Sorry, gone skiing ...

Les Carroz

When I was growing up, skiing was something that wankers from Auckland did. (Plus Johny Irvine, who - after skiing off a bluff on Mount Taranaki and surviving - earned himself the nickname The Edge.) The rest of us stuck to more appropriate pursuits such as surf lifesaving and rugby. After 3 days in the high French Alps, however - and in particular after watching Ema ski down what appeared to be a vertical face of snow and ice with considerable style and panache - I feel I should address my bigotry on this front ...

Rugged looking Pepemobile

So, this volte face comes about because we have just returned from 3 days staying in a chalet in Les Carroz belonging to Natalie, an old mate of Em's. (For more on this, see this Snapfish link.) Carroz is in the Haute Savoie, a few hours drive from Grenoble in the general direction of the Swiss border. This week is school holiday time (notwithstanding which Rosalie, poor sod, has a page and a half of French verb conjugations to master plus mooooore @#!*ing maths from the NZ Correspondence School to wade through). The winter has been unseasonably snowless thus far, but the night before we left to drive to Carroz it absolutely ... well, what does snow do, actually? It doesn't really 'bucket' down, 'chuck' down or 'hose' down so much as 'fall down really quickly and silently and in very large quantities'. Well, it did this week, anyway, as a result of which (a) we just made it through before the roads became impassable to ageing Peugots without chains, and (b) there was plenty of snow on which we could make complete dicks of ourselves have a lovely time gliding gracefully down les pistes.

View from the chalet

Which, actually, is precisely what Em is able to do. First day, after she and Nat has spent an hour or so with Rosalie and I on the babies' novices' slope, they shot off up the mountain. (Cam kept the home fires burning and read Bram Stoker's 'Dracula' which, given the preponderance of snow, pine trees and mountains, seemed altogether appropriate.) And I mean up the mountain: to a point about 3,500 metres up, from which it can take the better part of some hours to ski down should one wish, ending with a 500 or 600 metre long damn near vertical slope.

Don't fall, you'll look like a dick

Meanwhile, back on the babies' beginners' bit, Rosalie was going like a bomb. Well, more like an arrow, really: straight, fast, and to the point. I was a little like an arrow, too - at least as far as the straight and quite fast bit goes. Sadly, there the similarity ended, because whereas arrows are generally pointed in a specific direction, I was guided by the timeless tactic of essentially closing my eyes and hoping I'd make it down without dismembering myself (or the babies novices). Rosalie enjoys the advantages bequeathed by youth: a certain fearlessness, a low centre of gravity, limited body mass ... I, on the other hand, have quite a low fearlessness threshold, a somewhat higher centre of gravity, and plenty of body mass to share around.

Don't look at Dad, he looks like a dick

But we had a fantastic time. Actually, Rosalie picked it up in very little time, and within a day or so she was turning and gliding and doing God knows what else with the best of them. I lack her finesse, but didn't disgrace myself. Much. Except perhaps on the second day, when Em and I migrated across to one of the nearby green pistes (i.e. the easiest ranked piste after the babies' initiates' one). My partner has more faith in me than I have in myself, as it didn't look all that green to me from the top, have to say. It looked very steep, in fact, and it was full of people flying in all directions, which might explain why I was suddenly gripped by the conviction that it really would be best if I simply got down as directly and as quickly as possible. Which I did, with a rictus grin plastered across my face and my tastefully retro black dancing pants flapping madly as I barrelled earthwards. It's possible I ended up in some bloke's back garden, but I can't be sure. Didn't fall over, though, which I think is important.

Day 3 (today) was a vast improvement. Rose spent most of the day up on the green/blue bits with Em, while I pottered around with the babies' wee tackers in the ski school getting the hang of the fairly essential basics of turning and stopping. Then I ventured back up onto the steep, scary bits - and fared ok. Neither Rosalie nor I wanted to wrap it up when it was time to go. And so I have come to realise, years after I should have, that it's not just wankers from Auckland who go skiiing ...

So, then we thought it would be a good idea to go to Switzerland, which was just a hop and skip down the road, really. We drove through Chamonix, then up a small mountain road to a pass where the border crossing was. These days, sadly, they won't give you a stamp on your passport, even if you ask nicely. It's all very European Union and Schengen, I'm afraid. However, the hot chocolate was very nice, and nowhere near as expensive as the ones we'd bought in Venice some weeks back, and the tackers can now say they've been to Switzerland. Then it was back down the mountains, a quick stop for French Maccas at Chamberry, and home to bed by 9.00 pm.

Been to Switzerland ...