After more than a month on hiatus–most of which I spent back home–I'm back to chronicling my adventures in Denmark and Europe. I was glad for the chance to see some of you while I was back in NC, and sorry to miss those that I didn't.
After finishing my final exam for the first semester last Wednesday, which was more of a presentation of my research project than a test, I hopped a flight to France to visit a friend from college who is working for a year in Grenoble. Our plan was to take advantage of Grenoble's proximity to the legendary French Alps and spend as much time as possible skiing. I have to say, I was somewhat apprehensive about this. Growing up in North Carolina, I didn't spend a whole lot of time on the slopes and as much as I love the Appalachians, conditions at Sugar Mountain and Wintergreen are a far cry from L'Alpe d'Huez and Chamonix. Nevertheless, I was ready to tumble down mountains all weekend, if necessary.
When I got in Thursday evening (Swiss Airlines serves complimentary chocolates that beat the hell out of anything Hershey makes!) my friend Ian told me that the French family he is staying with had rented a 24-bed Chalet with three other families for the weekend, and we were invited to tag along. We would be leaving Saturday morning, skiing that afternoon and the following day, before coming back Saturday night. With what was sure to be an interesting culture experience to look forward to, we decided to whet our Alpine appetites Friday at a resort just outside of town.
It became apparent very quickly that whatever skiing knowledge I had once garnished from EYC and AP Physics class trips had completely deserted me, and I relegated myself to the bunny slopes for most of the morning. By early afternoon, I judged myself ready for some steeper runs, and was almost to the bottom of my first attempt when I collided, at some speed, with another skier. He seemed OK, but appeared to speak only what I guessed was French. I felt fine, but then noticed that a little patch of snow beneath where my face had landed had turned a reddish hue. It was then that I discovered my companion knew at least one English word: Medical.
One kindly French doctor, 13 stitches and 285 Euros-I'm-praying-my-Danish-insurance-will-cover later, the cut under my right eye was closed and bandaged and I was back on the bunny slopes.
Early the next morning, Ian, myself and Ian's French host-family (two parents, two boys ages 9 and 14) piled into a Romanian-built Dacia Logan and drove two hours into the French Alps to the small village of Bonneval-sur-Arc. After a few wrong turns and the host family politely explaining to Ian that they preferred using maps to his iPhone's directional application, we arrived at the Chalet, which turned out to be a converted farmhouse deep in a snow covered valley. There's an illustration of it under "picturesque" in your dictionary. After an (injury-free) afternoon of skiing, we returned to find the other families had arrived. I never did get a handle on how many people were staying at the Chalet, but it was certainly close to twenty, two-thirds of whom were children ranging in age from 8 to 19. The eldest, a medical student looking to continue his studies in Toronto next year, was the only person in the house other than Ian's host parents who seemed to speak much English.
Through a combination of halting English, the 10 French words I know, and ample translation, I chatted with our Chalet-mates and discovered, among other things, that we were only a few kilometers from the Italian border and that several people present were big Tony Hillerman fans. As we talked, tray after tray of hors d'oeuvres appeared and were promptly devoured. Dinner featured assorted cheeses which one placed on little trays and stuck into heating devices located at the center of the table. Once melted, the cheeses could be poured over fresh-baked potatoes and thinly sliced meats and washed down with a glass of fine Bordeaux. For desert: a bowl of fruit, a French king-cake complete with encapsulated bean and more wine.
On Sunday, our final day in the Alps, I finally improved enough skill-wise, and recovered enough confidence-wise, to try some advanced routes on my skis. Now able to carve my way down slopes, though without anything approaching the elegance of the French alpinists, I ended the weekend with no further damage to my body, although I almost lost a rented ski in huge snow drift after an ill-advised foray off the groomed course.
I am now back in Copenhagen and set to start my second (and final!?) semester a week from today (Monday). Looking back, spending time with a foreign family is infinitely superior to any other means of cultural exploration, and any culture that has made its primary endeavor the perfection of cheese, wine and mountain-top first aid is worthy of admiration.
