When I signed up for the gig, I'd imagined a winter wonderland. I liberated my snowboots from storage for the first time since our 2014/15 Iceland trip. Sadly, whether the result of global warming or a freak mild spell, I was to be mostly disappointed. The majority of my stay resembled what we've endured in Southern England all winter: cloudy, grey and around 5c/40f. Gloom is, however, somewhat more palatable when you're sitting in a bowl of dramatic Alpine peaks. With admirable timing, the one stretch of clear weather came with the rare blue-super moon. (Moons are blue when they are full for the second time in the same month, and super when they reach their closest possible point to the Earth.)Though I did have one weekend to play, the visit featured little sightseeing or dining out. This was truly going native: when not working I was on school runs, daily grocery shopping, helping with homework, cooking and binge-watching Netflix. If you want to know more about the tourist scene, search "Annecy" on this blog for earlier reports. Instead, here are some random observations about real life in Alpine France.
Call me Auntie Mame
Being an aunt (and, in this case, godmother) is a magnificent role. You get to do all the spoiling, earning exalted status as provider of treats and becoming confidant as the insider without the responsibility for discipline. You're generally rewarded with best behaviour: a kid as smart as my godson is not going to endanger this gravy train with tantrums. I discovered that nine is a particularly glorious age. He's starting to be grown up enough to have a decent conversation, but he's still young enough to cuddle. We went on a Lego voyage of discovery. I observed his prowess on scooter at the skate park and on skis up a mountain. I did my bit for American cultural imperialism, teaching him to blow bubbles out of his gumball (I was excellent at this, he informed me, because as an American I had been "in training all my life") and sing Take Me Out to The Ballgame. Satisfyingly, he believes the official words include "root, root, root for the Cardinals". I let him ride in the front seat and make movies with my iPhone.
The art of deferred concentration
I've always wondered at the energy and resilience of working mothers. I discovered yet another of their astonishing skills this trip: a particular discipline of will when it comes to concentration. My most productive hours are generally from about 3pm to 7pm. Once I down tools, I collapse. On this trip, my temporary duties included the afternoon school run. I had to break concentration at 4pm, tearing away from full engagement in something weighty. An hour and a half later, after hijinx with the kid and the required grocery shopping, it was time to end the break and get back to work. I found it an agonising effort, and I didn't always succeed. And yet, I realised, this is how most mums I know live their lives, able to switch work on and off in pockets throughout the day. Respect.
Ladies who lunch
Then again, I didn't encounter too many women trying to juggle kids and the corporate rat race in Annecy. This is not for lack of skill or desire. For all of the celebrated benefits of the European Union, tax harmonisation leaves a lot to be desired. My friends' social circle is primarily comprised of English expat professionals, mostly husbands working in Geneva and wives at home. The wives are typically well-educated, dynamic and ambitious, but their tax situation leaves little profit in the kinds of freelancing or long-distance part-time best suited to their situation. Technology allows flexible working; governmental red tape doesn't.
So these brilliant women channel their efforts into their kids, each other and "gig economy" strategies that pay cash. English lessons. AirB&B. EBay trading. I rather suspect that's one reason you'll find some staggeringly good restaurants for posh lunches in the small villages around Lake Annecy. We slipped out to Le Florilège one day. Three courses at fine-dining levels of sophistication for €22. The starter of pickled cabbage rolled into dainty pieces resembling sushi showed off their leanings towards Asian/French fusion, while a main of pork tenderloin reinforced the national reputation for sauces. A simple meringue with lemon curd and raspberries no doubt helped claw a profit margin from the reasonably priced lunch, but was delicious in its simplicity. It all made me wish I had planned more time off. My wallet and my waistline disagreed.The appeal of skiing
Growing up in Middle America, where parents usually only had two weeks of holiday a year, few families had the time to embrace both beaches and skiing. Each required long, expensive trips in opposite directions. The Ferraras were irredeemably linked to the beach. I couldn't understand why anyone would want to go on holiday to be cold. My mother found it inconceivable that people would lay out all that cash on the required gear, lift passes, etc., when the joys of the beach were essentially free once you got there. My one disastrous attempt at skiing while at university added the vice-like discomfort of ski boots, the horror of making a fool of myself in public and a take-away of aches and ugly bruises to my incomprehension. Given that experience was on a hill in central Michigan, spectacular landscape was not a mitigating factor.
The daily shop
After 10 days of living like a native, there seemed no bigger difference between France and home than the experience of grocery shopping. In England, massive supermarkets dominate the supply chain and delivery ... at least in my neighbourhood ... is the norm. Most people do a weekly shop, supplementing with bits from smaller stores as needed. There is some move back to specialist providers for things like milk and vegetables, but this is mostly amongst the affluent and arguably the delivery-to-your-door is as important as the product.
The French still prefer to shop every day. This is a necessity, friends tell me, because while they believe the fruit, veg and meat to be of higher quality than in England, it all goes off faster. And though you'll find big supermarkets here, specialist shops still abound. Not far from my friends' is the Tomme & Beaufort, an entire shop dedicated to selling two kinds of local cheese. They also have select cabinets of local wine, dairy, charcuterie and meat, but the star is definitely those wheels of golden goodness, marketed with an attention to terroir that reminded me of fine wines. (It's true. The winter Beaufort tastes totally different from the summer version because of the difference in the grass the cows eat.) You'd think such a place would be mostly for tourists, but on a Friday night after work it was packed with locals picking up supplies for that night's fondue.
The ultimate example of the specialist shop, of course, is the bakery. The greatest tragedy in San Jorioz this winter is the shuttering of their local, which was also an impressive pastry shop and chocolatier. It's 80-year-old proprietress had finally decided to retire and nobody in the family fancied the nocturnal hours of a French baker. Despite that loss, my friends can still call in to two specialist bakeries within the distance I travel to Tesco for what they pass off as an artisan loaf. Point to France for that one.
The Crown
We don't have Netflix at home. With the mass of other viewing options my husband has bought in, the only time I've missed it is when reading reviews of The Crown. Imagine my delight at discovering that my friends had Netflix, but had somehow not managed to consume the acclaimed production. A ten-day visit, two series to get through ... let the binge watching begin!
It's as good as everyone says. As a committed royalist I was anxious. Would drama thrust the family into a bad light? Not at all. It's much like Stephen Frear's film The Queen, where real history blends with imagined insight into distinctly sympathetic and human people. No wonder, it turns out, since the writer ... Peter Morgan ... is the same on both. The casting of both actors and sets is magnificent. Perhaps my greatest joy was finding that the whole story is as much about Philip as Elizabeth. Matt Smith, who I never really warmed to as Dr. Who, is wonderful in the role, able to convey an impressive range of emotion without saying a word.
It was almost as much fun as hanging out with a nine-year-old. Now back home, I'm missing him desperately. Though I'm appreciating the quiet and the uninterrupted afternoons.
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