Chamonix 2012
It is like a second home...the Alps of France. And there
comes a calling every now and then that compels you to return to the place that
you adore. You arrive in the village and the shops and the shopkeepers...the
restaurants and the innkeepers, fill you with warmth and comfort. Here is that
simplicity of life that you long for...or maybe it's just what you have grown
to appreciate. You buy a crepe with creme de marrons and bananas...and taste
its happy sweetness. This simple transaction (the fact that you placed the
order in French, got what you wanted and paid in Euros with ease) makes it a
gleeful, valiant experience. To you, it is the art of the every day...in
France. The crepe is just as you had envisioned and for a moment you are a kid
again...back to simple pleasures...and wandering thoughts. You head back to
your apartment...just a left hand turn and a few doors down from the heart of
the village.
When you 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. Your face and hands tingle. The cold air travels down your back...and to
your toes. French press coffee is much stronger and in your mug, as it warms
your 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. You 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 you realize
you are living an alpine morning in Chamonix...certainly life lived at its most
beautiful. The ski day is ahead...
You tell yourself you cannot know this place if you just see
the lower level of town. You are a skier and this is what you came here
for....to ski the Alps and ride the daunting trams. They are intense,
engineering miracles, regal into the rock. You are here to ski in this amazing
place...to master your turns on the foreign snow. There are compatriots around
you and it's easy to make a friend to ski with...because, though you do not
speak the same language, you come from a common thread...a love of the mountains
and the stunning, glorious sky...the snow and the perfected, high speed turn.
You ride the lifts in the sunshine and feel warmed...look around. The tram goes
by in the distance. It looks cool against the blue sky. You know you are lucky
to return to this place and you do not take this for granted and you remind
yourself to think about where you are....how lucky you are. It has been years
since you were here, so much has happened in your life since then, and so many
times you thought about your return to Chamonix.
You ski down...feel electric with your energy...feel the
precision of your turns and the thrill of the undulating terrain under your
feet. You are ready to ride the tram into the rock...though your breath
shortens and you become more aware. You are arriving at the top of a jagged
rock that pierces the sky and there is no turning back. Suddenly there is no
friend at your side...just you and the mountain and the legendary steep
terrain. This is no elevator. You peer over the edge to see the village
below...the seemingly tiny village. You cannot see the people down there, but
you 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 you. It is the same blue sky you know so well in
the Rocky Mountains of Colorado...where you are from. But the mountains here take
up more of the sky, they are sharper, more jagged, 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 you take in the panoramic view of where you 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) You look across the vallee and focus in on the massive Mont Blanc. Vaguely, you can see its rolling light blue/green
glaciers and the sharp needle rock of the Aiguille du Midi. This is your
chance. Soak it in. While you love this place, you do not live here...and you
do not know when you'll be back.
You click into your bindings, make sure they are secure and
push off...down the piste, each turn perfectly laid. Your skis, like slippers,
are comfortable beneath you. Today they are extensions of you. You make several
laps. Each run your legs become more fluid, more in tune with the slope and you
don't want to stop. You take one last run...gliding down the trail, arching
your skis and feeling the dynamic rhythm of your spontaneous turns. You are no
longer a competitor, there are no coaches critiquing your style, you can do
what you want. Years of training and discipline have given you the skills. You
have skied since you were three…you were on the US Ski Team until you were 25.
You have skied all over the globe. You have done the homework that has translated
into an ability to ski any mountain aggressively and artfully. Now you define
what is good…where you will ski, how you will define your day. This sense of freedom gives you an uplifting
jolt. You make a quick turn, then lift your tips over a tuft of powder with
confidence and ease and make a mellow sideways hockey stop finish. This is an
awesome day.
Skis on your shoulder, ski boots on your feet, you walk into
the village. Your body is contained by this inner balance...tired muscles and
an uncluttered mind. The people are still there in the village...and most
likely they have all had lunch. You notice you are hungry. To your right there
is a cafe, a perfect spot in the apres-midi sun. No one is sitting outside.
You, however, think it is the perfect temperature. You are warm from your day
on the mountain and your walk down to town from the piste. The wicker chairs
have a gentle shape to them...and your legs are thankful. You order a pizza and
a demi bottle of Vin de Savoie. The waiter looks at you with what seems like a hint
of respect, though you’re not sure he has ever skied a day in his life.
He brings your wine and pizza and you relax enjoying this
moment in town. Wine in your hand...and a thin crust, French mountain
pizza...you revel in how everything tastes so good. And somehow all of this
connects you...to the mountains...to the town...to your idea of a day well
spent and an inner happiness that grounds you to this place...your second home.
Your thoughts shift back to the waiter…maybe he has a kid
the same age as yours? You don't know. Your son is four with an unbridled zest
for life. He is everything you dreamed
he would be and more. You picture him
now, sitting there, across the table, eating a crepe. He talks with your
husband, his father, and giggles. You
pull out your tiny French cell phone. With the time change you know it is too
early to call…but you do anyway. You
hear your voice and your son’s on the answering machine and you can picture
them…on the other side of your house, peacefully sleeping in bed. Next time, you think, when your son is older,
they will join you. They will love it
here.
