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Authors: Richard Blanchard
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of some alien force devouring the mountain. We keep coming so the machines keep eating the snow. Something in this expended effort makes me consider why we are skiing at all. It seems so childish when we are asking so much.
Thoughts of tomorrow invade my head. Can I remember how to ski? It is a decade now since I went for a disastrous two-week jaunt to California with Donna Hammond and her family. I skied well for a beginner but the bigger disaster was our emerging five-month long relationship: I think I was too needy and maybe she was too greedy. I hear Steve over-claiming his ski prowess from the back.
We zip through short pristine phosphorescent tunnels punched into the rock core. I noticed that the Chamonix ski map claims: âThe majesty of the mountains is within us.â More like we are within the majesty of the mountains. No one can quibble about the convenience the tunnels bring but you have to sigh at the result.
âHereâs Cham!â shouts Robert.
The pretty town centre reveals itself at the foot of the enclosing rock. Signs for Tabac, Cadeaux and Fondue are the first reminders of the language of this foreign clime. The road becomes a single lane past a Bowling Alley roundabout. We snake behind what looks like the main shopping street.
Whenever I arrive at a new place I see promising glimpses of a future history. Will that be our bar of choice? Will I drink too much there? Maybe I will throw up on the steps there? Will we have a big meal out there? Maybe Juliet and I will walk the main shopping street buying postcards? The driver slows as we pass the main SNCF train station on the right, signalling our arrival at the Hotel Genevieve.
âYou can all get out here!â The driver spits us and our belongings onto the pavement post haste.
C HAPTER 9
Dan 20.02
Alcohol lubricates the group dynamic. We have a fire to gather around in Le Caveau bar, the hotelâs local filling station.
I walk with a sullen Chris and a chirpy Juliet past the empty railway station, a chocolate-box design dwarfed by a soaring mountainous background of blackness. Its sweet appearance but lack of passengers creates a spooky redundant air.
âJust make it a couple eh!â says Chris, putting the reins on the evening without having taken a sip. He is really uncomfortable but I hope to show him they all have good souls.
âYouâre right, we have to get up and kitted out before ski school.â Juliet helps him.
Four lime green T-shirts scream out of the window in the bar ahead. Frost bites at my extremities, but they tingle more at the comforting prospect of warmth. Le Caveau seems to sit with a great aspect on the townâs activity from its five-foot high corner window; opposite the train station, Main Street and mountain range. It will have witnessed the craft of wood and leather skis fall to the mass production clatter of metal and resin. It will have witnessed an evolutionary passage of clientele, starting with the aristocratic European adventurer, regressing to the modern good-time-seeking hacker.
Inside, the bar has a comforting resonance after my weary day. Wooden floorboards worn down by ski boot plastic are covered in fresh sawdust for effect and stability.
âWe are just planning some mischief.â Max brings me into his conversation with Robert and Steve. Juliet has taken my order and arrives back with my Weiss lager causing them to re-evaluate their conversation. Seven lime green T-shirts alert our potential boisterousness to the Caveau drinkers but surprisingly unite us.
âHey lets have a toast.â Robert stands on the footrest of a high wooden bar stool. He clinks a beer glass with his Rolex to get our attention. Steve and Max hand out the champagne he has at the ready.
âA toast to the chicks of Chamonix. May you enjoy having me!â he guffaws. âOh I suppose we should toast Dan the man as well. Another fool bites the wedding dust. Raise those glasses.â
Thoughts of tomorrow invade my head. Can I remember how to ski? It is a decade now since I went for a disastrous two-week jaunt to California with Donna Hammond and her family. I skied well for a beginner but the bigger disaster was our emerging five-month long relationship: I think I was too needy and maybe she was too greedy. I hear Steve over-claiming his ski prowess from the back.
We zip through short pristine phosphorescent tunnels punched into the rock core. I noticed that the Chamonix ski map claims: âThe majesty of the mountains is within us.â More like we are within the majesty of the mountains. No one can quibble about the convenience the tunnels bring but you have to sigh at the result.
âHereâs Cham!â shouts Robert.
The pretty town centre reveals itself at the foot of the enclosing rock. Signs for Tabac, Cadeaux and Fondue are the first reminders of the language of this foreign clime. The road becomes a single lane past a Bowling Alley roundabout. We snake behind what looks like the main shopping street.
Whenever I arrive at a new place I see promising glimpses of a future history. Will that be our bar of choice? Will I drink too much there? Maybe I will throw up on the steps there? Will we have a big meal out there? Maybe Juliet and I will walk the main shopping street buying postcards? The driver slows as we pass the main SNCF train station on the right, signalling our arrival at the Hotel Genevieve.
âYou can all get out here!â The driver spits us and our belongings onto the pavement post haste.
C HAPTER 9
Dan 20.02
Alcohol lubricates the group dynamic. We have a fire to gather around in Le Caveau bar, the hotelâs local filling station.
I walk with a sullen Chris and a chirpy Juliet past the empty railway station, a chocolate-box design dwarfed by a soaring mountainous background of blackness. Its sweet appearance but lack of passengers creates a spooky redundant air.
âJust make it a couple eh!â says Chris, putting the reins on the evening without having taken a sip. He is really uncomfortable but I hope to show him they all have good souls.
âYouâre right, we have to get up and kitted out before ski school.â Juliet helps him.
Four lime green T-shirts scream out of the window in the bar ahead. Frost bites at my extremities, but they tingle more at the comforting prospect of warmth. Le Caveau seems to sit with a great aspect on the townâs activity from its five-foot high corner window; opposite the train station, Main Street and mountain range. It will have witnessed the craft of wood and leather skis fall to the mass production clatter of metal and resin. It will have witnessed an evolutionary passage of clientele, starting with the aristocratic European adventurer, regressing to the modern good-time-seeking hacker.
Inside, the bar has a comforting resonance after my weary day. Wooden floorboards worn down by ski boot plastic are covered in fresh sawdust for effect and stability.
âWe are just planning some mischief.â Max brings me into his conversation with Robert and Steve. Juliet has taken my order and arrives back with my Weiss lager causing them to re-evaluate their conversation. Seven lime green T-shirts alert our potential boisterousness to the Caveau drinkers but surprisingly unite us.
âHey lets have a toast.â Robert stands on the footrest of a high wooden bar stool. He clinks a beer glass with his Rolex to get our attention. Steve and Max hand out the champagne he has at the ready.
âA toast to the chicks of Chamonix. May you enjoy having me!â he guffaws. âOh I suppose we should toast Dan the man as well. Another fool bites the wedding dust. Raise those glasses.â
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