Chamonix 2012
It is like a second home...the Alps
of France. And there comes a calling every now and then that compels me to
return to the place that I adore. I arrive in the village and the shops and the
shopkeepers...the restaurants and the innkeepers, fill me with warmth and
comfort. Here is that simplicity of life that I long for, or maybe it's just
what I have grown to appreciate. I buy a crepe with creme de marron and
bananas and taste its happy sweetness. This simple transaction (the fact that
I placed the order in French, got what I wanted and paid in Euros with ease) is pure wonderment to me. It is the art of the
everyday...in France. This is the moment I have been dreaming of for months...years. The crepe is just as I had envisioned and for a moment I
am a kid again...back to simple pleasures...and wandering thoughts. I head back
to my apartment...just a left hand turn and a few doors down from the heart of
the village.
When I wake up and open the French doors
and step out to the balcony into the crisp, cold mountain air, it feels feel
clean, sharp and pure. My face and hands tingle. The cold air travels down my
back...and to my toes. French press coffee is much stronger and in my mug, as
it warms my palms, it looks dark and murky. It is still dark in town but the
sun is making its way up over the mountains. It is almost 8am. I look up at the
cloudless sky...it is simply, breathtakingly, gorgeous with its pink/blue
morning hue. The moon is still lingering. The village is fresh with snow.
Behind the old, sturdy buildings the mountain rockfaces climb. These mountains
stand as bold architecture defining and framing the town. It is then that I
realize I am living an alpine morning in Chamonix...certainly life lived at its
most beautiful. The ski day is ahead...
I tell myself I cannot know this
place if I just see the lower level of town. I am a skier and this is what I
came here for....to ski the Alps and ride the daunting trams. They are intense,
engineering miracles, regal into the rock. I am here to ski in this amazing
place...to master my turns on the foreign snow. There are compatriots around me
and it's easy to make a friend to ski with...because, though I do not speak the
same language, I come from a common thread...a love of the mountains and the
stunning, glorious sky...the snow and the perfected, high speed turn. I ride
the lifts in the sunshine and feel warmed...look around. The tram goes by in
the distance. It looks cool against the unblemished, deep blue sky. I know I am
lucky to return to this place and I do not take this for granted. I remind
myself to think about where I am....how lucky I am. It has been years since I
was last here, so much has happened in my life since then, and so many times I
have thought about my return to Chamonix.
I ski down...feel electric with my
energy...feel the precision of my turns and the thrill of the undulating
terrain under my feet. I am ready to ride the tram into the rock...though my
breath shortens and I become more aware. I am arriving at the top of a jagged
rock that pierces the sky and there is no turning back. Suddenly there is no
friend at my side...just me and the mountain and the legendary steep terrain.
This is no elevator. I peer over the edge to see the village below...the
seemingly tiny village. I cannot see the people down there, but I know they are
there. They are shopping for milk and drinking a cafe au laits. The sky is now
a deep Azure blue and it rises from the top of the mountain range that surrounds
me. It is the same blue sky I know so well in the Rocky Mountains of
Colorado...where I am from. But the mountains here take up more of the sky,
they are sharper, more rugged, a mountaineer's dream. They are softened
slightly buy the pure white now that rest on them and they are contrasted by
the intense blue sky that heightens their beauty. Edna St. Vincent Millay comes
to mind as I take in the panoramic view of where I now stand. She stood atop
Mt. Battie above Camden, Maine…saw mountains, islands in the bay, the thin line
of the horizon and the vastness of the sky.(*Renascence 1917) I grew up in
Maine and this poem has always resonated with me. Now it is clear to me why.
There is nothing like standing at the top of a peak, looking around and taking
in all that is around you. The sheer power of that is overwhelming. Across the
vallee I focus in on the massive Mont Blanc. Its rolling light blue/green
glaciers vaguely come into view...then, the sharp needle rock of the Aiguille
du Midi. This is my chance. Soak it in.
While I love this place, I do not live here...and I do not know when I'll be back. I click into my bindings, make sure they are secure and push off...down the piste., each turn perfectly laid. My skis, like slippers, are comfortable beneath me. Today they are extensions of me. I make several laps. Each run my legs become more fluid, more in tune with the slope and I don't want to stop. I take one last run...gliding down the trail, arching my skis and feeling the dynamic rhythm of my spontaneous turns. I am no longer a competitor, there are no coaches critiquing my style, I can do what I want. Years of training and discipline have given me the skills...and now I am free to play. I started skiing when I was was three and started competing in freestyle skiing when I was five. When I was fourteen I won the Junior World Championships in Orcierres Merlette, France. By the time I was 15 I made the US Ski Team and started traveling around the globe. We'd leave for France in November, have Thanksgiving dinner at Pizzaria 2000 in Tignes, and our first competition of the season a few days later. Throughout the season we'd compete in Austria, Germany, Finland, Sweden and Italy. Somehow I always felt more at home in the resorts of France...Tignes...and La Clusaz, La Plagne and Morzine. You could say that the French Alps have been instilled in my soul. Nonetheless, I have done the homework that has translated into an ability to ski any mountain aggressively and artfully. Now I define what is good...where I will ski, how I will define my day. This sense of freedom gives me an uplifting jolt of energy. I make a quick turn, then lift my skis over a tuft of powder with confidence and ease and make a mellow sideways hockey stop finish. This is an awesome day.
Skis on my shoulder, ski boots on my feet, I walk into the village. My body is contained by this inner balance...tired muscles and an uncluttered mind. The people are still there in the village...and most likely have all had lunch. I notice that I am hungry. to my right there is a cafe, a perfect spot in the apres-midi sun. No one is sitting outside. I however, think it is the perfect temperature. I am warm from my day on the mountain and my walk down to town from the tram. The wicker chairs have a gentile shape to them...my legs are thankful. I order a pizza and a demi bottle of Vin de Savoie. The waiter looks at me with what seems like a hint of respect, though I can't be sure he has ever skied. He brings my wine and pizza and I relax enjoying this moment in town. Wine in my hand...and a thin crust, French mountain pizza...I revel in how everything tastes so good. Food always tastes better when you earn it. And somehow this all connects me to this place...Chamonix, my second home.
My thoughts shift back to the waiter...maybe he has a kid the same age as mine? I don't know. My son is four with an unbridled zest for life. He is everything I dreamed he would be and more. I picture him now, sitting there, across the table, looking at me...eating a crepe. He turns and talks to my husband, his father, and giggles. His smile lights up everything around him. I pull out my tiny French cell phone. With the time change I know it is too early to call...but I do anyway. I hear my voice and my son's on the answering machine and I can picture them, my husband and son, on the other side of our house, peacefully sleeping in bed. Next time, I think, when my son is older, they will join me. They will love it here.
While I love this place, I do not live here...and I do not know when I'll be back. I click into my bindings, make sure they are secure and push off...down the piste., each turn perfectly laid. My skis, like slippers, are comfortable beneath me. Today they are extensions of me. I make several laps. Each run my legs become more fluid, more in tune with the slope and I don't want to stop. I take one last run...gliding down the trail, arching my skis and feeling the dynamic rhythm of my spontaneous turns. I am no longer a competitor, there are no coaches critiquing my style, I can do what I want. Years of training and discipline have given me the skills...and now I am free to play. I started skiing when I was was three and started competing in freestyle skiing when I was five. When I was fourteen I won the Junior World Championships in Orcierres Merlette, France. By the time I was 15 I made the US Ski Team and started traveling around the globe. We'd leave for France in November, have Thanksgiving dinner at Pizzaria 2000 in Tignes, and our first competition of the season a few days later. Throughout the season we'd compete in Austria, Germany, Finland, Sweden and Italy. Somehow I always felt more at home in the resorts of France...Tignes...and La Clusaz, La Plagne and Morzine. You could say that the French Alps have been instilled in my soul. Nonetheless, I have done the homework that has translated into an ability to ski any mountain aggressively and artfully. Now I define what is good...where I will ski, how I will define my day. This sense of freedom gives me an uplifting jolt of energy. I make a quick turn, then lift my skis over a tuft of powder with confidence and ease and make a mellow sideways hockey stop finish. This is an awesome day.
Skis on my shoulder, ski boots on my feet, I walk into the village. My body is contained by this inner balance...tired muscles and an uncluttered mind. The people are still there in the village...and most likely have all had lunch. I notice that I am hungry. to my right there is a cafe, a perfect spot in the apres-midi sun. No one is sitting outside. I however, think it is the perfect temperature. I am warm from my day on the mountain and my walk down to town from the tram. The wicker chairs have a gentile shape to them...my legs are thankful. I order a pizza and a demi bottle of Vin de Savoie. The waiter looks at me with what seems like a hint of respect, though I can't be sure he has ever skied. He brings my wine and pizza and I relax enjoying this moment in town. Wine in my hand...and a thin crust, French mountain pizza...I revel in how everything tastes so good. Food always tastes better when you earn it. And somehow this all connects me to this place...Chamonix, my second home.
My thoughts shift back to the waiter...maybe he has a kid the same age as mine? I don't know. My son is four with an unbridled zest for life. He is everything I dreamed he would be and more. I picture him now, sitting there, across the table, looking at me...eating a crepe. He turns and talks to my husband, his father, and giggles. His smile lights up everything around him. I pull out my tiny French cell phone. With the time change I know it is too early to call...but I do anyway. I hear my voice and my son's on the answering machine and I can picture them, my husband and son, on the other side of our house, peacefully sleeping in bed. Next time, I think, when my son is older, they will join me. They will love it here.
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