When They Go Low, We Climb High

To start off this post, I would like to proudly announce that I am basically an Olympic athlete (maybe junior varsity version). I know, Mom. You just laughed so hard you fell off of the chair and are now rolling around on the floor, getting covered in dog hair and scaring Ace. But my claim, however seemingly lofty, is true. You see, this little American is a proud conqueror of the infamous (not really, but just let me live out my fantasies) Aiguilles Rouges (which translates to red needles). My medal? Some stunning photos of my tomato-red face and the crystal-clear Lac Blanc.

On Samedi (Saturday) the 8th, my host parents and I woke up early to leave the house by 8:30. They were eager to beat the heat and crowds, and I was still young, naive, and eager to please. I set my alarm for 7:45, ate a quick breakfast, bundled up for the chilly temperatures at altitude, and slid into the back seat at 8:20. The day was off to an efficient and promising start.

We arrived at the mountain a few minutes before 9:00, and I was instantly extremely grateful for my many layers, which had seemed excessive when the wind was not whipping through my skin and down to the very bone marrow of my extremities. We rode the téléphérique (cable car) up to the base of the winding chemin (path), looking down through the glass walls at the trees and golf holes that exchanged for barren rocks and shrubs as the machine flew along the line up the mountain.

I will spare you the gory details of my Herculean journey up the (really not that difficult) mountain, but the short version is that, with the help of half of a bottle of water and a whole lot of damaged ego and fingernails, I reached the top of the mountain with both of my lungs still intact.

I will never be able to describe the peerless feeling of euphoria and relief that washed over my body when I reached the top of that mountain. The lake was the most beautiful water I had ever seen, the air the most fresh I had ever inhaled, the coffee the richest on which I had ever burned my tongue, and the ham, cheese, and bread the most satisfying meal I had ever consumed. Somehow, the ecstasy of sitting on top of the summit made the toil of the climb worth every breathless, thigh-burning second.

After filling our lungs and stomachs, my host parents and I headed down the mountain, following a different route that wound around the slope via narrower trails. This path was less steep, but longer and, surprisingly, more exhausting for me. Perhaps the lack adrenaline-triggering slipping rocks or an obvious end goal made the trip down more tedious and painful than the ascent (or, more probably, my energy had already been spent on the trek to the top); whatever the reason, I found my legs feeling shaky and weak much more frequently on the way down than up.

After a much more crowded ride down on the téléphérique, this time complete with some singing Italians, we were finally back in the car and on the way home. Speaking French is hard. Hiking while speaking French is harder. I am sure that it is very understandable that this day's story ends here, as I slept for the ride home and was not extremely exciting for the rest of the evening. I believe la grande finale was a hot shower and an early bed time.

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A week later, after five days of classes, unfairly delicious and affordable school lunches, and sneaky twenty minute break-time naps, the weekend rolled around once more. Samedi the 15th had decidedly less athletic plans than the previous Saturday's itinerary: my host mother and I drove to the samedi marché (market) in Sallanches to purchase some fresh produce, cheese, and browse the picturesque stalls. I was delighted to find a copy of Fahrenheit 451 in a local bookstore of our way to the marché, as I need to own the book in order to properly annotate it for my French class. After picking up that lucky find, we meandered through the rows of vendors, sampling and buying fresh fruit and cheeses.

With our arms full of raisins (grapes) and prunes (plums), we made our way to the nearby bibliothèque (library) to show practice walking the path from the train station. If I wish, I can now take the train from the station near my school to the station in Sallanches to visit the beautiful and spacious bibliothèque after school. Just in case, I located a copy of Fahrenheit 451 in English. One never knows.

That afternoon, I took a nap (quelle surprise), did some homework, and Facetimed my dog and family (but mostly my dog), as well as a few friends with whom I had not spoken in what felt like ages. Time passes so quickly here, so I am always astonished to hear about all that has happened back home. Hearing the voices of the people I love hurts and soothes at the same time, but I continue to crave it every Saturday night.

Today, dimanche (Sunday) the 16th, my host parents and I attended a Rotary picnic, blazer and all, to introduce potential Rotary outbounds to the experience and club leaders. Before we left the house, my host mother and I burst out laughing when we realized my "uncanny" resemblance to the snazzily-dressed characters in the film Men in Black. You will have to look very hard here to spot the difference, but I believe in you, Dear Reader.

The picnic was lovely, despite the excessive insulation of my ebony blazer. I was elated to discover that I was understanding French teenagers whom I had not seen since the UTMB much better than I had the week before. My increased comprehension is likely due to my newfound "verlan" vocabulary (Meuf! Ouf! Chelou! Relou! Teuf!). My brownies, which I had made Friday night after a week-long search for suitable French substitutes for American ingredients, were a decided hit. Even the French adults, a notoriously tough crowd, complemented the chocolatey recette (recipe), so congratulations to my great-grandmother and her successful brownie recipe.

The other exchange students took more photos with our flags (I didn't have mine. Oops.) and blazers, ate, talked, and bonded over awkward misunderstandings of common names and pronunciations (did you know that the French, German, and English ways of saying Aladdin are all very distinctly different?).

After bidding everyone au revoir, my host parents and I headed home for the evening. After resting my poor cerveau (brain) to recover from the afternoon's conversation, I rallied to eat some delicious potimarron (a type of squash) soup and finish my homework. Lundi (Monday), the week of tests begins, and so I plan to get to bed early tonight to minimize the damage tomorrow will surely bring. For me, tests are stressful even when they are in English. I am fairly certain that if this week doesn't kill me, I am as close to immortal as they get.

If you made it all the way down to this line, bravo! I am sure that my post is not nearly as exciting as the many other things that you could be doing, like brushing your teeth or emptying the compost. Thank you for sticking with it, and I am sending so so much love home to the States.

Gros bisous, Julia

P.S. Here is a photo of me Facetiming Ace. Just because this is not fine journalism and I like to keep it that way.

Image:

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