Morzine, all over the place

My last day in Morzine, in the Haute Savoie of France. And guess what? I wake up to sunshine! I don't know that I ever had such a glorious weather break during my travels. Consistent perfection is hard to come by. So what would you do on your last day of vacation? Repeat a favorite? Reach for something new? Do nothing, because back home you imagined that there would be days when you would do nothing? 

Breakfast as you know is my big decision making moment here. And sure enough, right when I sit down to my morning meal, I feel the tug to do something new one last time. I've hopped around the various mountains, the gondolas, the cross country trails, and memorably -- I hiked a trail that put me on a cloud of quiet beauty, without any of that frenzy that comes with downhill ski visitors. Did I miss out on anything? Well, there's THE lake. The one I aimed for but missed completely. The one that's written up in the booklet. The one whose name I now remember -- Lake de Montriond.

Should I take my skis? It is possible to do some cross country stuff there. Yet once again I opt to leave them home. The long loop past the lake has several interesting curves and detours. you can't do them if you're on skis. Skis stay home.

And I eat a more modest breakfast. I'm winding down my extravagance! There will soon come a day when it will be a meal of a bowl of oatmeal or one muffin. In good times -- one croissant. I need to reacquaint myself with that smaller meal again. So, one egg, in a cup, one croissant. (And some yogurt and fruit -- that's a given, no matter where I am.)

And then I take my poles, grab my sun screen and my camera and head down to the lower, older section of Morzine.

From there, a bus will take me to the tip of the lake.

I expected it to be an empty bus,  like all previous buses I've ridden here, but it begins to fill. With skiers. Most of them British. Why? Well, beyond the lake there is yet another gondola going up yet another mountain. They're heading there. Maybe it's a favorite among visitors from the Isles. Maybe it plays British rock at the base. In any case,  it's an annoying crowd. Not all, but many of the young British skiers flaunt the mask mandate where it's still in place here (like on buses). I get it -- the UK has long dropped any and all Covid mandates and precautions. But this is France. When the bus driver refuses to let one guy on until he puts on his mask, the young man digs out some scarf thing from his back pack, pulls it up, and then down again once he is seated. His buddies do the same.

British young men get a bad rap from me in travel. They are, to me, the current Ryan Air menace. Wherever Ryan Air flies, be prepared for their arrival. In Krakow. In Prague. In Geneva, and therefore Morzine. They drink copious amounts of beer, sometimes spiked with things that come in little bottles. They party late. Not only do they brag about this on the bus, but, too, I hear them outside as I stay up late working on my post. They don't hide their habits.

It's always tough to be included in a demographic that's spewing bad behaviors abroad and so I feel empathy for all the British people who do not feel they have to dominate spaces they visit. There are many, many UK residents and visitors in France and to date, they've been welcomed as really the most perfect guests. (Except for their weird eating habits that the French do not understand  and tendency to turn pink in the sun.) But college aged men traveling together seem to bring with them trouble. Ah well -- I have none at my hotel. They don't especially seek out places where meals are 100% local dishes, and pouring little pocketed bottles of strong stuff into your beer is discouraged.

I get off at Lac de Montriond, happily leaving all those skiers behind. The bus pulls away, I exhale.

Now about the lake.

I've said this before -- a lake in winter just looks white. Like a meadow that hasn't yet received permission to grow colorful flowers. A blank slate. 

Still, Lac de Montriond is in a very attractive spot. The cliffs to one side are dramatic and do impart an aura of Canada wild. (That is in fact the way the booklet describes it here: Canada-like wilderness.)

But I notice something else: it is damn cold on the path that weaves to the side. For the first time since I came here, I feel chilled. I brought with me my light gloves -- my fingers now are freezing. I skipped a sweater knowing that there would be sunshine and I should therefore feel as hot as I felt the other days at noon. But where is the sun?

Oh, over there! Behind the cliffs.

Without the sun, the walk is hard to truly enjoy. 

At the other end of it, I consider my options. I go up into the forest a little, but the path is completely shady. And cold.

I see that there is a little restaurant here as well. There are no chairs outside. Without sunshine, there can be no swing back chair dining in the open. Going in on a sunny day doesn't tempt me. Even the promise of a brand new blueberry tart doesn't tempt me. 

I don't continue. Instead, I turn around and follow alongside the lake again, appreciating the one or two sunny spots along the way, and I go up on the road and catch the bus back to Morzine. This time I get off by this pedestrian bridge (by the super-morzine gondola):

I did not think I would have problems crossing it, but the darn thing sways with the wind. Woosh, rock, sway. Does the George Washington Bridge sway too? No? I didn't think so! This one does.

On the other side of it is the gondola station. I almost want to hop on now: the vision of that little cafe where I bought a cappucino on my Avoriaz excursion is so strong! But I don't have a valid pass for this gondola anymore. It would be a very expensive cappucino were I to bay a day ticket to ride up for some sunshine and coffee.

But I DO still have a pass for the other Morzine gondola! The one I took up the first full day here. 

And so this is how I fit in a bit of skiing: I really do want a parting ski run, and I really want some sunshine. Preferably warm sunshine , hitting me in all places where I have rubbed on some sun screen.

I pick up my ski paraphernalia at the hotel, give a nod to the musicians just outside...

 

 

 

...And then hop onto the (empty) gondola. And I do smile at the kid skiers up there. It's a popular place for ski schools and many are ending their vacation group lessons today. Prizes are given out (stickers). The atmosphere is jovial.

The future speed demons of the slopes! May you prosper and slow down occasionally in life.

I thought I'd find one of my cross country trails and show off to myself how strong I am after a week of both hiking and skiing. But I missed the turn off and the paths were still slick and icy and I thought -- why continue?

 

 

Why indeed! So instead, I ski up to Le Vaffieu -- the restaurant high in the hills that gave me my first blueberry tart here. I don't ask for that tart today, because Le Vaffieu also gave me one of the best Tartine Chevres ever! That opened faced goat cheese sandwich is often my go to lunch choice in France, including  when I am in Paris, but the one I had on the mountain was so awesome, I wanted to repeat it. Oftentimes, the bread is too hard or the cheese is too melted. This one really was perfect. And it was perfect today as well. I pulled out a little table next to a swing back chair, with a view of that distant from here Mt Blanc...

And I thought -- this is a warm fuzzy moment I want to keep with me. I even ordered the white Savoie wine to complete the wonderfulness. You see it on the tray? Well, that was the last anyone will have seen it, since I managed to bump the table immediately after, and so the wine spilled onto my backpack. It now smells of Savoie wine. There could be worse things to bring home than the smell of Savoie wine.

After a very wonderful half hour in that chair, listening to two French families in the background discuss something that was important to them and seemed so trivial to me, I got up and skied down to the gondola. And this was a good run: a long downhill incline, shared with beginning skiers (which for cross country boards is perfect), with plenty of snow that felt for once like snow rather than packed ice particles.

 And here's another good thing: I had a little time still to do what I've wanted to do all week long: sit on my little balcony back at the hotel in their comfy chair and close my eyes and do nothing at all. It didn't last, but still, I felt  my cup to be very full indeed. (Waiting for me inside -- a cappuccino. Because I'm feeling way too dozy with all those sunshine minutes and moments of relaxation.)

Evening dinner. Last one at Le Samoyede. Incredible meal. The foie gras maison stands out, laced as it was with honeyed spice bread. And the fish -- perfectly prepared. You know, I used to be a foodie when it was not yet fashionable to be that, and I sort of dropped off to the side in the last decade or two. Ed isn't going to fuss about the sauces I labor over, or the perfect presentation of fish. But every once in a while, I'm sucked into the world of great food, prepared by artists of the kitchen and I recognize all the nuanced difficulties and I take in the markers of success. Inadvertently, I stumbled onto this kitchen in this rather fresh and honest family hotel in the mountains, and every dinner has been an exquisite reminder of what it means to take great care with the ingredients this planet provides for us. So much talent there is in so many kitchens! I am grateful that I got to sample Alexandre's for at least this one week.

Tomorrow morning I leave for Geneva. I'll be there for just one night. On Sunday, I'll be reunited with the chickens, and the cats, and Ed. 

For one last time, goodnight from the Alpine village of Morzine. I can only wish that the peace I felt here could spread to every corner of the planet. To the people of Ukraine. To all those who are in a daze of worry right now.

With love...