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.
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