france Archives - Brooke Mardell

My Grandma wasn’t what you’d call a share-er. I can still remember how careful we had to be about what we ate at Grandma’s house, because there was our food and her food. This isn’t to say I didn’t love my Grandma or even visiting her home, but sharing just wasn’t high on her virtue list.

Except for one thing. My Grandma loved sharing the world. Her living room wall was adorned by a giant world map, covered with pins pointing to the places she’d visited. At the age of 82, my Grandma is still adding pins to that map. Over Thanksgiving last year we had the most fun googling a possible trip she wanted to take across the Trans-Siberian Railway.

My first semester at college was a biggie – I jumped straight out of my childhood bedroom and into a dorm in Israel. Because precocious.

About mid-way through the semester, I got an email about my Grandma. She wanted to share. Money. With me. The Grandma who didn’t like sharing her can of green beans wanted to give me a thousand dollars. If I used it to travel. And only if.

Well I’m no fool. I rounded up two friends who were game to extend our semester abroad by a few weeks and pop over to Europe. The first $50 of that $1000 was spent on a backpack that was all-too-gigantic for this girl.

Me, Natalie, and Gil traipsed (I told you, traipse is my word for Europe) (link) throughout Greece, Italy, Switzerland, and France. There are so many moments and stories from those three weeks that greatly shaped who I am. Including my palette for travel. Me thinks Grandma knew exactly what she was starting. And I like to think I will someday be the Granny with her world map pricked by multiple pins.

But Paris. Who sneaks out of Paris? This girl.

See, Paris decided to go on strike while we were there. Everything shut down. Including ATM machines. Paris isn’t exactly a society that invites you in for free. And I was far too proud to use my mom’s credit card. Foolish youth.

So we had a few coins in our pockets, and that was it. Natalie and I bought a bottle of water and a baguette to share, and that was our fine meal ala Paris.

The one commodity we had left was our Eurail passes – good to at least guarantee us a night on the train. Any train. Bound for anywhere but there.

And so began the quest to depart. A bit tricky with all the strike-business. Turns out that the trains were still running on schedule, but you couldn’t get a reservation because of the strike. But you couldn’t get on the train without a reservation. And so it went.

The train platform looked like the old movie scenes of people making runs on the banks in It’s a Wonderful Life. And two blonde girls (yes, I was once blonde) jostled and elbowed along with the best of them – with the help of some hefty backpacks.

It didn’t take long to catch on to the scheme. We were told that once the train departed, it was reservation-shmeservation. We just had to get on it.

Attempt number one was a blunder. How do two blondes jostle fifty pound bags onto a train inconspicuously? Answer: They don’t.

We snuck onto that train three different times before we made it past the steps and into an actual compartment, where we huddled with a Brazilian couple who had also snuck on. Without a shared language, we all communicated quite well as we huddled and waited for the rhythm of the train to get. us. OUT. I can still remember us rocking back and forth to the early huffs and puffs of the engine, inwardly chanting I-think-we-can-I-think-we-can-I-think-we-can, very much hoping we would be the little engines that could indeed just leave.

As the train sighed its way out of the station, we all exhaled deeply. We’d made it. Escaped Paris. The City of Lights. Strikes.

So this week I reclaim, dang it. I’m going back to Paris. With my own credit card. And my man. And a hotel reservation. And all the grown-up-things that the last 16 years have taught me.

Paris, I hope you are kind. I hope you love me back this time. Let’s both make Grandma proud and earn you a proper pin in the map, shall we?

Mama always said not to take a drink from a stranger. I think she had 45 proof alcohol in mind. But I don’t think she had Claudius in mind.

Claudius is the keeper of the Refuge de Chavan. His personality fits the name. I guess seven years of maintaining a refuge chateau in the middle of the French Alps probably has a way of either confirming or creating a personality of refuge.

The Chateau sits at the top of a hell-bent climb. 800 meters up sounds so different than 2600 feet up, but feels no different on the legs that are climbing up the rock-strewn path (that, incidentally, turned into a rock-laden stream on the way back down since the snow was melting off).

Just as you clamber past the rocks and the snow, right when you’re ready to call it a day, you climb out of the tree line, enter the bowl amidst the mountains, see the peaks you’ve been working towards, and turn happier feet towards the refuge of a cabin with some tables out front for the hungry hiker and some friendly French faces sharing the trail.

One of our favorite things to hear as we travel is “are you lost?” because it means that we’re off the beaten path, that tourists don’t-come-round-these-parts-too-often. Good, we hate feeling like tourists. The three French hikers asked us that precise question as their broken English and our Joey-esque French was exchanged.

No, not lost. Staying at a friend’s cabin in La Cheverie, near Lake Vallon – a tiny locals hideaway that serves as a ski town in the winter and hiking wonderland by summer. We were there in the middle of both, as our hike involved quite a bit of snow.

From the Chateau, we followed the three frenchmen up a steep, snowy embankment to a ridge that allowed us to see down the valley to the other side, and to the beginning of the Alps range.

Without snow shoes, it became time for us to turn around, which involved side-stepping/sliding back down the snow to catch our breath again at the Refuge de Chavan before continuing.

Claudius came outside to greet us amidst our feast of apples and cheese. He explained – via hand gestures and broken English – that he’d lived there for seven years, winters included. And in the winter, the snow would sometimes cover his roof. He would then go in and out of his home by way of the skylight, some thirteen feet above us. Food and firewood were stock-piled for winter, and he said that men from La Cheverie would ski in with bread from time to time.

Amazing. A life like that. Interrupted only by occasional passersby. I sat there and tried to imagine it. I saw my husband’s eyes sparkle at the thought. I wonder – would I find or lose sanity?

Claudius then brought out some “prune de montagne” in a clear green glass bottle with some alpen flowers adorning its side, and little clay shot glasses. “To warm the heart”. Well, I was ready for anything that wanted to warm my heart, my hands, my nose, my ears. Bring it.

“Oofta!” was all that escaped my lips as I downed the amber liquid. Jason and Claudius both enjoyed the quick intake of small breaths that followed. But oh did it warm. My ears, my throat, my chest, and most certainly my heart.

Refuge de Chavan. Is it the man, the mountain, or the 45 proof alcohol that provides such refuge? Perhaps a little of all three.

Mama always said not to accept a drink from a stranger. But I don’t think she had Claudius in mind.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama! And don’t worry, I follow almost all your other advice!

Brooke Mardell

where sass and sacred collide…

france

That Time I Snuck OUT of Paris

Mama Always Said