re not Corsican,” to the rather extreme: “The locals slash tyres of tourist cars: buy a Corsica sticker and put it near your number plate.” Worse still, when I asked my Corsican friends on arrival if I should indeed buy a sticker because I had heard…”Oh yeah,” one friend said, “about the car burnings of cars that aren’t from here. You passed one on the way.” Indeed, we had passed a burnt-out car on a construction site. “So it’s true?” I asked. “No,” the other friend said, “we’re just joking: it’s not true and it doesn’t happen.” They giggled and pushed more local products to sample in my direction. My car remained intact and I found the locals very friendly.

The car-wrecking aspect of Corsican vandalism may be an urban myth, but Corsica does have an ugly side. Pictured is one of many road signs on the island that have had the French spelling vandalised leaving only the Corsican spelling visible. This one seems to have been hit with an air gun as well. The Corsicans are proud of their heritage and perhaps still a little(?) annoyed that, despite becoming a republic in 1755 after a long struggle for independence, the island was sold by the Genoese to France in 1764. A further six years of battle went on before Corsica was finally incorporated as part of France. Apparently, some of the locals are still upset about this, so the signs get the Corsican treatment I’d heard so much about. My joking friends then got serious and told me about the arson attacks on illegally-built houses and businesses close to beach fronts, which they justified using Corsican logic (vendettas). The Good of Corsica definitely outweighs The Bad and The Ugly, but keep a fire extinguisher handy just in case.

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.

Between guzzling glasses of bubbly last weekend in the Champagne region, I visited the lovely Faux de Verzy – a forest of twisted beech trees that have a really magical quality about them. We visited the forest late in the day, making photography difficult (as if my skills aren’t already hampered enough!). Slow-growing and twisted due to a genetic problem, these trees slowly propagate a bit like strawberry plants, with branches touching the ground, rooting, and eventually producing a new twisted trunk. Apparently, some of the trees are more than 1,000 years old, but I have no way of knowing if this is true. The word ‘faux‘ in this case refers to the Latin word for ‘beech’, but faux has many meanings, and another of them is a scythe for cutting grass. Our local friend acting as our tour guide mentioned this as the low light dimmed further and we found ourselves lost in a spooky forest. Blair Witch Project quotes started from various members of our party. It’s not typically what you want to hear when you’re thinking about using your mobile phone as a flash light since the sun has already set. We found the car thanks to our tour guide’s mobile phone with GPS, much to everyone’s relief. Go during the day.

I was lucky enough last weekend to get a personal tour of how champagne is made with champagne maker Philippe Chochina (who makes a very tasty drop and swears it’s impossible to have a hangover with well-made champagne), and I now understand why champagne is so expensive. Making champagne is quite a laborious task, involving two rounds of fermentation and turning bottles five degrees daily. After the initial fermentation in large silos, where the good stuff is then placed into bottles the way it is with wine, the second fermentation begins, and this is where the bubbles begin. Yeast and sugar are added, and the bottle is sealed like beer. When the yeast has consumed all the sugar, it dies, sinking to the bottom of the liquid. The bottle is stored sideways at first, and turned daily and eventually angled so the bottle top is face down, which will pull down any remaining dead yeast floating in the liquid. Eventually, the bottle is reopened to remove the dead yeast, aided by freezing the bottle top to -26°C. Extra alcohol is added to fill the gap and then the bottle is sealed with a big fat cork that starts off with an equal diameter from top to bottom, then gains its shape through the pressure in the bottle.

The entire process of making champagne is very manual. As you can see from this photo (click to enlarge), the grapes are pressed with the aid of people. They’re not stamping on the grapes — indeed, Monsieur Philippe Chochina said with some pride that he has never squashed grapes with his bare feet. That raised semi-circle of metal on each side flattens and lowers to press the grapes until all the juice is extracted into the vat on the right, like a giant orange press. However, after the initial pressing, these two guys get in with pitch forks and lift the grapes from the side, then press them again to squeeze out any remaining juice. The grape skins get added to a mountain of grape skins near one of the local villages rather than used as fertiliser to prevent too many pesticides, stuck to the grape skins, getting into the ground. Philippe did, however, add that this mountain of grape skins is used to make another type of alcohol. Fermented pesticides, anyone?

We also visited the vineyards where Philippe explained that horses are now replacing tractors, with wine-makers reverting to more traditional methods at every stage of the grape-growing and collecting process. We watched some horses being used to walk down each row of grapes, where boxes were placed on sleighs behind the horses — somewhere a tractor could never enter.

The only meals where champagne was not the staple drink were breakfasts, which made me realise just how similar this region of France is to where I live. Instead of talking about cheese and cows and eating some potato/cheese concoction regularly, people in the champagne-producing region of France talk about grapes and horses and drink champagne regularly.