Morzine, change of pace

One of the great luxuries of solo travel is the freedom that you have to set each day. You're not in charge of anyone's happiness except your own. The burden though is there still: you want to make each day count. But you don't have to worry if things don't work out in the way you expected.

On this trip, I have some ideas about what I want to do here, but nothing is certain until I wake up and look outside and get a handle on what I'm up for. Though today I knew I had to go back to the lifts of Morzine - Avoriaz (yesterday's destination), since I have only a two day pass and it expires at 5pm this afternoon.

Once again we have beautiful weather ahead of us. Sunshine like you wouldn't believe! Buying sun cream did not kill the trend of perfect late winter days. So do I want to go back and repeat exactly all that I did yesterday? Go up in the gondola and chair lift, and ski the Nordic trails that offer endless challenges?

Actually, I do not. I'm up for a challenge, but I like the idea of ditching the skis for a day. Even Nordic skis constrain you. They set the pace. You can pause, but most often you keep on going until you've done your loop. I want to take in more that's all around me. The people. Their kids, pets, lovers. I want to listen to the quiet. 

But a slower pace doesn't mean an easy pace. I decide to do a hike up there, where the gondola and chair lift leave me. There are trails. I'll do a grand loop!

So it's a hearty breakfast for me once again. Today I actually choose their hot option -- a poached egg on spinach, with cured salmon at the side. And the usuals! Croissants, fruit, bla bla...

I smear my face with cream, pack my daypack and set out. Ski poles? Yes. Skis? No.

After you've been walking with skis (on or off), you appreciate a day where your feet are free. And you dont have to bump people in the gondola with your boards. (Nordic skis have to be treated differently: they cannot be left in ski containers at the side of the car. They're too long. You have to fit them with you, inside. And you have to explain to everyone why you're not doing what every single other person is doing.)

On the chairlift, I luxuriate with dangling my free feet. And I hop off without issue. Everyone else slides down to the multipurpose way, I walk. Taking in everything! Because I'm not concentrating on keeping out of the way of fast skiers and little children. 

(Starting off on the same shared path that I skied down yesterday, I pass this little chalet with the Swiss flag. How close are we to Switzerland? Well, Avoriaz is about a kilometer from the border, but there isn't a road. The country is on the other side of a very tall mountain.)

(Glancing at the people at this cafe at the side of the run makes me seriously consider just sitting down and not moving for the rest of the day.)

(At the beginning, I share the run with the skiers as they make their way down to the lifts of Avoriaz. Like yesterday, only this time I'm one of the handful of walkers.)

(Stopping to take a peek at a nearby farm where they make the cheeses of Savoie: Abondance, Tomme, Reblechon, Raclette.)

(The cows are in for the winter. Number 9093 definitely seems to have a thing for no. 9091!)

I take the hikers' path all the way up to Avoriaz. Not because I have a newfound love for Avoriaz, but because it's a good end point, way up there on the next mountain. (To its credit, it does blend in well enough, so that from here, you can barely see it -- Avoriaz is just below the mountain summit.)

And from Avoriaz, the goal is to take the circuitous path all the way back down, to the gondola. That's a good several hours I'm told. A lot more if you get lost. Just sayin'...

 

I feel that in walking it's easy to find your peace. Cross-country skiing too, once you know what's around the corner. But skiing interrupts the flow of thought. Sometimes, you have to concentrate on the terrain. In walking, you can let yourself unwind. Take a forest bath. Think about what's precious in life, on this planet. 

The paths are mostly empty, but not entirely. I meet a lot of French people walking their dogs. Some seem local, others -- who knows. They speak French. They could be Savoyards or Parisians. I'm not good at spotting French accents.

 

(a man with five dogs the color of snow!)

(close up)

 

 

Then, too, there are the kids -- the ones not big enough to be given two boards and told to hang out with the ski school. Local kids are in school now, so I see only very young ones out and about. And on the slopes -- kids from Paris. That's the region that's on winter break now. Which may explain the exrtraordinarily well dressed skiers.

(two moms with babies, two dads with toddlers)

All of this is very lovely. Just what I needed!

(forest magic)

But in Avoriaz, I don't really want to take a pause. I liked yesterday's lunch break a lot, but I'm in my quiet zone today. The frenetic pace of dining there, the loud music coming in from loudspeakers somewhere, maybe the ski slopes? Not for me today. So after reaching the place, I look at the view...

 

 

 

 ... and turn around and search for the long path that will take me back down to the gondola. 

At first I'm okay with it. I have that Tourist Office booklet after all. And the path is well groomed (if not exactly well marked). It's self evident.

Until it's not. Something doesn't fit. On the map, you're to stay on the left side of the road. In reality, there is no left side of the road. And that's just the beginning.

Some locals tell me "go that way." I have no idea what "that way" they're talking about. I abandon the little map which definitely would not have me go "that way," and follow their advice. And they were right, but they didn't warn me that the path would fork and it's anyone's guess which fork I should follow. Or that toward the end it disappears altogether and what you're left with is slushy deep snow (I'm at a lower elevation now). Sometimes the path would dead end at a ski run. How safe is it, crossing those runs with crazy skiers coming at you? Well, I'm going to say it feels a tiny bit terrifying.

But it's really a glorious walk and it is mostly downhill. I change elevations a lot, but I do it slowly. With a pause for a view.

All the time.

(crazy guy from yesterday?)

In the end the path is gone and there are still drifts of snow to navigate, but I see the gondola station in the distance, so I know I will, come hell or high water, reach my destination! Nearly three hours after leaving Avoriaz. 

I thought I'd pause at a cafe there -- the one with yesterday's cappuccino and a view, but part of me is still wanting to try new things today.

Later, at my hotel's reception, the young woman at the desk -- the one who is so beautiful that I swear she should star in some French coming of age movie -- tells me that some views she never tires of and she tells me about one which I definitely will look for later in the week. But I wonder if a person living here even notices the mountains anymore or are they like wall paper. I get a thrill when a peak comes into view as I climb up. Does a Morezine person get that thrill too? 

Living in the mountains is different than living in a landscape of lightly rolling hills (this would describe the farmette location). The sun sets before you're ready to see it go. The day begins in the shadows of the sun: it's there, but it's hiding. Too, there are the snows here: sometimes so huge that they seem to bury the smaller houses.

[At the same time, these people do not use salt on the roads. No one's car looks like mine does all winter long. No one's shoes are ruined by telltale white marks. And the lakes are cleaner for it. But here's a difference where we come out ahead: I happen to come across the parking lot where people heading to Avoriaz leave their cars. I swear, every car was black, gray or white. Nothing else. At all. We are a much more colorful nation!]

Back in Morzine, I realize that somehow in all my ramblings, I skipped lunch. That's okay -- I'm not hurting for food here. Besides, it gives me an excuse to sit down at the outdoor cafe of my hotel. The sun is low, but so pleasantly strong that I take off my jacket. (And slather on more sun screen. And still I'm getting scorched, I can tell.) I order a.... you guessed it! Blueberry tart (it comes with raspberry ice cream). And cappuccino. And it is all sublime.

I listen to the noise of school children. They are, for reasons of Mardis Gras, marching through town in costumes.

And at the table next to mine, a couple sits in a total lovers embrace, only occasionally disentangling to play with their dog.

 

 

People are returning from skiing with smiles on their faces. Some older men do post-skiing stretches. (There is a group of twelve older men staying here. It looks to me like they are friends, returning to have their buddy time on the slopes. French men like staying in places with good food. I've seen that elsewhere. And now here they are, stretching, stretching, maybe thinking about tonight's dinner...) Content people who came through the pandemic. Who aren't at war. Who can go to sleep thinking about tomorrow's ski run rather than a bizarre destruction of their home at the hands of a maniac. I feel happy for them. And sad for those who cannot share in such good fate.

Dinner? It's delicious. I'm sorry, but that's going to be a recurring theme. And the best thing is that I don't have to think about what to order. We all eat the same thing.  Still, today's meal deserves a special note. Sophia was helping out (husband's off Tuesdays and they're short staffed). But about the food: today they do a Savoyard dinner: a Vacherin cheese with a plate of charcuterie, a salad, and of course, the boiled potatoes for the Vacherin.

In fact, this is a Swiss dish to the Swiss, and a French dish to those from Savoie. The Vacherin cheese is made from milk given by Savoie cows in winter (it's seasonal!), or by cows from the canton of Vaud in Switzerland (just along the northern edge of Lake Geneva). The cheese has wine added to it and maybe garlic and then it's popped in the oven and voila -- it comes out in a creamy melted magnificence.

I asked Sophia what is the proper Savoyard way of eating all this and she described it well, but later I had this idea that maybe she wasn't from this region. It is conceivable that a Morzine man would marry someone from elsewhere. 

Indeed. She's from Brittany. I nod knowingly. So many good things (and people) come from Brittany...

The dessert? They make it here, on the premises. A meringue cake with ice cream, a bit of cream at the sides, and raspberries. They dont come any better than that.

I'm aiming to go to sleep before midnight today, so I'll retreat under my puffy quilt now, to dream of a better tomorrow, especially for the people of Ukraine. 

With so much love...