Tag: French Sabbatical

In my sports experience, there is nothing like it. I encourage you to visit Canada and say these two words, “Playoff Hockey” and judge the results for yourself. At its finest, for me hockey is the most entertaining sport to watch. It’s fast and hard-hitting, yes, but it requires grace and coordination, too. And the playing surface is small enough to easily see all of the action. As I said when I was a kid, “Hockey is my favorite sport.”

As I mentioned way back in early October, I was literally stunned to learn that Nantes has an ice hockey team. I just did not expect to find this in France, let alone four tram stops from our house. We missed their first playoff game last Saturday, a game in which the Nantes team, the Corsaires, won 7-1. Now they are in the second round, with their next game scheduled for Saturday night. I fully intend to be there.

Today’s photo is of the sign outside the arena promoting Saturday night’s game. The opponent is Annecy, a town in the French Alps (and a possible site for the 2018 Winter Olympics). Had I known we were so close last week, I might have suggested a scouting trip…

“Printemps” is French for spring. And walking home from taking Ella to school this morning, I spotted some workers prettying up the round-about near our tram stop, less than 350 steps from our front door (remember, I have a pedometer). I know it’s hard to see them with this cell phone quality photo, but click on it to see a bigger version. Anyway, I’ve seen flowers planted in all sorts of public places around town. This is serious work, as I think it is in any city. But somehow it seems higher on the To-do list in Nantes than in Seattle. Maybe I just have the time to notice it more?

And, yes, that’s my beloved Ligne 2 (Line 2) of the tram heading toward our stop. Reviewing this picture I started thinking, “If Ligne 2 was a woman I’d ask her to marry me.” Then I thought, “Wait a second, I’m already married!” Then I saw the men planting flowers and thought, “That’s right, it’s spring, the season of romance,” and realized that I was just letting the longer days and warmer temperatures carry me away. I forgave myself, but made a mental note that perhaps I should be getting some flowers for Melinda.

Yes, so I’ve been hinting at this incredible dinner we had with the Boudeaus last Tuesday night, the one in which to get to the restaurant we had to put Romain and Manon in the back of the magic car, the Boudeau taxi. Earlier in the day, Laurent and Frédérique pointed out the restaurant to Melinda, Chloe and Ella from high above it, on the ski slopes. Location-wise, it’s about halfway between Les Carroz and Flaine, kind of out in the middle of nowhere, although there is a ski lift next to it and you can ski through a tunnel under the road right by it, too. The restaurant is called Chalet Les Molliets and their speciality is cheese.

Chloe and Ella ordered what I would call traditional fondue. They were served a huge basket of bite-sized pieces of bread and plates filled with thinly sliced meat. Then a big pot of bubbling hot cheese was delivered and placed in front of them. They would dip the bread in the melted cheese, transfer it to their plates and then mix in the meats as they desired. Laurent, Frédérique, Melinda and I all ordered the same thing, the name of which I cannot remember. It involved having a HUGE bowl of cooked potatoes delivered, along with plates filled with thinly sliced meats and trays of cheese. A massive burning hot metal device was placed in front of us on our table, a cheese tray fitting perfectly in a slot on its side, one at a time. So we’d take turns melting a layer of cheese on our trays and then pouring it on our potatoes, meats and bread. As the meal ensued, we got warmer (it gets hot in the restaurant with all these burning hot cheese melters on people’s tables) and fuller.

Today’s photo features the raclette cheese and its heater, what was ordered by Manon and Romain. That’s the heating element on the right on the cheese, momentarily moved slightly away from the heater so Romain can slide some melted cheese onto his plate, on the left.

I’m getting hungry just thinking about it, and am imagining the horror on my brother’s face when he reads this post. Funny, I feel a strange satisfaction considering both of these things.

It’s funny for us to realize that returning to our Nantes house after two weeks away feels like coming home. In fact, it is EXACTLY like coming home. But it’s odd, considering our real home is in Seattle. Yet here we are feeling so much at home in Nantes, both in the city and in our house.

For instance, it felt great to sleep in own our beds last night. Everyone knows how comfortable this is, returning to one’s own bed, what with everything about it being so familiar. It’s one of the great things about vacations, and on both sides of them. On vacation you get the wonderful newness and change of pace. And then back home you get the comfort of familiarity. Similarly, Melinda and I hopped on the tram this morning to ride into town. I got a little giddy hearing the familiar recorded voice call out the stops. Silly, I know.

What is also interesting when returning home after being away is to see the changes made. Life goes on without you, it turns out. In our case, the facelift of our neighborhood grocery store continues. The big change is the black paint and the gray posts, adding to the elegance of the new entry. We are curious to see what will be attached to those vertical studs pointing to the sky on the left side of the photo.

Hmmm… I wonder what it will be like to go home to Seattle in July. I wonder what it will be like to sleep in our Seattle beds. I wonder what changes will have been made in our absence. But I don’t want to think too much about that. There is too much living yet to do here at home in Nantes!

This photo is from Tuesday night when the 8 of us went out for the cheese-related dinner I mentioned before (and of which I still plan to post a picture here – perhaps next week). The title of today’s post refers to two things, the fact that all 8 of us all fit into the Boudeau’s car that night (see the picture for a little story about HOW we all fit into the Boudeau’s car), and the fact that on the day we arrived in France last July, with all of ours huge bags, we managed to fit everyone and our bags in two cars, mostly because the car in today’s picture is the MAGIC CAR (la voiture magique).

Actually, la voiture magique has another name, le Taxi Boudeau being the other. This has to do with all the times Laurent has schlepped us around. For instance, when we arrived in Les Carroz last Saturday, Laurent met us at the bus stop. He pulled up on the curb to pick up us and our bags, hopped out of the car and exclaimed, “Taxi Boudeau!” A police officer heard this exclamation and came over to inquire about Laurent’s status as a taxi driver, given his car is not so marked. Laurent had to do some fast-talking.

So, yes, the car is both magic (think Hermione’s bag in the recent Harry Potter movie) and a taxi. But the magic all stems from the quality of the Boudeaus as a family. Just look at the big smiles on Manon’s and Romain’s faces, only too happy to be crammed in the back of the car. The big question Laurent and I had upon our return to the Les Carroz apartment on Tuesday night was whether or not we should let them out again. They looked so happy back there.

You’d think Manon’s aim might be a little better than this, given Laurent’s point-blank status. Clearly, that snowball is going to miss him. Instead, though, I am attributing this to Laurent’s super-fast fatherly reflexes, his left hand deftly coming up to knock Manon’s throwing arm off-target. We fathers do need to stick together, hence the credit going to Laurent (besides, Manon needs an excuse).

This photo was taken at lunchtime today during a break from the gang’s final day of skiing. Melinda and Ella departed early, heading back to Les Carroz to meet up with me. That left Chloe, Manon, Frédérique and Laurent to fend for themselves, and the fending involved a snowball fight. From what I’ve gathered, Laurent was a common target throughout the week and rarely, if ever, retaliated. There is another photo from a few days ago in which he is sitting quietly eating his lunch, snowballs raining down upon him. So in paragraph one above I imply he has something akin to black belt status. And in this paragraph I am suggesting he has the patience and concentration of a Shaolin monk.

Switching gears, I’m writing inside the apartment an hour or so before our last dinner in Les Carroz. Manon and Frédérique are folding sheets. Laurent and Melinda are transferring photos from the Boudeau’s camera to Melinda’s computer so we can have them for our family archive. Ella is packing and Chloe is taking a shower. It’s that melancholic time in which you know your vacation is just about over. Before you is the packing and cleaning, and, hopefully, one more little blast of vacation fun, a bonus, if you’ve planned well.

Our bonus begins shortly with the apéritif, courtesy of Laurent. It involves saucisson and red wine. Ah…

Read the title of today’s blog posting carefully. Do you hear my first name in it and not just a World War II reference? If so, you will start to understand the terrific pun Laurent made in English today, so good that I made it the title. I’ll try to explain it here, but, like most puns, to fully get it you probably needed to be present with us over the last couple of days.

First, on our walk yesterday, I told Laurent of my interest in visiting Normandy and the D-Day beaches before we leave France. Now temporarily file that little bit of trivia.

Second, at dinner last night Manon made an impassioned speech in English in which she asked me to join the rest of the group in the nearby town of Flaine for lunch today. They would all ski there, of course, following their normal route, one which takes them to high elevations and provides some of the loveliest views in the Alps. For me, this would involve being the first out of the apartment in order to catch the morning bus to Flaine from Les Carroz, a 35 minute ride along a steep, winding road through the mountains. Once in Flaine, I’d wait for them to arrive and then, based on Manon’s proposal, accompany them on a 10-15 minute ride in the “Grandes Platieres” télécabine. Yes, she was suggesting I dangle above the ground supported by nothing but flimsy cables in order to get a view of Mt. Blanc.

Did I mention I don’t like heights. I mean, I really don’t like heights. I get all weak in the knees and lightheaded (kind of like meeting Melinda for the first time?).

Anyway, I did it. I took the mountain bus to Flaine, trying all the way not to look over the side of the road (which is harder to do when the bus driver is busy passing little sports cars on the straightaways). I hung out in Flaine until Melinda called. And I let them convince me to ride the “Grandes Platieres” télécabine. The ride up wasn’t so bad, packed as I was with my entire family, the Boudeaus, and several skiers not the least bit nervous about the experience of being in a tiny box floating through the sky. But let me just say that the ride down was somewhat tortuous, as you might gather if you carefully study my face in this self-portrait taken about a third of the way down. Ella came with me, which was nice, but it was just the two of us in this cabin intended for 2 or 3 thousand, I think. And you kind of start to sway at times. And you’re really high up. And every so often you come to a place where the cables shake and make a loud noise, probably the same sound they’d make just before snapping. And you’re really high up (oh, I said that already). And it’s a long way down. And below you are trees and rocks (and the little bitty town of Flaine). And you’re swaying and stuff.

So, you see, when we all were safely back in the apartment late this afternoon, Laurent christened today as “Andy Day.” “And D-Day.” Get it?

Melinda reached out to take this picture of today’s skiers this morning while they were riding a télésiege (chair lift) that can seat 6 across. Yes, you are correct in noticing that Laurent and Romain are absent. Of course I’m not there because I’ve never in my life been on a télésiege, or a télécabine, or a téléski, or a télé-fill-in-the-blank, for that matter. Well, come to think of it, I have been on the telephone and even on the television, but both of those words are missing the cute little French accent marks above the letter E.

You might say I’ve digressed.

Laurent took Romain to Geneva today so he could catch a plane back home to Nantes. School keeps Romain busy and with it resuming on Monday he wanted some focused study time in an empty house in order to be as productive as possible. I would have said that the car trip to Geneva from Les Carroz is 45 minutes, but Laurent returned to Les Carroz a little late and with a story to tell. At the France-Switzerland border he was stopped and told he needed to pay a 40 Euro toll to continue on the road to the Geneva airport. He balked at that, turned around, and took a path through France that doubled the travel time but saved him the 40 Euro toll.

The short of all of this is that the skiers who departed from our apartment this morning were female. Ella again skied until just after lunch, then rested in the apartment. I did a little reading and then went for a 3 mile run before meeting up with Ella. Once Laurent returned, he took me for a little walk before we sat down in the afternoon sun for a beer.

On a side note, noticeably absent from the blog so far is anything having to do with last night’s incredible dinner. We went out to a restaurant that serves melted cheese in a variety of styles and fashions. If I don’t say more about this soon, I at least want to have this record of last night’s dining experience here, dedicated to my cheese-hating brother, Scott.

I hadn’t really considered the expression “French juice” until I wrote it as today’s title. But something about it seems quite apt. “French juice,” at least the stereotype of what comes to MY mind when I think of it, is wine. And, yes, in the grocery store at Les Carroz I found these “French juice” boxes on the top shelf, between a Riesling, as you can see on the left, and something I did not recognize on the right. Not only did I take this photo of the “French juice” boxes, I had to pick them up to inspect them. What was I looking for? I bet you know. And the answer is no, there were no straws.

As is our method of operation, the rest of the gang left just before 10 this morning to ski (Ella was with them today before reconnecting with me after lunch to relax and nurse her cold). This leaves me to my own devices for several hours. So picture this. I have solitary access to an apartment in the French Alps for several hours each day. Yes, it’s pretty darn incredible, especially with the sun shining brightly as it has done each day so far. I do some reading and a lot of writing, especially as it pertains to my kindness classes. I go for long walks in the town and yesterday even went for a 30 minute jog. I explore the stores, especially the grocery stores, which allows me to discover things like “French juice” boxes.

Speaking of “French juice,” what a gift it is to be living for a week with Laurent and his ability to select delicious red wines. I’ve never been much of a wine drinker but I can see that hanging out with Laurent would change that. I might just learn something (especially if I had a base on which to build it). Each day he has gone to the grocery store and studied, studied, studied the extensive selection, ultimately choosing something divine. Interestingly, I’ve not seen him even give the “French juice” boxes a first look.

I’ll call that Lesson #1.

That’s Chloe, Manon, Romain, Laurent and Frédérique. Not pictured are Melinda, the photographer, as well as Ella and me. Ella isn’t in the photo because she’s come down with a nasty cold and stayed in the apartment all day. In fact, she slept for most of the afternoon, afterwards claiming that she hasn’t taken a nap like that since she was 7 years-old. I’m not pictured because, well, I don’t ski. I know this is hard to understand, especially if you know Melinda and the entire Shaw family. I try to explain it as having something to do with being born in Nebraska, but somehow that explanation doesn’t always stand up. When I try to add in that it has to do with my sore knees, people start playing tiny violins with their fingers (I hate that). The truth is, I have no explanation.

So today’s photo was taken at lunchtime or what is referred to here as le pique-nique (yes, picnic or outdoor lunch). This photogenic crew had been skiing for a couple of hours before taking a break. They left Les Carroz in the fog and emerged here above the town of Flaine in the sunshine. The number of ski runs in this area is astounding, literally dozens and spread out over a vast amount of space. For instance, our beloved skiers left today from Les Carroz (5 minutes from our apartment, btw), got pulled a short distance on something called a “téléski” (pomalift) to get to another something called a “télécabine” (what might best translate as a gondola – this one fits 8 people and looks like a Disneyland ride to me). They exited the télécabine and skied toward the ski area of Samoens. From Samoens they took a télésiege (ski lift), then skied a short distance to yet another télésiege. This one took them further up a mountain where they exited and took a long ski run to the ski area of Flaine. They took still another télésiege up above Flaine, skied a short distance, then stopped for lunch and this photo.

Got it? I’m not sure I do and Frédérique just showed me using a map.