C'est la vie à Chamonix

First impressions of Switzerland (I flew into Geneva on my way to the French Alps): expensive watches, little dogs, and moon boots. Plus the fact that these little dogs (a.k.a. fake—as in not real dogs) were allowed inside the airport. Indeed, it took me only five minutes of seeing Paris Hilton-esque dog carriers and dogs themselves to begin fantasizing about strutting in with Leo, my yellow lab, hitting on all them bitches (forgive me) or better yet, having Leo and his crew—throw a few Newfoundlands and Great Danes in there—take Geneva by storm. Yet the Swiss like it quaint, and I can respect that. Now can I buy a vacation house here? (Uh, no Mr. Cunkelman, you'll need high-level authorization for that—may we suggest nearby Italy or France?)

I'll take France (Clooney you can have your Swiss watches). Chamonix, where I spent three nights and two days skiing, is not only the birth of extreme alpinism, it also does the French well. Wake up to a baguette with tea (note: dip the baguette in your tea bowl, DO NOT drink the tea), shred for the morning, stop on the deck of your resort for une baguette de rôtir le boeuf avec le fromage, shred the afternoon, and finish the day by lying on the sundeck soaking it all in. Of course, this is the spring skiing version (as I was told), because in January and February it "absolutely pukes." Wait a tick, isn't this the familiar "dude, should've been here _______" refrain? Well, as I like to think, I should be here now, and I am (was). Word. Pass the suntan cream.

Still, I should note that two days of skiing in Chamonix equals perhaps four days at most other areas in the states. That's because the base of the valley sits at 1000 meters, while the tops of the two highest lifts (the tram at Les Grand Montets and L'Aguille de Midi) push 4000. That's 9000 feet of vertical. For comparison, Whistler is 5000, Jackson Hole is 4000, Aspen is 3000, Mad River is 2000, and Nashoba Valley is 239. Granted, you can't ski all the way to the base anymore (Al Gore should have that fact on a slide, screw Greenland), but the contrast between the town and the heavens is so stark it's not stark. Indeed, Mont Blanc just feels like it's there even when it's so far up. Pictured below is le Mont itself (at 4,810 meters) rising above la ville de Chamonix.

Yet even before I harvested my first turn, Chamonix was, as the French say, ouvert pour moi. No sooner had I arrived at my hostel and dropped my bags, I was in les clubs de la ville, with all the others staying at the hostel. In the mix was a sizable group from my second home, England, as well as an Australian, an Indian, and a Norwegian ski instructor. I say these labels consciously because during the course of the night I became convinced, through conversations with them all, that labels suck. Allow me to explain.

Much of this line of thought came out of the "America vs. rest of the world" conversation that one is bound to have when you are the only American in, well, the rest of the world. You see, the point that one of my newfound co-thinkers made to me was that, outside of America, people do actually enjoy themselves for very long periods of time—six weeks at a minimum—by just picking it all up and saying, in this case, "that's it, I'm going to Chamonix." In her words, as we were looking out at the dance floor with 2 a.m. Eurotechno blasting, "these people here are actually enjoying it all, it's not a grind. In America, it's go to college, get a degree so you can get a job, and that's what you do, like it defines you. But the better definition is how you enjoy yourself, how you think when not under pressure [which we were doing at that exact moment] and not just where you're from and what you do for a job." To be fair, here I was, a highly privileged college student among those who may not (just guessing) enjoy studying philosophy at Colby and Oxford (which hence defines me as much as a ski vacation, but of course I don't have a job yet), but her comment got me thinking. So, instead of the mundane "Where are you from? What do you do?" questions which often lead to judgmental (and sometimes inaccurate) pigeonholing, here are my new top three questions to ask someone when you first meet them:

1) What is the first thing you think of when you wake up in the morning?
2) Assume that a) you invent God. Now, b) define God.
3) What is your greatest non-material (i.e. not snakes or heights) fear in life?

I may try whipping these out at the next St. Catz bop, but I'd probably scare some people. Reality can hurt sometimes.

But I digress. Back to harvesting la neige des Alpes! After my first day spent at Les Grand Montets (a.k.a. "Big Monies"), skiing with a very nice Polish couple (there I go again, shame Nick, shame) pictured below, and taking note of the most graphic stick figure signs ever (see below), I hired a guide for skiing La Vallée Blanche from the top of L'Aguille de Midi for the next day.

We met the group at the base of one of the world's most famous trams (Big Red you are still dear to my heart), put on our beacons and harnesses, and headed up 3841 meters at 9 a.m. into the clouds shrouding Mont Blanc. Now, hiring a guide is strongly recommended for La Vallée Blanche not because of the run itself but instead because of the hike down to where you step into your bindings. You see, our guide, Christophe, had all seven in our group tied together while he himself wore crampons and brought up the rear in case all seven dwarfs went ring around the rosy. Once you make it past the sketchy side-step down (whilst carrying skis, although next time I do it I'll wear a Helipro with my own beacon—hence no guide), and strap in on top of a shelf at the edge of a good 6000 foot cliff, it's all gravy, baby. You even get to ride back into town on a train. Pictured below is the hike down from the top of L'Aguille, myself and Christophe, looking back at L'Aguille after making it over the windswept shoulder (looks like something out of The Golden Compass), La Vallée Blanche in its most Vallée-ness, and the train back in the base of Chamonix.

That night, to celebrate a beautiful day on La Vallée Blanche, I went out to a restaurant in town for some fresh fish ('cause the Alpes are where you go for that) and to my surprise got the whole fish on my plate. Sensing my shock, the waiter looked at me and asked "Vous-pouvez le couper?" Eh, non, monsieur. Alas, he cut (effectively cleaned) the fish for me then, but I took close notes. You see, I'm off to Paris in four days, and I quite fancy picking up this skill. Then I can buy the whole fishes they sell in the Covered Market. Mmmmmmm.

Salut tout le monde! Trouvez votre passion et courez avec-le!

Nick