Sometimes, I get the feeling that climbing involves more than just fighting gravity. Since the Great Meatball Disaster of last year, I've been pretty successful in rock-hugging at weekends. With spring trying its best and the call of a trad multipitch route (very rare in this part of France to find accessible rock without metal bolts drilled into it), I was happy. Perhaps too happy...
Baptiste had called me on Thursday evening. The proposal: climb all day Friday, spend the night with his friend in a mountain refuge for which he had the keys, climb all day Saturday. Yippee! With the sort of enthusiasm that only comes after excessive sugar consumption, I lept on an early train to Annecy.
At that point it all started to go wrong...
I meet Baptiste. Hmm, the rock's still wet, let's wait.
3 hours later: Hmm, looks like rain. Sod it, let's go anyway.
1 patisserie stop later: Ah, so there's still snow up here. Really wish I'd brought waterproof shoes.
We drop off Baptiste's friend to go walking in the middle of a snow field (in Converses) and drive back to the crag.
MERDE! What? Ah, putain! What?! I've forgotten something really important.
My mind races: shoes? he'll just have to climb in trainers; harness? we can improvise one; chocolate? well, I suppose I could share mine.
'What have you forgotten?'
The ropes.
Ah. Yes, that's probably a bit of an issue.
A fruitless visit to the parents of a nearby long-lost friend (oxymoron?) and a more successful return to Baptiste's house later and we're back at the bottom of the cliff. It's raining. We bodge a slippery path over barbed wire fences, through spiky bushes and between trees. We cross two rivers only to find another, even less welcoming torrent of wetness. Simply impassible, as Lewis Carroll would say. Somehow, despite never being further than 100m from the start of the route, we had got sucked into a Gorge of Doom. Steep-sided rock that crumbled if we so much as fluttered an eyelash at it on one side, and an increasingly violent torrent of water on the other side, coming from the rather inconveniently placed, enormous waterfall in front of us.
A very panicky, slippery slab descent (me) and raping by pointy rock (Baptiste) later and we were sat in the car in a torrential downpour, nervously hoping Baptiste's friend hadn't panicked upon returning to the meeting point earlier to find the car distinctly absent. Refuge plans were called off as nobody fancied several kilometres of knee-deep snow with trainers on. Barbecue plans were deemed too ambitious and we settled for a kebab and a DVD.
Plans were made for an assault on a multipitch sport classic on Saturday.
The conversation the following day went something like this:
Baptiste! Wake up! We're leaving in 10 minutes...[faff]...Okay, we're about an hour and a half behind planned time; shall we do something more accessible before the rain comes?
Naaah...it'll be fine.
I don't really want to walk an hour and a half just to be rained on.
Pas de soucis; we'll just walk very quickly.
Uphill? With big rucksacks?!
Oh, stop moaning, you soft Brit!
What about that nice cliff there?
Ah oui, that's nice: a 10-minute approach and some good routes. Should be in the sun as well.
Sounds great!
Nah, I've driven past it now.
Over an hour of slipping around on mud, cowpats, scree and snow (still no waterproof shoes) later, and we arrive at the bottom of the cliff. Baptiste was right; it does look like an amazing line: up the arete of a pillar, abseil down the back, then up a clean slab to the top.
Baptiste touches the rock. It starts to hail. A lot.
Hail turns to sleet to snow to rain on the first three pitches. The climbing is fantastic, but the limestone lives up to its slimestone nickname in the wet and we take it in turns to be freezing. Baptiste leads a stunning and exposed pitch involving swinging round the pillar, and I gibber my way up an easy scramble where the bolts are far too far apart for my liking.
We retreat after the pillar, just as the sun comes out. And stays stubbornly out for most of our descent back to the car.
Bad decisions? Maybe. But I reckon some weekends are just not meant to be...
Lessons learnt
This time it's a pronunciation lesson learnt by Baptiste. I can't remember what we were talking about, but he suddenly came out with the line 'You know, when someone shits on his girlfriend'. Er, no...is this some weird French thing? If so, I don't want to know about it! He tries to explain. 'Like when you shit on your exam paper at school'. Not improving the situation here, Baptiste...
Some (thankfully less graphic than expected) gesturing later, and I'm more than a little relieved to be able to correct his pronunciation: 'cheeeeating', not 'shitting'!
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
Jab Gibbers
Giving my affinity for furries and my knack of finding silly ways of hurting myself, I decided that Hep. B and Rabies injection would be a Jolly Good Idea for my forthcoming trip to the Land of Paddington Bear. Of course, the timing of these meant I had to have them in France. A quick flash of research revealed little difference in cost between France and the UK, so I decided a trip to the Centre de Santé Publique would be a new cultural experience.
Me: Hello, I'd like to book an appointment please.
Woman: Okay, how about Tuesday at 2pm?
Me: Sorry, I can't do Tuesdays. How about Wednesday?
Woman: Er, okay...what about Tuesday at 4pm?
Me: Um, I really can't do Tuesdays, I'm afraid. Any other days of the week?
Woman: Monday at 5pm?
Me: Yes, that sounds great.
Woman: Okay, so that's Thursday at 2pm.
Me: Er...no, I thought it was Monday at 5pm?
Woman: Oh yes, silly me! Okay, so Monday at 1pm.
Me: No, 5pm.
Woman: Whoops! Of course; 5pm on Thursday.
Me: No... Maybe it would be easier if I came in later today with my diary?
Woman: How about Tuesday at 2pm?
Me: Okay...
Sometimes it's easier to rearrange an entire day than to attempt battle with French receptionists.
An appointment and thousands of health leaflets later, I turn up for my first jabs. Now, maybe it's just my experience of particular doctors' surgeries in the UK, but every time I've had an injection it's gone something like this:
Nurse: So what are you going to do on holiday?
Me: Well, I'm going to - JAB!
Nurse: All done!
All done in a flash, occasionally with the warning that it might sting a little, and all done on a normal chair in the nurse's room.
In France, it seems like a much bigger deal. I'm lead to a terrifyingly complicated chair, which has more moving parts than a K'nex Ferris Wheel kit. I feel powerless and have strong flashbacks to torture scenes from American drama series. The nurse gets the needle out of the fridge, fills out a certificate with complicated chemical names that are being pumped into me, and shows me. Is that okay? Yes. Is my name spelt correctly? Yes. Is my date of birth wrong? No. Am I definitely going to Peru? Have I had all the other injections? Am I not allergic to vaccinations? It's a terrifying drill in linguistical and organisational skills, and there are so many negatives thrown in, I start just shaking my head around in the hope that she'll assume the right answer.
She shows me the box to confirm she's pumping the right disease into me. Okay, yep that's great. Just ask me about my holiday and jab it in. She takes a new rubber glove out of its packet and snaps it onto her hand. She asks which arm I'd like it in. Does it make a difference? She re-rolls my sleeve up, tells me to relax. No, relax! Relax the muscle. There you go. Taps the syringe, squirts some liquid in the air. Tells me it's cold and it's going to hurt. Asks if I'd like to watch or not. Gives me a count-down. And it's in. Big relief.
After all that, I'm briskly accompanied to the payment desk and sent on my way. In the UK I'm always told to wait ten minutes in case of an extreme reaction. I'd assume that's a bit more serious than the nurse not rolling my sleeve up properly, but there you go. Strange old world.
I've never had a problem with injections before, but with a build-up like that, it's amazing anyone gets vaccinated at all in France!
Me: Hello, I'd like to book an appointment please.
Woman: Okay, how about Tuesday at 2pm?
Me: Sorry, I can't do Tuesdays. How about Wednesday?
Woman: Er, okay...what about Tuesday at 4pm?
Me: Um, I really can't do Tuesdays, I'm afraid. Any other days of the week?
Woman: Monday at 5pm?
Me: Yes, that sounds great.
Woman: Okay, so that's Thursday at 2pm.
Me: Er...no, I thought it was Monday at 5pm?
Woman: Oh yes, silly me! Okay, so Monday at 1pm.
Me: No, 5pm.
Woman: Whoops! Of course; 5pm on Thursday.
Me: No... Maybe it would be easier if I came in later today with my diary?
Woman: How about Tuesday at 2pm?
Me: Okay...
Sometimes it's easier to rearrange an entire day than to attempt battle with French receptionists.
An appointment and thousands of health leaflets later, I turn up for my first jabs. Now, maybe it's just my experience of particular doctors' surgeries in the UK, but every time I've had an injection it's gone something like this:
Nurse: So what are you going to do on holiday?
Me: Well, I'm going to - JAB!
Nurse: All done!
All done in a flash, occasionally with the warning that it might sting a little, and all done on a normal chair in the nurse's room.
In France, it seems like a much bigger deal. I'm lead to a terrifyingly complicated chair, which has more moving parts than a K'nex Ferris Wheel kit. I feel powerless and have strong flashbacks to torture scenes from American drama series. The nurse gets the needle out of the fridge, fills out a certificate with complicated chemical names that are being pumped into me, and shows me. Is that okay? Yes. Is my name spelt correctly? Yes. Is my date of birth wrong? No. Am I definitely going to Peru? Have I had all the other injections? Am I not allergic to vaccinations? It's a terrifying drill in linguistical and organisational skills, and there are so many negatives thrown in, I start just shaking my head around in the hope that she'll assume the right answer.
She shows me the box to confirm she's pumping the right disease into me. Okay, yep that's great. Just ask me about my holiday and jab it in. She takes a new rubber glove out of its packet and snaps it onto her hand. She asks which arm I'd like it in. Does it make a difference? She re-rolls my sleeve up, tells me to relax. No, relax! Relax the muscle. There you go. Taps the syringe, squirts some liquid in the air. Tells me it's cold and it's going to hurt. Asks if I'd like to watch or not. Gives me a count-down. And it's in. Big relief.
After all that, I'm briskly accompanied to the payment desk and sent on my way. In the UK I'm always told to wait ten minutes in case of an extreme reaction. I'd assume that's a bit more serious than the nurse not rolling my sleeve up properly, but there you go. Strange old world.
I've never had a problem with injections before, but with a build-up like that, it's amazing anyone gets vaccinated at all in France!
Bloody Bises Encore
Just another quick rant about the bises. I've become quite used to them now, and even manage to go for the correct side most of the time, until someone from a different area comes along and throws it all into confusion. What's annoying, and I mean really annoying is when I've come into school at 8am to teach accountancy students something horribly serious and important. I squeeze past the smokers surrounding the school gate; I crawl up two flights of stairs, I reach my corridor. My classroom is approximately 15 metres away. It takes approximately 15 minutes to get to it.
Why? Because every single student seems to feel the need to greet every other student. They probably just chatted together on the bus, then separated for a few minutes. They are in the same classes all day every day; they know they're going to see each other. But still they have to kiss! Not just a simple 'hi', or a quick hug, but a full triple whack of bises. It doesn't seem to work with the few kids who have managed to form an orderly queue outside the classroom; most greetings seem to require lunging across my path for a nuzzling session, or a manly shaking of hands for a minute without stopping, blocking the corridor and thus causing a whole flurry of similar greetings as nobody wants to be left out. This is all well and good, but for goodness' sake; it's a school! Harumph.
Another mini rant in case you thought I'd finished...
Two things have struck me about the French and transport and they're so contrary that I feel the need to comment.
In cars, people never seem to notice the traffic lights changing. Well, they probably choose to have selective vision, shall we say, for red lights, but it's incredible the number of times I've been trapped at a green light because the car in front hasn't noticed it's time to move. A quick honk of the horn usually does the trick (yep, for everyone who has ever sat in my car and been instructed to shout HONK every time I was cut up or we went over that narrow bridge near home, you'll be pleased to hear that Felicia is now the proud bearer of a working horn), but it's really most unBritish, and just tends to draw more attention to the weird foreigner with her 'wrong way round car'.
In a complete reversal of this situation, the French seem to get prematurely excited about trains stopping. The first few times I saw people leap out of their seats while the train was still bobbing along at full speed, I started to panic. SPIDER!! There must be a spider! Oh my goodness, where is it?! Is it on me?! Okay, no, probably not a spider. Is there an engine failure? A bomb?! A streaker outside the train? A multi-coloured sheep that everyone's clamouring to see? I want to see! Oh wait, did someone just fart? But no, unless I have been missing something obvious every time, people do just tend to stand up on average ten minutes before their stop.
Of course, I understand if they have an enormous suitcase that needs several minute of coaxing out of the luggage racks, or if they're in a real hurry, but when it's the end of the line and everyone has to get off anyway, what's the hurry?! I try to feel all smug as I enjoy a few more minutes of sitting on my arse, but sometimes I get caught up in the euphoria of Nearly Arriving and find myself in the same situation as tall people who stand up too early on planes, and have to dodge falling luggage, small children and furries, as elbows and coats go a-flying.
Why? Because every single student seems to feel the need to greet every other student. They probably just chatted together on the bus, then separated for a few minutes. They are in the same classes all day every day; they know they're going to see each other. But still they have to kiss! Not just a simple 'hi', or a quick hug, but a full triple whack of bises. It doesn't seem to work with the few kids who have managed to form an orderly queue outside the classroom; most greetings seem to require lunging across my path for a nuzzling session, or a manly shaking of hands for a minute without stopping, blocking the corridor and thus causing a whole flurry of similar greetings as nobody wants to be left out. This is all well and good, but for goodness' sake; it's a school! Harumph.
Another mini rant in case you thought I'd finished...
Two things have struck me about the French and transport and they're so contrary that I feel the need to comment.
In cars, people never seem to notice the traffic lights changing. Well, they probably choose to have selective vision, shall we say, for red lights, but it's incredible the number of times I've been trapped at a green light because the car in front hasn't noticed it's time to move. A quick honk of the horn usually does the trick (yep, for everyone who has ever sat in my car and been instructed to shout HONK every time I was cut up or we went over that narrow bridge near home, you'll be pleased to hear that Felicia is now the proud bearer of a working horn), but it's really most unBritish, and just tends to draw more attention to the weird foreigner with her 'wrong way round car'.
In a complete reversal of this situation, the French seem to get prematurely excited about trains stopping. The first few times I saw people leap out of their seats while the train was still bobbing along at full speed, I started to panic. SPIDER!! There must be a spider! Oh my goodness, where is it?! Is it on me?! Okay, no, probably not a spider. Is there an engine failure? A bomb?! A streaker outside the train? A multi-coloured sheep that everyone's clamouring to see? I want to see! Oh wait, did someone just fart? But no, unless I have been missing something obvious every time, people do just tend to stand up on average ten minutes before their stop.
Of course, I understand if they have an enormous suitcase that needs several minute of coaxing out of the luggage racks, or if they're in a real hurry, but when it's the end of the line and everyone has to get off anyway, what's the hurry?! I try to feel all smug as I enjoy a few more minutes of sitting on my arse, but sometimes I get caught up in the euphoria of Nearly Arriving and find myself in the same situation as tall people who stand up too early on planes, and have to dodge falling luggage, small children and furries, as elbows and coats go a-flying.
Gare d'Enfer
I know it seems like I'm on permanent holiday here, but I've just got a bit behind on uploading my blog entries; it's now warm and sunny and a completely different holiday from my Lausanne adventures.
I head down to the Calanques for a blissful few days of sunny sea-cliff climbing on the most amazing limestone cliffs. Undoubtedly one of the most beautiful climbing destinations in the world and the ice-cream's not half bad, either. In a typical attempt to Have Fun in the most stressful and time-pressed way, I decided to go home for one evening then head off to Fontainebleau for another few days of chilled out forest bouldering (mucking around on boulders with giant crashpads and toothbrushes). This was also excellent, particularly because of the presence of a pizza van on the campsite.
I head down to the Calanques for a blissful few days of sunny sea-cliff climbing on the most amazing limestone cliffs. Undoubtedly one of the most beautiful climbing destinations in the world and the ice-cream's not half bad, either. In a typical attempt to Have Fun in the most stressful and time-pressed way, I decided to go home for one evening then head off to Fontainebleau for another few days of chilled out forest bouldering (mucking around on boulders with giant crashpads and toothbrushes). This was also excellent, particularly because of the presence of a pizza van on the campsite.
Climbing paradise: sea-cliffs in the Calanques.
Unfortunately, in-between these two snippets of serenity, these two nuggets of niceness, these two pockets of paradise, I had to earn my way and survive The Train Station From Hell.
I am not built for big cities. I have to run across main roads unless the little green man is there; I look the wrong way at crossings, I get lost all the time. Suddenly being thrown into the capital city's busiest (I hope) train station is not a good situation.
I have 30 minutes between my trains.
I have to get a train to Fontainebleau. This sounds easy.
I queue up at the ticket desk. Wrong ticket desk. Go downstairs.
I go downstairs. The wrong downstairs. Go upstairs then downstairs again.
I go downstairs. I queue up at the ticket desk. Wrong ticket desk again.
I go down more stairs. Wrong floor.
I go upstairs. I find a ticket machine. On the 3rd attempt: success! I have a ticket.
Now to find the platform...There are signs for the metro, for buses, for mainline trains, for RER trains, for TGV trains...a veritable maze of different pastel colours, squared numbers, circled letters and so on. I followed one for a while until ending up back at my starting point and join a very slow queue to find out where to go. This is the first queue I should have joined, but I'd been avoiding it because it was so very long and crawling along.
Back at a different upstairs again and I finally find my train.
Sit on train and breathe. Briefly.
Run back out of train to find composting machine (in France, you have to stamp your tickets before getting on the train).
Look at watch: this Mega Faff took an hour and a half.
Turn up at Fontainebleau to find out the car picking me up is 2 hours late.
The things we do to hug rock...
Vous or tu?
Anyone who's done a bit of French knows the Frenchies have a bizarre habit of using two words for 'you'. Not satisfied with three words for 'the' (although admittedly nowhere near as confuzzling as the German equivalent), they've got this fascinating conundrum designed specifically to throw foreigners into great confusion and cause unnecessary offence nationwide.
I don't know about you, but at school I distinctly remember learning s'il vous plait years before s'il te plait, and voulez-vous coucher avec moi far before tu veux un orangina ...or were they from songs? That last examples is particularly noteworthy:
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? (Do you want to sleep with me? (No, I'm not asking you! That's the translation...pfff..))
Surely it's a bit odd to use the formal version of 'you' with someone you're about to bump uglies with.
Even stranger was an incident I witnessed the other day: French man drove into the back of French Woman's car in the carpark. He leapt out, shouting: "Putain de bordel de merde! Putain! Qu'est-ce que vous avez fait?!" (Oh, you silly billy! What have you done?). Whilst hurling abuse at this poor woman, he still used the polite form of 'you'. I quizzed a friend about this and he replied: "Well, it's a sign of respect, isn't it?" Naturally.
In a reverse situation, I have managed to offend teaching colleagues by using 'vous', who despite them being twice my age and never having met me before, insist upon 'tu'. This is lovely, but never explained to poor English schoolchildren, who eventually become poor English assistants! Then there are countless shop assistants and bank workers who I've unthinkingly addressed with 'tu', and the people with whom I appear to be in a permanent 'vous' stalemate; both parties possibly too afraid to attempt a 'tu' at this late stage.
I don't know about you, but at school I distinctly remember learning s'il vous plait years before s'il te plait, and voulez-vous coucher avec moi far before tu veux un orangina ...or were they from songs? That last examples is particularly noteworthy:
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? (Do you want to sleep with me? (No, I'm not asking you! That's the translation...pfff..))
Surely it's a bit odd to use the formal version of 'you' with someone you're about to bump uglies with.
Even stranger was an incident I witnessed the other day: French man drove into the back of French Woman's car in the carpark. He leapt out, shouting: "Putain de bordel de merde! Putain! Qu'est-ce que vous avez fait?!" (Oh, you silly billy! What have you done?). Whilst hurling abuse at this poor woman, he still used the polite form of 'you'. I quizzed a friend about this and he replied: "Well, it's a sign of respect, isn't it?" Naturally.
In a reverse situation, I have managed to offend teaching colleagues by using 'vous', who despite them being twice my age and never having met me before, insist upon 'tu'. This is lovely, but never explained to poor English schoolchildren, who eventually become poor English assistants! Then there are countless shop assistants and bank workers who I've unthinkingly addressed with 'tu', and the people with whom I appear to be in a permanent 'vous' stalemate; both parties possibly too afraid to attempt a 'tu' at this late stage.
Horseplay
Whilst trying to persuade tutoring dad that my friend's sister would make a great penpal for his daughter, I decide to extoll the virtues of the family.
"Oui, ils sont super gentils. Ils ont une jolie maison...et ils ont des cheveux et tout!" (Yes, they're really nice. They've got a lovely house...and they've even got horses!).
Tutoring dad gives me a funny looks. I decide to emphasise the horses.
"Oui, beaucoup de cheveux!" (Yep, lots of horses!)
It's only on the way home that I realise my error: cheveux is in fact 'hair'... An easy mistake to make, since chevaux is 'horses'. At least he will be more than reassured that his daughter will be communicating with a very hairy family...hmm...
"Oui, ils sont super gentils. Ils ont une jolie maison...et ils ont des cheveux et tout!" (Yes, they're really nice. They've got a lovely house...and they've even got horses!).
Tutoring dad gives me a funny looks. I decide to emphasise the horses.
"Oui, beaucoup de cheveux!" (Yep, lots of horses!)
It's only on the way home that I realise my error: cheveux is in fact 'hair'... An easy mistake to make, since chevaux is 'horses'. At least he will be more than reassured that his daughter will be communicating with a very hairy family...hmm...
Thursday, 23 April 2009
Non-Faffy CAF
Since Christmas I've been on a bit of a mission to try to stay upright on skis. In fact, it's not so much avoiding the horizontal that seems to be the problem; more the general consensus that skis should point firmly downhill and move. I'm more a followed of the 'traverse-sl-o-w-ly-across-the-slope-careful-now-reach-the-edge...and...PANIC!Quickturndon'tlookdown-Oh-crap-pointing uphill again' school of thought. Rather inconveniently, I seem to be the sole disciple of this underrated discipline.
Free lessons with a robust young Frenchman seemed like a sensible option, especially when I often get 1:1 tuition due to being distinctly CRAP compared to the savoyards who perfect black runs and slalom in primary school, having been skiing since the age of two.
So, if any Chamberien is foolish enough to be awake before dawn on a Sunday morning, they might just have the misfortune to see a dishevelled bunch of assistants shuffling across town, boots weighing upon our necks like enormous cowbells, skis balanced precariously across our shoulders, creating a medley of slapstick noises as they whack against lamp-posts, buildings and people.
Each trip usually starts with the delightful old man in front of us telling us we MUST speak in French:
Old man: Oh look Feleeeceeeteee eez asleep! Feeleeceeteee are you asleep? Feeleeeceeeteeee!
Me: Maintenant je dors plus (I'm not sleeping now!)
OM: You must spik in Francais!
Beth (in French): Yes, we do. We even speak French at home, with our French housemate.
OM: No, that's useless! You must spik ze French!
Beth (in French): Okay, we'll speak French today.
OM: Pas compris! Non! You not understood.
Us (in French): Yes, we've understood.
OM: Zey are spiking in Eeeenglish! You must spik in French!
At this point on a typical trip, Sam, our American friend, might interrupt to nobly defend us. This inevitably diverts Old Man's attention to Ze Americain to whom he has inexplicably taken a strong disliking.
We eventually arrive at an exotic destination, bleary-eyed and fuzzy, and suspiciously survey the weather, which will dictate the course of the day. Come snow or shine, we then head up to the slopes. I take a lesson in the morning with my ever-patient, pre-Raphaelite-haired, orange-trousered ski teacher, then we meet the other CAF-istes for a picnic. This can involve glorious panoramic views of Alpine peaks, or soggy sarnies in a steaming picnic room. The most memorable so far was an 80th (!) birthday celebration featuring champagne, cider, wine, doughnuts and a thousand sorts of cake...
More skiing in the afternoon, either with others from my lesson, or, if I was alone, with one of the many people who have adopted me as a pet project. Wonderfully, this often ends with a hot chocolate in a cosy bar.
As the lifts shut, we pile back into the coach, melting snow steaming up the windows. Rosy-cheeked and aching-limbed, we pass round a small flask of something potent, always in a red sock, and watch the mountains alight with fire as the sun heads back for its own après-ski snooze.
Free lessons with a robust young Frenchman seemed like a sensible option, especially when I often get 1:1 tuition due to being distinctly CRAP compared to the savoyards who perfect black runs and slalom in primary school, having been skiing since the age of two.
So, if any Chamberien is foolish enough to be awake before dawn on a Sunday morning, they might just have the misfortune to see a dishevelled bunch of assistants shuffling across town, boots weighing upon our necks like enormous cowbells, skis balanced precariously across our shoulders, creating a medley of slapstick noises as they whack against lamp-posts, buildings and people.
Each trip usually starts with the delightful old man in front of us telling us we MUST speak in French:
Old man: Oh look Feleeeceeeteee eez asleep! Feeleeceeteee are you asleep? Feeleeeceeeteeee!
Me: Maintenant je dors plus (I'm not sleeping now!)
OM: You must spik in Francais!
Beth (in French): Yes, we do. We even speak French at home, with our French housemate.
OM: No, that's useless! You must spik ze French!
Beth (in French): Okay, we'll speak French today.
OM: Pas compris! Non! You not understood.
Us (in French): Yes, we've understood.
OM: Zey are spiking in Eeeenglish! You must spik in French!
At this point on a typical trip, Sam, our American friend, might interrupt to nobly defend us. This inevitably diverts Old Man's attention to Ze Americain to whom he has inexplicably taken a strong disliking.
We eventually arrive at an exotic destination, bleary-eyed and fuzzy, and suspiciously survey the weather, which will dictate the course of the day. Come snow or shine, we then head up to the slopes. I take a lesson in the morning with my ever-patient, pre-Raphaelite-haired, orange-trousered ski teacher, then we meet the other CAF-istes for a picnic. This can involve glorious panoramic views of Alpine peaks, or soggy sarnies in a steaming picnic room. The most memorable so far was an 80th (!) birthday celebration featuring champagne, cider, wine, doughnuts and a thousand sorts of cake...
More skiing in the afternoon, either with others from my lesson, or, if I was alone, with one of the many people who have adopted me as a pet project. Wonderfully, this often ends with a hot chocolate in a cosy bar.
As the lifts shut, we pile back into the coach, melting snow steaming up the windows. Rosy-cheeked and aching-limbed, we pass round a small flask of something potent, always in a red sock, and watch the mountains alight with fire as the sun heads back for its own après-ski snooze.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Lausanne
'Let's go travelling!' the enthusiastic email says. Okay! I hardly need persuading. The only slight hitch is that two weeks of holiday seem to have turned into two free days, one of which is spent comatose after driving back from Blighty. Chronic apathy and all that.
Switzerland is the chosen destination and Lausanne seems as good a place as any for a day of shamelessly touristy shenanigans. Due to a slight oversight in Franco-swiss relations, the most convenient train leaves at a time that is acceptably only to Jack the Ripper and Thatcher, and we all know what became of them. Nevertheless, I once again form a strange bobble-hatted silhouette whizzing down the streets of Chambery, baguette à la main, with seconds to spare.
I look forward to beautiful views of rolling Swiss hills and tasty toblerones and promptly fall asleep. Am woken up by a not-so-beautiful or tasty conductor wanting to see my railcard. Can only hope he hadn't been poking me too long while I lay slumped, gaping-mouthed and twitching.
Switzerland appears through the windows, snowy and very cold. My companion cheerfully informs me that the forecast predicted highs of -2 degrees. The train arrives and we leap out into the bustling metropolis of Lausanne, ready for a day of exploration and culture.
Hang on; where are all the people? A quick hunt around reveals that the shops don't open until 10am.
Somehow, sneakily, we seem to have become ever so slightly French, and we're shocked that people haven't been up and about since 8am.
After a not-so-brief introduction of Lush to a Trinidadian, we explore the old town, bags full of natural deodorant and massage blocks. Lausanne is very steep and it's good fun slipping around on compressed ice with massive drops scarily close. Our map doesn't show that the streets are at different levels, so some crossroads turn out to be bridges a significant height above the other road. You've got to admire that stubborn Swiss determination in building a city on such a steep hill.
We soon leave the town centre and head towards a large green area on our tourist map. In real life it's rather more white, being submerged beneath a foot of snow. Still, it's pretty, and we look forward to seeing some sites marked on the map: a small castle, a hermit cave, a chocolaterie and a lake. Luckily, the snow proves entertaining for my companion, who hasn't experienced much in her native Caribbean home. I say this, because nearly all our eagerly awaited sites aren't quite as expected:
- The 'petit chateau' is extremely petit and appears to be little more than a house with a fancy name.
- 'L'hermitage' turns out not to be an ancient hermit dwelling place, but an art centre that is distinctly shut.
- 'La chocolaterie' never appears. Big disappointment.
Fortunately, we're treated to an impressive view over the city and the lake and a cosy, little restaurant at the top of the hill provides Swiss cheese and ducks.
The rest of the day sees a bimble through town, an attempted passport exchange with a man selling crepes, lake-side unicyclists on obstacle courses, an amazing children's play area (tested!) and the Olympic Museum, complete with giant, moving models of abs and various other body parts. The outdoor escalator particularly impresses: what better way to encourage people to participate in sport...
Switzerland is the chosen destination and Lausanne seems as good a place as any for a day of shamelessly touristy shenanigans. Due to a slight oversight in Franco-swiss relations, the most convenient train leaves at a time that is acceptably only to Jack the Ripper and Thatcher, and we all know what became of them. Nevertheless, I once again form a strange bobble-hatted silhouette whizzing down the streets of Chambery, baguette à la main, with seconds to spare.
I look forward to beautiful views of rolling Swiss hills and tasty toblerones and promptly fall asleep. Am woken up by a not-so-beautiful or tasty conductor wanting to see my railcard. Can only hope he hadn't been poking me too long while I lay slumped, gaping-mouthed and twitching.
Switzerland appears through the windows, snowy and very cold. My companion cheerfully informs me that the forecast predicted highs of -2 degrees. The train arrives and we leap out into the bustling metropolis of Lausanne, ready for a day of exploration and culture.
Hang on; where are all the people? A quick hunt around reveals that the shops don't open until 10am.
Somehow, sneakily, we seem to have become ever so slightly French, and we're shocked that people haven't been up and about since 8am.
After a not-so-brief introduction of Lush to a Trinidadian, we explore the old town, bags full of natural deodorant and massage blocks. Lausanne is very steep and it's good fun slipping around on compressed ice with massive drops scarily close. Our map doesn't show that the streets are at different levels, so some crossroads turn out to be bridges a significant height above the other road. You've got to admire that stubborn Swiss determination in building a city on such a steep hill.
And I thought climbing was my most risky activity...A typically graphic French warning sign.
We soon leave the town centre and head towards a large green area on our tourist map. In real life it's rather more white, being submerged beneath a foot of snow. Still, it's pretty, and we look forward to seeing some sites marked on the map: a small castle, a hermit cave, a chocolaterie and a lake. Luckily, the snow proves entertaining for my companion, who hasn't experienced much in her native Caribbean home. I say this, because nearly all our eagerly awaited sites aren't quite as expected:
- The 'petit chateau' is extremely petit and appears to be little more than a house with a fancy name.
- 'L'hermitage' turns out not to be an ancient hermit dwelling place, but an art centre that is distinctly shut.
- 'La chocolaterie' never appears. Big disappointment.
Fortunately, we're treated to an impressive view over the city and the lake and a cosy, little restaurant at the top of the hill provides Swiss cheese and ducks.
The rest of the day sees a bimble through town, an attempted passport exchange with a man selling crepes, lake-side unicyclists on obstacle courses, an amazing children's play area (tested!) and the Olympic Museum, complete with giant, moving models of abs and various other body parts. The outdoor escalator particularly impresses: what better way to encourage people to participate in sport...
A characteristically hassled sprint back to the station and we're safely on our train, back in time for Plus Belle La Vie, France's favourite soap.
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