Rain
DVD evening
Explore the quartier
Flea market missing
Foot in Seine - Seine has waves
28 different sorts of hot chocolate
Cinema on Champs Elysee
Eiffel Tower blue and sparkling
Giant orange rabbits
Catacombes: big queue
Musee d'Orsay
Culture
Best crepe ever
Unidentified package on metro tracks
Opera: kite-flying millepede, adults dressed as chickens. Czech with French subtitles. Feel posh.
Come home
Snow on mountains
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Monday, 17 November 2008
Une petite crise de foie
The weekend dawns. Sven has promised to take me climbing.
Friday night
Leave Chambery sans probleme.
Reach town with lots of S's in its name. All signs point to that town. Get ensnarled in residential ghetto. Sven admits it may be the wrong town with lots of S's in it.
It is.
Reach T juntion: Left - 'Toutes directions' (all directions). Right - 'Autres directions' (other directions). That's French logic for you.
Eventually get back on the correct road. Wiggle around the mountains. Some kids have spray-painted over the name of our destination village. Amazing how there are vandals even in idyllic ski resorts.
8km before we arrive: ROUTE BARREE (road shut, sorry). Ah, maybe it wasn't chavs after all.
A big detour on more winding roads later, and 7km in the other direction from our destination: ROUTE BARREE (road shut, haha).
Zees ees starting to tek ze peas. Sven mutters someting about 'locals only' areas where they don't bother with signposts for tourists.
2 hours, 200km and much comfort-eating later, we finally get there having taken a ridiculously long detour as our only remaining option.
A summary of Saturday
- Attempt to be adventurous with food.
- Buy mysterious meatballs from charcuterie. "I don't normally tell people what's inside until they've tried one" says the butcher, encouragingly. He tells Sven anyway: heart, liver, muscle and lung.
- Eat some of said ball before climbing - lung appears to be wrapped around everything else.
- Climb 2 routes. Very hot. Feel sick. Very sick.
- Fall asleep for 2 hours at the bottom of the crag, harness and shoes still on.
- Wake up feeling sunburnt. Feel sick again. Fall asleep for another half an hour.
- Retreat to bar. Feel a bit better.
- Forgetting previous culinary mishaps, order mulled wine, which is listed on the menu alongside grog. Enthusiastically slurp it down through a straw. Turns out to be grog and mulled wine combined. Feel rather ill again.
- Camp by 8th century ruined castle.
Slightly more successful Sunday
Wake up late. Bakery. No guidebook. Sharp rock. 4.5 routes. Hard. Retreat to bar. Ice cream. Drive along same country road as a rally race. At the same time. Survive. Home by 6. Eat spaghetti.
Lessons learnt
- No need to be adventurous with food. Never again.
- 'Vin chaud - grog' is an inclusive 'and', not just two things with the same price.
- The bottom of a cliff in the South of France overlooking vinyards and rustic villages is one of the best places I've ever had a nap.
- Spiders eat horsemeat.
- Climbing is a great excuse for travelling (okay, I already knew that one!)
- Olive trees take so long to grow that it's usually easier to get an old one delivered straight to your garden:
- Nothing beats spaghetti and ketchup after a hard weekend's climbing.
Friday night
Leave Chambery sans probleme.
Reach town with lots of S's in its name. All signs point to that town. Get ensnarled in residential ghetto. Sven admits it may be the wrong town with lots of S's in it.
It is.
Reach T juntion: Left - 'Toutes directions' (all directions). Right - 'Autres directions' (other directions). That's French logic for you.
Eventually get back on the correct road. Wiggle around the mountains. Some kids have spray-painted over the name of our destination village. Amazing how there are vandals even in idyllic ski resorts.
8km before we arrive: ROUTE BARREE (road shut, sorry). Ah, maybe it wasn't chavs after all.
A big detour on more winding roads later, and 7km in the other direction from our destination: ROUTE BARREE (road shut, haha).
Zees ees starting to tek ze peas. Sven mutters someting about 'locals only' areas where they don't bother with signposts for tourists.
2 hours, 200km and much comfort-eating later, we finally get there having taken a ridiculously long detour as our only remaining option.
We spot a clearing in the forest for camping and drive into it. "Er, Sven, this looks a bit mud-" SCHREE! WHIRR!! We're not moving. The wheels are creating a lovely melange of mud and twigs. Unable to reverse, Sven drives further in. We are now on the forest, rather than in it - the undergrowth is entangled round our wheels and if my window wasn't shut, there would be a decorative array of twigs and branches skewering my eyeballs, hair and clothes kebab-stylee.
I get out and try to push. Nothing happens except the car seems to get taller. A quick look down brings the exciting revelation that I am in fact sinking in very sticky mud. I stand and flap uselessly as Sven attempts dramatic reversing manoeuvres and 23-point turns. It suddenly seems very dark and I swear I can hear wild boar surrounding me. It's all a bit Blair Witch.
We eventually find a sensible spot and crash out for the night. The next day dawns a little later and a lot damper than expected, so we abandon dramatic multipitch plans and drive 2 hours further South to the Dentelles de Montmirail - some dramatic limestone 'teeth'. A summary of Saturday
- Attempt to be adventurous with food.
- Buy mysterious meatballs from charcuterie. "I don't normally tell people what's inside until they've tried one" says the butcher, encouragingly. He tells Sven anyway: heart, liver, muscle and lung.
- Eat some of said ball before climbing - lung appears to be wrapped around everything else.
- Climb 2 routes. Very hot. Feel sick. Very sick.
- Fall asleep for 2 hours at the bottom of the crag, harness and shoes still on.
- Wake up feeling sunburnt. Feel sick again. Fall asleep for another half an hour.
- Retreat to bar. Feel a bit better.
- Forgetting previous culinary mishaps, order mulled wine, which is listed on the menu alongside grog. Enthusiastically slurp it down through a straw. Turns out to be grog and mulled wine combined. Feel rather ill again.
- Camp by 8th century ruined castle.
Slightly more successful Sunday
Wake up late. Bakery. No guidebook. Sharp rock. 4.5 routes. Hard. Retreat to bar. Ice cream. Drive along same country road as a rally race. At the same time. Survive. Home by 6. Eat spaghetti.
Lessons learnt
- No need to be adventurous with food. Never again.
- 'Vin chaud - grog' is an inclusive 'and', not just two things with the same price.
- The bottom of a cliff in the South of France overlooking vinyards and rustic villages is one of the best places I've ever had a nap.
- Spiders eat horsemeat.
- Climbing is a great excuse for travelling (okay, I already knew that one!)
- Olive trees take so long to grow that it's usually easier to get an old one delivered straight to your garden:
- Nothing beats spaghetti and ketchup after a hard weekend's climbing.
Mont Granier - un petit epic
Beth, Matt and I decide to conquer Mont Granier, the impressive-looking mountain towering over Chambery.
It all starts out fantastically (a steep, slippery slog aside): grapes, rotisserie chicken, local cheese, baguette, sun, impromptu bouldering and gorgeous views.
It all goes wrong when Matt starts telling the gruffalo story...
Matt (in his best primary school teacher voice): "I'm going to eat you up little Beth", said the rather angry gruffalo. "Nooooo" screamed little Beth! "Eat Felicity, for she is far tastier!"
Er, guys, are we definitely on the right path? We seem to be heading downhill. I always thought the top of a mountain was rather more in the uphill direction...
Right, it says on our utterly reliable web printout that we're supposed to be on a well-marked path.
I saw a sign maybe half an hour ago. Or maybe it was just a bit of moss...
Well we've already been behind us. And in front of us is downhill. The big snowy mountains are on our right, so we're heading in the right direction. Maybe we should just scramble up the cliffs to the left and we'll find ourselves on the summit ridge.
Sure, what could go wrong?
20 minutes of bimbling later:
Hmm...who would have thought the top would be so hard to find?!
Er...does anyone have a plaster? I appear to be bleeding.
I reckon if we just head in this, no that, no, er...some direction, then we'll find...something.
What times does it get dark again?
10 minutes later:
Ooh look at that mountain over there!
Hang on, that's higher than us. Aren't we meant to be on the highest mountain around?
That must be our summit then - we just need to walk forward for maybe an hour and we'll be there. Awesome!
5 minutes later:
Ah.
Oh.
Arse.
That's quite a big drop between us and the right bit of the mountain.
Yep.
So I guess the mountain's a U shape and we've managed to traverse too far round the U.
Seems so.
Poo!
Well, we're kind of on the summit plateau. I vote we go down or we won't make it down before it gets dark.
Okay, which way?
Er...
10 minutes later
Okay guys, I think I've found a bit of cliff we can scramble down easily! I'll go down first and see if it's do-able. You all know the emergency number, right?....Yep, it's fine...safely down!....That's it Beth, foot a bit lower, great....Matt, it's just a bit to your left, okay?....Excellent, we're definitely on the right path now. That was all a bit of an advent- FUUUUUCK-ING HELL MATT!!
Matt had found the whole thing so relaxing that he sort of forgot to hold on and is now plummeting down the scramble, his body strangely horizontal, limbs flailing around Matrix style.
What if he cracks his head open?! Where's the helicopter going to land? Does he have the grapes in his bag still? Really shouldn't be worrying about grapes right now. Oh shit, I really shouldn't be swearing so much. Oh gosh, he's still falling. It's only a couple of metres - why is he taking so long?! Ouch, he just bounced out of a tree. Okay, now he's about to land...Oh, he's about to land! BEEEETH!! CATCH HIM!!
Beth and I stare at each other for a second, then she lunges forward and stops Matt rolling all the way down the hill. We make a huge girly fuss over him, but miraculously most injury has been avoided thanks to the emergency sleeping bag in his rucksack. We all stare up at the rockface, incredulous that those few metres could host such a drawn-out plummet.
We return chez nous with new respect for the mountain and a little less respect for ourselves...
It all starts out fantastically (a steep, slippery slog aside): grapes, rotisserie chicken, local cheese, baguette, sun, impromptu bouldering and gorgeous views.
It all goes wrong when Matt starts telling the gruffalo story...
Matt (in his best primary school teacher voice): "I'm going to eat you up little Beth", said the rather angry gruffalo. "Nooooo" screamed little Beth! "Eat Felicity, for she is far tastier!"
Er, guys, are we definitely on the right path? We seem to be heading downhill. I always thought the top of a mountain was rather more in the uphill direction...
Right, it says on our utterly reliable web printout that we're supposed to be on a well-marked path.
I saw a sign maybe half an hour ago. Or maybe it was just a bit of moss...
Well we've already been behind us. And in front of us is downhill. The big snowy mountains are on our right, so we're heading in the right direction. Maybe we should just scramble up the cliffs to the left and we'll find ourselves on the summit ridge.
Sure, what could go wrong?
20 minutes of bimbling later:
Hmm...who would have thought the top would be so hard to find?!
Er...does anyone have a plaster? I appear to be bleeding.
I reckon if we just head in this, no that, no, er...some direction, then we'll find...something.
What times does it get dark again?
10 minutes later:
Ooh look at that mountain over there!
Hang on, that's higher than us. Aren't we meant to be on the highest mountain around?
That must be our summit then - we just need to walk forward for maybe an hour and we'll be there. Awesome!
5 minutes later:
Ah.
Oh.
Arse.
That's quite a big drop between us and the right bit of the mountain.
Yep.
So I guess the mountain's a U shape and we've managed to traverse too far round the U.
Seems so.
Poo!
Well, we're kind of on the summit plateau. I vote we go down or we won't make it down before it gets dark.
Okay, which way?
Er...
10 minutes later
Okay guys, I think I've found a bit of cliff we can scramble down easily! I'll go down first and see if it's do-able. You all know the emergency number, right?....Yep, it's fine...safely down!....That's it Beth, foot a bit lower, great....Matt, it's just a bit to your left, okay?....Excellent, we're definitely on the right path now. That was all a bit of an advent- FUUUUUCK-ING HELL MATT!!
Matt had found the whole thing so relaxing that he sort of forgot to hold on and is now plummeting down the scramble, his body strangely horizontal, limbs flailing around Matrix style.
What if he cracks his head open?! Where's the helicopter going to land? Does he have the grapes in his bag still? Really shouldn't be worrying about grapes right now. Oh shit, I really shouldn't be swearing so much. Oh gosh, he's still falling. It's only a couple of metres - why is he taking so long?! Ouch, he just bounced out of a tree. Okay, now he's about to land...Oh, he's about to land! BEEEETH!! CATCH HIM!!
Beth and I stare at each other for a second, then she lunges forward and stops Matt rolling all the way down the hill. We make a huge girly fuss over him, but miraculously most injury has been avoided thanks to the emergency sleeping bag in his rucksack. We all stare up at the rockface, incredulous that those few metres could host such a drawn-out plummet.
We return chez nous with new respect for the mountain and a little less respect for ourselves...
Choses Amusantes
Signs seen in and around Chambery:
Dancing tea...it's all a bit Beauty and the Beast here.
Frogs every Friday night! Yes!
Fanshy shome whishky?
Frogs leg curry anyone?
Speaks for itself!
Saint Francois of the dirty people.
Disclaimer
I am an ignorant, Franglais-speaking, immature student. I find these things funny. So tee hee!
Dancing tea...it's all a bit Beauty and the Beast here. Frogs every Friday night! Yes! Fanshy shome whishky? Frogs leg curry anyone? Speaks for itself! Saint Francois of the dirty people. 
Disclaimer
I am an ignorant, Franglais-speaking, immature student. I find these things funny. So tee hee!
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Grenoble et le retard
A bunch of us popped along to Grenoble to sample the cultural delights. Well, I say that...I fancied it because it was raining so all mountain-related frolics were resigned to dramatic plans for the future. Beth wanted to go because her favourite H&M shirt had got mangled in the dryer and there's a big H&M in Grenoble. Both utterly convincing reasons methinks.
My thoughts on and in Grenoble
1. Urgh it's wet.
2. H&M looks exactly the same everywhere.
3. I think I'll buy a beret.
Due to all-too-foreseeable weather problems, we decide to head to a hot chocolate cafe recommended in my guidebook.
It promises thick hot chocolate with dried fruit, biscuits and a variety of tempting munchies.
It's shut until 6pm.
We spend a wholesome hour in the bar next door.
6pm: Immense effort as we shuffle back to the cafe. Big smiles: "6 chocolats chauds s'il vous plait!"
They don't do hot chocolate anymore.
Never trust a tourist guidebook. Especially if it's a whole year (*gasp* - a whole year?!) out of date.
We traipse across the road. It's pissing wet. Find a 'rebellion' bar with pictures of Che Guevara and French strikes everywhere. Beth has Grog, Verity has a glowstick in her drink, I get my hot chocolate. All is okay. Afterwards we roll into...
The Fondue Place
6 enthusiastic people
+ 3 cheese fondues
+ Wine
+ Giant chocolate fondue
= Much merriment.
The retard
Covered in cheese, chocolate and goodness knows what else, we leap on the last tram to get on the last train. (No, we still hadn't learn about the problems associated with last trains). Arrive gasping on the platform.
*RETARD: 5 MINUTES* (5 minutes delay*) [*The English is not in uppercase, as I'm sure the same notice in England would have been apologetically whispered, rather than enthusiastically shouted in brash capitals]
Okay, no problem. Time to let the fondue settle in our stomachs again.
5 minutes later: *RETARD 10 MINUTES*
5 minutes later again: *RETARD 15 MINUTES*
Even a bunch of franglais-speaking arts students can begin to see the pattern here. We retreat to the main station where an annoying french chav spins around us squeaking 'Oh la la chocolat'. We ignore him, laugh with him, laugh at him, just plain cackle, but all to no avail.
30 minutes later: *RETARD INDETERMINE * RETARD INDETERMINE * RETARD INDETERMINE * (indeterminately delayed, awfully sorrry)
This is accompanied by an announcement: "Mesdames et Messieurs, on regrette de vous informer qu'il y a un retard indéterminé à cause des animaux sur la voie. Merci pour votre compréhension."
Animaux sur la voie...animals on the tracks?! What sort of animals could cause every train heading into Grenoble station to be delayed? The French are hardly the sort to grind national transport to a halt because of a kitten on the tracks. Nor a horse. Nor any animal I can think of. We conclude that it must be a herd of cows or a very angry wild boar.
One whole hour and 45 minutes later: We collapse into a taxi courtesy of the French rail company, the humour of the situation having turned into snooziness. I sit next to a French girl who turns out to also like climbing. (I do sometimes wonder if my range of conversational topics is a little limited...) I rather patronisingly assume she occasionally topropes indoors. Turns out she climbs around 7c and competes. Oh well...she probably didn't just have a guilt-free fondue fest.
Lessons learnt
- Apparently I am seen as a dominant female (revealed after several rounds of the highly hypothetical 'truth' game: kiss/marry/kill/touch inappropriately/shag). I fear slightly that this makes me sound like a moustachioed Thatcherite...
- Even cities aren't much good in the rain.
- You can find the same H&M shirt thousands of miles away. Unleash your wildest tumbledrier fantasies and mangle those tops without fear.
- Fondue hangovers exist. The next morning I felt like I was about to give birth to triplets.
Postscript
Matt sleeps on my floor as we get home too late for his bus. He casually informs me over a week later that at 3am, and again at 6am, I leapt out of bed, screamed 'SHIT, SHIT!!', turned the light on and ran out of the room.
He assumed this was vaguely normal behaviour for me.
Oh dear.
My thoughts on and in Grenoble
1. Urgh it's wet.
2. H&M looks exactly the same everywhere.
3. I think I'll buy a beret.
Due to all-too-foreseeable weather problems, we decide to head to a hot chocolate cafe recommended in my guidebook.
It promises thick hot chocolate with dried fruit, biscuits and a variety of tempting munchies.
It's shut until 6pm.
We spend a wholesome hour in the bar next door.
6pm: Immense effort as we shuffle back to the cafe. Big smiles: "6 chocolats chauds s'il vous plait!"
They don't do hot chocolate anymore.
Never trust a tourist guidebook. Especially if it's a whole year (*gasp* - a whole year?!) out of date.
We traipse across the road. It's pissing wet. Find a 'rebellion' bar with pictures of Che Guevara and French strikes everywhere. Beth has Grog, Verity has a glowstick in her drink, I get my hot chocolate. All is okay. Afterwards we roll into...
The Fondue Place
6 enthusiastic people
+ 3 cheese fondues
+ Wine
+ Giant chocolate fondue
= Much merriment.
The retard
Covered in cheese, chocolate and goodness knows what else, we leap on the last tram to get on the last train. (No, we still hadn't learn about the problems associated with last trains). Arrive gasping on the platform.
*RETARD: 5 MINUTES* (5 minutes delay*) [*The English is not in uppercase, as I'm sure the same notice in England would have been apologetically whispered, rather than enthusiastically shouted in brash capitals]
Okay, no problem. Time to let the fondue settle in our stomachs again.
5 minutes later: *RETARD 10 MINUTES*
5 minutes later again: *RETARD 15 MINUTES*
Even a bunch of franglais-speaking arts students can begin to see the pattern here. We retreat to the main station where an annoying french chav spins around us squeaking 'Oh la la chocolat'. We ignore him, laugh with him, laugh at him, just plain cackle, but all to no avail.
30 minutes later: *RETARD INDETERMINE * RETARD INDETERMINE * RETARD INDETERMINE * (indeterminately delayed, awfully sorrry)
This is accompanied by an announcement: "Mesdames et Messieurs, on regrette de vous informer qu'il y a un retard indéterminé à cause des animaux sur la voie. Merci pour votre compréhension."
Animaux sur la voie...animals on the tracks?! What sort of animals could cause every train heading into Grenoble station to be delayed? The French are hardly the sort to grind national transport to a halt because of a kitten on the tracks. Nor a horse. Nor any animal I can think of. We conclude that it must be a herd of cows or a very angry wild boar.
One whole hour and 45 minutes later: We collapse into a taxi courtesy of the French rail company, the humour of the situation having turned into snooziness. I sit next to a French girl who turns out to also like climbing. (I do sometimes wonder if my range of conversational topics is a little limited...) I rather patronisingly assume she occasionally topropes indoors. Turns out she climbs around 7c and competes. Oh well...she probably didn't just have a guilt-free fondue fest.
Lessons learnt
- Apparently I am seen as a dominant female (revealed after several rounds of the highly hypothetical 'truth' game: kiss/marry/kill/touch inappropriately/shag). I fear slightly that this makes me sound like a moustachioed Thatcherite...
- Even cities aren't much good in the rain.
- You can find the same H&M shirt thousands of miles away. Unleash your wildest tumbledrier fantasies and mangle those tops without fear.
- Fondue hangovers exist. The next morning I felt like I was about to give birth to triplets.
Postscript
Matt sleeps on my floor as we get home too late for his bus. He casually informs me over a week later that at 3am, and again at 6am, I leapt out of bed, screamed 'SHIT, SHIT!!', turned the light on and ran out of the room.
He assumed this was vaguely normal behaviour for me.
Oh dear.
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
Lost in Translation
Delightful story from last week:
Who: Class of 13-year-olds.
Where: Computer room.
Teacher: "Research Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks on the internet. Make a poster. In ANGLAIS!!"
30 children duly go to Wikipedia or similar.
30 children copy and paste a huge section on Martin Luther King into an online translator.
30 children put up their hands and say they're finished.
Teacher beams at me and asks me to go and check their work.
3 unintentionally hilarious results from the online translator
1."Rosa Parks went out at the age of 92" (from the French éteindre, meaning 'to pass away', but also 'to extinguish', as in a flame.).
Me: "That's nice - where did she go?" My attempt at wit is met by blank stares. Oh well.
2. "Martin Luther King was a penis of the black civil rights movement".
membre = member = penis.
Someone was definitely having a giraffe with that translation programme.
Luckily the children don't understand the word, so I gently encourage them to delete it, whilst cackling away to myself inside.
And, the best:
3. "Martin Luther King was a brilliant student. He worked hard to achieve his ultimate aim of becoming an avocado."
avocat = avocado/lawyer.
At this point I failed utterly to suppress my mirth and received concerned looks from strangers for the rest of the day as I relived the moment.
Children are wonderful.
Who: Class of 13-year-olds.
Where: Computer room.
Teacher: "Research Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks on the internet. Make a poster. In ANGLAIS!!"
30 children duly go to Wikipedia or similar.
30 children copy and paste a huge section on Martin Luther King into an online translator.
30 children put up their hands and say they're finished.
Teacher beams at me and asks me to go and check their work.
3 unintentionally hilarious results from the online translator
1."Rosa Parks went out at the age of 92" (from the French éteindre, meaning 'to pass away', but also 'to extinguish', as in a flame.).
Me: "That's nice - where did she go?" My attempt at wit is met by blank stares. Oh well.
2. "Martin Luther King was a penis of the black civil rights movement".
membre = member = penis.
Someone was definitely having a giraffe with that translation programme.
Luckily the children don't understand the word, so I gently encourage them to delete it, whilst cackling away to myself inside.
And, the best:
3. "Martin Luther King was a brilliant student. He worked hard to achieve his ultimate aim of becoming an avocado."
avocat = avocado/lawyer.
At this point I failed utterly to suppress my mirth and received concerned looks from strangers for the rest of the day as I relived the moment.
Children are wonderful.
L'escalade
Early experiences
1. Plastic-pulling: After a frustrating week of working out climbing sequences in my head round the house, school and even the Elephant Fountain, I finally got to hug some rock. Well, it was plastic, but let's not be fussy.
A few of us went to Aix-les-Bains, the nearby OAP paradise spa town, which was trying to show its 'hip'n'happening-ness' by hosting an outdooor sports festival. We watched some impressive mountainbiking displays, then had our own über-extreme effort on a pedalo. Everyone was up for a go on the climbing wall, despite the extortionate 3 Euro charge for one ascent.
We join the queue, acutely conscious that we are twice the height and at least twice the age of everyone else.
Nobody is on the hardest route. I rehearse the sequence mentally. It looks achievable.
Suddenly, I'm pushed forward: "Here - she can climb - she wants to try the hard one!"
"Erm, actually, I don't have my shoes, and-"
I pause as the breath is squeezed out of me. A petite French woman is trying to squeeze me into a kids' harness.
"Excusez-moi, this isn't going to work..."...grunt, puff, merde!..."er, c'est trop petit pour moi! YEOW!!"
The French appear not to have heard of hips. By now the woman is sweating in her efforts, face a deep crimson, biceps-a-bulging. A good-sized crowd has gathered, no longer shouting instructions to the climbers, but offering immensely unhelpful advice to my torturer.
Eventually she twigs and gives me an adult harness. I pick up some shoes and am gently told to try a bigger size for beginners.
All possible humiliations covered, I drag myself up the route and after a characteristic amount of effort, slap for the top. Win a rucksack for my efforts. Sit down feeling chuffed and watch a ten-year-old cruise his way up effortlessly.
Git.
2. Adventures with Sven: Sven promises to whisk me away for a weekend of sport climbing in Orpierre. Spend a few days gleefully trying out the phrase "Oh, I'm just popping to the South of France this weekend" until even I want to give myself a slap.
We form a group of four: a Quebecois, an Anglaise, a Francais and a Deutschlander. My linguistic brain goes SPLAT and I spend the journey admiring the blizzard.
Hang on...A BLIZZARD?! This was meant to be a sunny sport climbing trip. And we're camping. Bugger.
Fortunately, all turns out fine and I am spoilt by a village geared towards climbing and routes with bolts 50cm apart. Also finally find a cheap drying rack in the supermarket. Success all round.
Saturday night sees a huge camp fire and a veritable feast of escargots, fondue, venison and melted choccy nanas. Yum.
3. Fear of Fred: Meet a bloke working in the local climbing shop. He's called Fred, laughs at my French and is free on Mondays. Perfect. Look forward to my introduction to local crags all week until Sunday evening when Sven jokingly mentions how happy Fred must be to have found a stranded anglaise to introduce to French 'culture'.
Monday: have emergency meeting with Beth. She reassures me that I'm not being stupid: "After all, it's not like he's taking you up some dodgy lane in a forest with no-one around!" Erm, actually, that's exactly what he's doing.
Grande panique!
My phone rings. Plus Grande Panique! He's up the road. I can't understand a word he's saying. "Er...d'accord?" I hang up. Bollocks.
Say my farewells to Beth, arm myself with a nutkey and greet Fred by telling him how great Dan is.
It turns out fine, of course.
Lessons learnt
- Everyone called Fred is friendly. No exceptions.
- Climbing-related words in French are mysteriously bovine: 'vaché' (literally: cow-ed), means 'safe', 'du mou' (Mooo!) means 'slack, and 'en moulinette' (mooooo-lynette) means 'on top rope'.
Monday, 3 November 2008
Le médecin
To join the Club Alpin Francais, which is the climbing and skiing equivalent of a giant Christmas box of Quality Street, all potential members require a medical certificate to say that they won't fall to bits the second they even say the word 'mountain'.
Righty-ho then. Off I trot to the doctor.
Doctors in France are mainly private and this one at least has no reception.
A note on the door tells me: 'Ring the bell and come in'. Okay. DRIIIINNNGG. Hmm...nobody in sight. I sit on a chair and read a very informative magazine article for ten-year-olds discussing the relative merits of reading on the bog.
A good ten minutes pass and still no sign of life from any of the doors around me. I swear I can hear someone's leg being hacked off with a rusty nail file.
I cough loudly in the hope that my undoubtedly friendly doctor will leap out, present me with the required certificate and give me a sticker for being brave. Nothing happens.
I go back outside and ring the bell for a little too long. Still nothing.
Maybe the doctor has accidentally injected himself with paralysing fluid Mr Bean-style and is lying on the floor, arm outstretched, waiting for me to burst in and record his dying words of genius. Or to save him, I suppose, but that would be far less dramatic, and we are in France after all.
I burst in. "EXCUSEZ-MOI MONSIEUR! JE VIENS!"
Ah. A bemused doctor and patient stare at me.
"Uh...pardon. Je suis anglaise." The catch-all general apology. After all, my nationality usually seems to be accompanied by some sort of apology, or at least an embarrassed shrug and the sort of facial expression usually reserved for treading in a particularly sloppy shit.
5 minutes later I am called in.
Fully prepared for the normal questions (Are you pregnant? Do you have heart problems?), I smile upon hearing the first question: "Vous êtes enceinte?" (Are you pregnant?) "NON!" I declare proudly, beaming at the bloke.
He frowns. Thousands of detailed questions follow about every possible health problem. He really seems to want there to be something wrong with me. I finally 'confess' that my parents are short-sighted. He sighs and asks if I'm pregnant.
Hang on, hadn't I just answered that? Suddenly it occurs to me that the pregnant question wasn't that at all, but had in fact been "Vous êtes en bonne santé?" (Are you in good health?).
Arse.
The following 20 minutes involve various embarrassing poses as he dislocates my shoulder, pokes and prods my ribs, and, for some unknown reason, makes me do thirty squats, arms outstretched, with no top on. Later conversations with genuine Frenchies reassure me that this is perfectly normal, but nevertheless it leaves me with a deep suspicion of all things medical and French.
Righty-ho then. Off I trot to the doctor.
Doctors in France are mainly private and this one at least has no reception.
A note on the door tells me: 'Ring the bell and come in'. Okay. DRIIIINNNGG. Hmm...nobody in sight. I sit on a chair and read a very informative magazine article for ten-year-olds discussing the relative merits of reading on the bog.
A good ten minutes pass and still no sign of life from any of the doors around me. I swear I can hear someone's leg being hacked off with a rusty nail file.
I cough loudly in the hope that my undoubtedly friendly doctor will leap out, present me with the required certificate and give me a sticker for being brave. Nothing happens.
I go back outside and ring the bell for a little too long. Still nothing.
Maybe the doctor has accidentally injected himself with paralysing fluid Mr Bean-style and is lying on the floor, arm outstretched, waiting for me to burst in and record his dying words of genius. Or to save him, I suppose, but that would be far less dramatic, and we are in France after all.
I burst in. "EXCUSEZ-MOI MONSIEUR! JE VIENS!"
Ah. A bemused doctor and patient stare at me.
"Uh...pardon. Je suis anglaise." The catch-all general apology. After all, my nationality usually seems to be accompanied by some sort of apology, or at least an embarrassed shrug and the sort of facial expression usually reserved for treading in a particularly sloppy shit.
5 minutes later I am called in.
Fully prepared for the normal questions (Are you pregnant? Do you have heart problems?), I smile upon hearing the first question: "Vous êtes enceinte?" (Are you pregnant?) "NON!" I declare proudly, beaming at the bloke.
He frowns. Thousands of detailed questions follow about every possible health problem. He really seems to want there to be something wrong with me. I finally 'confess' that my parents are short-sighted. He sighs and asks if I'm pregnant.
Hang on, hadn't I just answered that? Suddenly it occurs to me that the pregnant question wasn't that at all, but had in fact been "Vous êtes en bonne santé?" (Are you in good health?).
Arse.
The following 20 minutes involve various embarrassing poses as he dislocates my shoulder, pokes and prods my ribs, and, for some unknown reason, makes me do thirty squats, arms outstretched, with no top on. Later conversations with genuine Frenchies reassure me that this is perfectly normal, but nevertheless it leaves me with a deep suspicion of all things medical and French.
5 Choses Super Cools
5 things that are still cool in Savoie
1. Mullets - fortunately limited to mountain villages, but still a veritable tragedy for all involved.
2. Finger skateboards - hours of fun popping ollies in your lap.
3. Roller skating - kids, businessmen, even shop assistants in the hypermarket.
4. Strikes - we had them in the 80s. Everyone moaned. France has them almost every Tuesday and Thursday. Sometimes in Chambery they even put a stick in the ground and set it on fire. Exciting stuff.
5. Mopeds - 15 -year-olds attempting wheelies on hairdryers. Everywhere.
1. Mullets - fortunately limited to mountain villages, but still a veritable tragedy for all involved.
2. Finger skateboards - hours of fun popping ollies in your lap.
3. Roller skating - kids, businessmen, even shop assistants in the hypermarket.
4. Strikes - we had them in the 80s. Everyone moaned. France has them almost every Tuesday and Thursday. Sometimes in Chambery they even put a stick in the ground and set it on fire. Exciting stuff.
5. Mopeds - 15 -year-olds attempting wheelies on hairdryers. Everywhere.
Quelques Petites Merdes
There are a few annoyances I feel I must share, if only as a cathartic exercise and to put off any few lingering readers with nothing better to do.
- Some mysterious beastie keeps biting me. I won't go into details, but the range of locations of bites is extremely interesting. Must refrain from scratching in public. Can't work out what the little critters are. I squashed one of the buggers against my wall yesterday. Serves it right for gorging on me. Apparently it might be grape flies. Always knew there was more to wine than bad breath and hangovers.
- French people smoke A LOT. I guess we're spoilt in England with out rules that people actually follow, but it's really noticeable here. The secondary school I work in is near empty at breaktime as students and teachers alike pour out for their fix. The scrum to get out the second the bell rings, fag boxes held aloft like VIP tickets to an exclusive gig is equalled only by the gaggle waiting for the lift up two floors for the great Black-Lung-ed who can't puff and pant their way up to the classroom.
This cancer-stick rant was triggered by a day of travelling where ever train, bus and tram journey involved a cloud of smoke being blown in my face.
I'm still politely British enough to feel I should mention that I have several friends who smoke (although I now sound rather early 20th century bourgeoisie - "yes, we have coloured friends, don't we darling? We're ever so open-minded.") My friends who smoke are considerate and English and pretend to give up sufficiently frequently to be endearing in their habits.
- An almost daily occurence now: the apparent misapprehension of my Franglais.
Me: "J'aime la fondue"
Entire class: "Er...wot?! She likes what? Never heard of it."
Me: "Fondue! It's a local speciality!"
Blank stares.
"You know...fondue!!"
Class: "Fondue? Er..."
Me: "FON-bloody-DUE!!"
Eventually, one bright kid: "Oh - fondue!"
Rest of class: "Aaaah - fondue!"
There are only two syllables. I can't be saying it it that wrong. And this happens daily with different words. Gah!
- Opening hours: I know it's all been said before, but honestly, which bright spark thought that shutting everything for at least 2 hours at lunchtime every day was a good idea? Combine that with everyone having a really long lunchbreak and you've got a Really Stupid Situation.
Problems caused: obscenely early starts, excessively long working days, massive queues in all shops for the 5 minutes a day when they are actually open.
Don't even get me started on Mondays...
- Some mysterious beastie keeps biting me. I won't go into details, but the range of locations of bites is extremely interesting. Must refrain from scratching in public. Can't work out what the little critters are. I squashed one of the buggers against my wall yesterday. Serves it right for gorging on me. Apparently it might be grape flies. Always knew there was more to wine than bad breath and hangovers.
- French people smoke A LOT. I guess we're spoilt in England with out rules that people actually follow, but it's really noticeable here. The secondary school I work in is near empty at breaktime as students and teachers alike pour out for their fix. The scrum to get out the second the bell rings, fag boxes held aloft like VIP tickets to an exclusive gig is equalled only by the gaggle waiting for the lift up two floors for the great Black-Lung-ed who can't puff and pant their way up to the classroom.
This cancer-stick rant was triggered by a day of travelling where ever train, bus and tram journey involved a cloud of smoke being blown in my face.
I'm still politely British enough to feel I should mention that I have several friends who smoke (although I now sound rather early 20th century bourgeoisie - "yes, we have coloured friends, don't we darling? We're ever so open-minded.") My friends who smoke are considerate and English and pretend to give up sufficiently frequently to be endearing in their habits.
- An almost daily occurence now: the apparent misapprehension of my Franglais.
Me: "J'aime la fondue"
Entire class: "Er...wot?! She likes what? Never heard of it."
Me: "Fondue! It's a local speciality!"
Blank stares.
"You know...fondue!!"
Class: "Fondue? Er..."
Me: "FON-bloody-DUE!!"
Eventually, one bright kid: "Oh - fondue!"
Rest of class: "Aaaah - fondue!"
There are only two syllables. I can't be saying it it that wrong. And this happens daily with different words. Gah!
- Opening hours: I know it's all been said before, but honestly, which bright spark thought that shutting everything for at least 2 hours at lunchtime every day was a good idea? Combine that with everyone having a really long lunchbreak and you've got a Really Stupid Situation.
Problems caused: obscenely early starts, excessively long working days, massive queues in all shops for the 5 minutes a day when they are actually open.
Don't even get me started on Mondays...
Séjour à Blighty
Popped home at the weekend for a couple of Rather Important Birthdays. I had planned this back in the naive English summer days spent daydreaming of quaint mountain village schools where I, the exotic foreigner, would bring the great language of English to a future generation, apostrophes and all.
At the stage, my petit sejour rapidly looked like never leaving daydream territory itself: "If a member of your family dies and you really need to get home, you MUST tell the school a year in advance, never be paid again and go straight to hell".
Hmm...so a long weekend of bithday fêtes probably wasn't going to go down too well. If only I'd known I'd have a two week holdiay shortly after...well, let's be honest, I'd probably still have gone anyway, but let's blame my lack of knowledge for now.
Anyway, much paperwork and negotiating later, I got a couple of days off and tootled back to Blighty as a surprise for the matriarch.
She cried.
3 times at the airport.
Once at home.
Once again Far Too Early the following morning.
And again when I left.
Dan didn't cry, except perhaps once in frustration at my incessant waffling, having rediscovered how to tickle my native tongue. Nevertheless, a jolly good time was had by all.
Lessons learnt
- There is a major financial crisis giong on. I was aware of this before leaving, but had managed to put it all aside in my own personal disgust at Euros seeming expensive. "FIVE Euros?! But that's five wotsits. In England that would be FOUR thingies. Pfff..."
- English people, at airports at least, now think I look French, whilst French people still know I'm a rosbif.
I may be reaching true Franglais status.
Or perhaps just staring blankly in response to all languages, including my own, in a bleary-eyed mess.
At the stage, my petit sejour rapidly looked like never leaving daydream territory itself: "If a member of your family dies and you really need to get home, you MUST tell the school a year in advance, never be paid again and go straight to hell".
Hmm...so a long weekend of bithday fêtes probably wasn't going to go down too well. If only I'd known I'd have a two week holdiay shortly after...well, let's be honest, I'd probably still have gone anyway, but let's blame my lack of knowledge for now.
Anyway, much paperwork and negotiating later, I got a couple of days off and tootled back to Blighty as a surprise for the matriarch.
She cried.
3 times at the airport.
Once at home.
Once again Far Too Early the following morning.
And again when I left.
Dan didn't cry, except perhaps once in frustration at my incessant waffling, having rediscovered how to tickle my native tongue. Nevertheless, a jolly good time was had by all.
Lessons learnt
- There is a major financial crisis giong on. I was aware of this before leaving, but had managed to put it all aside in my own personal disgust at Euros seeming expensive. "FIVE Euros?! But that's five wotsits. In England that would be FOUR thingies. Pfff..."
- English people, at airports at least, now think I look French, whilst French people still know I'm a rosbif.
I may be reaching true Franglais status.
Or perhaps just staring blankly in response to all languages, including my own, in a bleary-eyed mess.
English things I had missed:
> An abundance of grateable cheese
> Radio 4
> Cottages
> Proper pubs
> Conversations about the weather
> Orderly queuing
> Common cultural references beyond David Beckham and yellow American cartoon characters. Jeremy Clarkson, Terry Wogan, even Fern Cotton brought waves of love for my homeland.
> And, of course, friends and family.
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