Monthly Archives: March 2013

Skiing in the Alps – A How NOT to

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Last week, while posting about food and fun in London, I was actually in the French Alps skiing. I spent the first few days up there complaining to friends, family and anyone who would listen via Facebook or Twitter, until a good friend sent me text reminding me that week in the Alps is not exactly a punishment.

The reason I was complaining is because I had a sick teen (check out the video here) AND I am terrified of skiing. I was never a confident skier, but four years ago I had a little incident while taking lessons at Val Thorens. It had been the fourth day of a beginner class and a young, cheerful girl skied up, introducing herself as our substitute for the weather worn, cowboy grandfather we’d been with all week. The first few hills were a dream. The sky was clear, the snow perfect. We were doing so well she felt inspired to take our group of beginners into an extreme sports snow park. She led us to the top of the slope that had a series of four bumps, one after the other. She explained that we needed to keep our knees bent and loose to absorb our landings, and she was off. I was perhaps the fifth or sixth person in line. While petrified, I trusted our instructor to know our skill level. One bump, two bumps, I was doing fine. As I rose into the air on the fourth bump I saw that there were another dozen bumps to go. Bumps that I hadn’t seen from the top and that I was not prepared for. My body went rigid, I took flight and I landed on my head.

I don’t know what happened next. I was unconscious. I know that they took me down the mountain and that someone very carefully removed my garments over my head, without cutting anything and folded it all neatly into a bag that I received several days later. I had an MRI and at some point they called Mr French.

His phone rang just as he skied up to our rental apartment for lunch. He plugged Em and her BFF into a DVD of The OC (the anacronym generation) and rushed down to find a still unconscious me and hear the debate over sending me to the hi-tech hospital in Grenoble via helicopter or to the adequate local hospital via ambulance. It was decided that there would be no need for surgery, so I was sent down the winding roads of the mountain, Mr French in the front seat of the ambulance as I violently gained consciousness, projectile vomiting up all over myself and the EMT.

I spent a week in that hospital. Mr French had to drive back to Paris, my place in the passenger side vacant. It was another month before I was able to climb up the stairs to my bedroom in our Paris flat.

For this trip, my friend had a point about all my complaining so I shut up and things did get better. A good time was had by all.

Well, almost all. Since the accident, I now get a private instructor. On our first day skiing, my instructor was not having such a good time, totally frustrated with my snail’s pace on the slopes and how often I’d revert to the snow plow. He got so annoyed that he made a sarcastic comment or four, loosing his head. Almost literally. Just metres from the end of our last run, he went somersaulting violently through the air, his skis flying in two different directions and landing flat on his back, where he stayed for a good five minutes before getting up, claiming he was alright. 10 metres further down the slope, he wasn’t looking so good. The color had left his face, his body started to sway and he stopped an instant before passing out. Other instructors noticed his distress and came to help out, skiing him down the slope as he passed out one more time before getting to the medical clinic.

I was ready to stop skiing right then and there. The director of the ski school called to tell us that the instructor would be fine in a week or so and that he’d found us a substitute. I told him that I wasn’t sure that would be necessary and he told me to stop being silly.

“It was a collection of unfortunate events. He was trying to avoid a class of skiers, so he went off the run. And, well that slalom pole should not have been hidden in the snow like that. That is what sent him flying. It was just bad luck. It could have happened just as easily on a sidewalk.”

Really? Just as easily on a sidewalk? I spend a lot of timing hoofing it on streets of Paris and I don’t recall ever having seen someone go flying spontaneously through the air. Slalom poles buried deep into the cement and asphalt of a city street are as rare as yeti sightings at the beach.

Despite the director’s obvious lack of anything resembling logic, I did get back up on my skis and spent the rest of the trip wondering what the heck is wrong with me and why I insist on skiing. I’ll get back to you if I ever figure it out!!!

The moral of this story is do NOT going skiing in the Alps, or anywhere else on earth, without a helmet. Like they say at Nike, Just Do It!!!

Skiing the Alps – A How To

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To a girl from California it sounds so exotic and intriguingly “In Her Majesty’s Secret Service”, but to the French skiing the French Alps, is kind of like Chinese food in China; just skiing. And there are a few things they take for granted that those from abroad should know.

First of all, you have to consider the where. Mr French is convinced that the 3 Vallées is the best skiing area in France, because it includes Val Thorens, the highest ski station in the country which means great snow. Others love the über chic towns of Courcheval and Méribel, which attract the James Bond crowd; European jetsetters, Arab sheiks and Russian oligarchs.

To give an idea of how close one village is to the next; several chairlifts in the town of Menuires will take you to the top of mountains with slopes that lead you down to Val Thorens or Méribel. The entire excursion, including the lift lines, the ride up and the trip down, including the time for the serious spill you may possibly take, even if your skis are in snow plow, takes less 40 minutes.

Then you need to consider the when. The Minister of Education has divided the country into three zones, each zone getting two weeks of holiday one week from another, so that anywhere from 1/3  – 2/3 of the country may be on ski holidays at once, which means the holiday period lasts an entire month. To find out the exact dates for all of the holidays visit the Minister’s site.

Another important detail is that the majority of holiday rentals and reservations in France run from Saturday to Saturday. Wanting to arrive on a Monday can pose something of a challenge when looking for lodgings.

Which is how we discovered the Chalet Hotel Kaya in Menuires. It was over the Christmas holidays and we wanted a short break without missing New Years in Paris. A quick Google searched turned up Le Kaya. A very chic, design hotel perched discreetly at the top of the village, directly on the slopes with a restaurant, a bar, a pool, a spa and a scrumptious tea time.

Which is another point about French holidays, the who will be hosting you. Hotels like the Kaya offer what is called “demi-pension”, is a meal plan that includes breakfast, dinner, and in the case of Le Kaya, that delicious tea that is served like a dangling carrot, keeping you going down those last runs as the chair lifts close and ski schools end. Demi pension is great if you’re traveling with your family, particularly kids, and do not want to have to think about who is eating where each meal. It gives you the freedom to have lunch on the slopes (or at the beach, or exploring whatever region you may be visiting).

But for a girl who likes to explore her surroundings, it can feel somewhat restrictive, so when its just us gr’ups we opt out and treat ourselves to a gourmet dinner at the hotel’s excellent restaurant, Le K for a night or two during our stay.
How to get around is somewhat limited. We’ve driven once, but because everyone leaves and arrives on a Saturday, the traffic jams can be horrendous. Then there is the minor detail of being in Alps with the intent to ski, which can mean severe weather and nasty road conditions. We now take the TGV to Moutiers. From there we can either take a bus up to Menuires, or hire a cab. Either way, its best to reserve in advance and for the bus they require that it be done at least 7 days prior to travel.

L'Après Ski is key, and a bit ironic as we drink Monocos!

As you get off the ski lift on runs like Mont de la Chambre you’ll have a spectacular view of Mont Blanc. You’ll also notice a lot of folks wearing red ski suits with the letters ESF on the back. That’s the Ecole de Ski de France and the red clad sportsmen (and women) are ski instructors. France is very organized when it comes to sports. Kids are rarely thrown on to the slopes and expected to ski. They are put into ski school where they earn their “Flakes” (this is true for swimming, horse back riding, surfing and tennis, among others, having an official rating is really important in France), or Flocon. These classes continue until the kids are ready to compete professionally, not because the parents think Jr is destined for the Olympics, but because ski school is built in baby sitting, giving Mom and Dad time to themselves on the slopes (or in the spa).

This week, we’d wake early and enjoy the buffet breakfast at Le Kaya before sending the girls off to ski school, starting our days with whole grain breads, fresh juices, yogurts and spice marinated fruits before hitting the slopes. After a couple of hours, we’d be hungry again, and start looking out for one of the many restaurants on the slopes that offer outstanding food, particularly those serving local specialties like raclette, fondue or tartiflette (more on these later in the week). In Val Thorens there is the Michelin starred Loxalys and this past week we stopped twice at La Ferme Riberty, enjoying the lively crowd, as well as their tartiflette, an omelette that was generously studded with girolle mushrooms and house made berry pie from their wooden deck.

After lunch there would be more skiing this time with my ski instructor, then eventually that lovely tea time I keep mentioning, followed by a few laps in the pool and a well earned hammam before it was time to eat, yet again. The chef at Le K provides a light, healthy cuisine, with lots of regional ingredients and plenty of heirloom vegetables. Every meal was a treat, which we’d savour before sinking into the comfy couches in front of the fireplace at the bar.

Important details
WHO Kaya Chalet Hotel
WHEN Minsitre de l’Education
WHERE Loxalys, La Ferme Riberty, Le K
HOW SNCF,the Bus
WHAT ESF (I strongly recommend the instructor Laurent Rivière)

WHY??? Don’t ask me!!! Skiing is an insane sport and I really have no idea why anyone goes to all the trouble, except, well it is drop dead gorgeous up there and 7 days of skiing has sent my metabolism into over-drive, allowing me to eat anything and everything that comes across my path, virtually guilt-free!!!!

London Art

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Despite a previous post, Mr French and I are not big shoppers, spending most of our free time enjoying sports and visiting galleries. This trip was no exception. After our indulgences of Saturday morning, Mr French headed to a 6 Nations rugby match and watched France try (unsuccessfully) to defend its honor against England while I headed to the Tate Modern, one of the greatest art spaces on earth.

Why so great? Because it is free and open to everyone, and everyone comes; men who look like they’ve just left a construction zone, single moms with their broods, large groups of teens hanging out in the large halls and young women dressed for night clubs are all there, surrounded by art.

On my way to the museum, I caught my first glimpse of London’s newest skyscraper, the Shard. Then it was off to the show “A Bigger Splash” about performance art and painting. I wasn’t enthusiastic about the show, but was immediately fascinated by the video of Jackson Pollack painting a painting, with the original masterpiece displayed on the floor of the Tate, just as it was on the floor in the video. Then came a canvas of Yves Klein blue which never fails to dram in until I feel I may drown. There was an intriguing room of hanging mirrors by the Polish artist, Edward Krasinski, a blue line running across the glass, reflecting back and hypnotising visitors. There were also rooms that only enforced my prejudice against performance art, and then show ends with a room of trompe l’oeil stage sets by artist Lucy McKenzie, who then photographs herself in situ. I felt I was collaborating with the artists as I composed shots of visitors in situ in the sets, as well.

 

 

 

I was really at the Tate for the Lichtenstein show, just a few floors up. Organised in collaboration with the Chicago Art Institute, this in-depth retrospective show Lichtenstein’s art in a new light, focusing well beyond his iconic paintings of distraught women in comic book scenarios. We see how he developed his voice, inspired by the Disney books he read his children, and evolved from there, through his work as pop artist and eventually creating lesser known landscapes and abstract work, always using his signature dots and big graphic strokes.

 

The next morning we were both thrilled to head to the National Portrait Gallery to see the photography of Man Ray. Before heading into the exhibit, we stopped by the controversial portrait of Kate Middleton by 65 year old realist painter Paul Emsley. Critics say the painting makes her look old and haggard and a quick peek online confirms what you read. But the artist himself was completely shocked by the negative reviews, responding that perhaps his painting just isn’t photographing well, and he suggests you visit it in the U.K.’s National Portrait Gallery before knocking his work. He has a point, and I recommend you do the same, because in person its ethereally beautiful and undeniably real.

While probably everyone knows that Man Ray was part of the Dada and surrealist art movements, very few realise that he was an American and a frustrated artist who took portraits for magazines and publications to support himself. He did not want to be a photographer, it was simply what he did best. Becoming friends with Marcel Duchamp in New York, he had the perfect introduction to the Paris art world when he arrived in 1921, with access to the lives of Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Dali and his muse, Kiki de Montparnasse. Always curious, he experimented with different techniques, inventing the solarization process with his model, muse and lover Lee Miller. The photos would be impressive enough if each one did not have an intrigue tale and a bit of history attached, but they do, and I spent hours studying each piece, reveling in each story. An art and a history lesson all in one.

London Eating

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As much as I love French cuisine, one of the highlights of every trip to London is the food. This wasn’t much of a draw 20 years ago, but today, with fresh ingredients and heirloom vegetables getting pride of place, things have changed considerably.

For years now, I’ve been curious about the Wolseley on Piccadilly. The posh looking establishment simply oozes old world elegance, greatly enriched by its location just steps  from the Ritz. The windows are covered with bistro curtains, and every time I’d pass, I’d look longingly into the italian inspired decor where a chicer-than-thou crowd seemed to be having the time of their lives at the bar.

Fortified by my new umbrella, and Mr French’s company, this trip I felt chic enough to breach the entrance. A formally clad valet met us on the sidewalk and guided us inside. Inside I quickly observed that the bar was merely a tiny box in a very large, opulently Italianate, art deco restaurant. The Wolseley had been a car for the rich who were not quite rich enough to afford a Rolls, and this had been the showroom. A very handsome and charming host showed us to the bar, informing us that the dining room was fully booked, but they did have tables for walk-ins, if we were interested. “Yes, please!” I replied, completely seduced by this place.

It was only noon and the bar was hopping. One of three very professional barmen put his everything into mixing the perfect martini for Mr French, while I was thrilled to find that they had hot lemon juice on the menu. I got to have something that felt infinitely more grown up than Perrier, while staying fit.

We were soon seated in a small dining room and a funny thing happened. The waiter spoke to us in French. He had heard us speaking, and being French himself, it did not occur to him to address us in English. The menu was French as well, with dishes like coq au vin and croque monsieur. But there was also roast beef with yorkshire pudding and wild Scottish salmon. The food was good, but nothing I’d run back for. The scene however, simply fun, as we sat next to two Sloane rangers and a very wealthy local Indian family. I think next time I’ll come back for tea time, or perhaps  I’ll try for something more wild at the bar…

For dinner, I had done some research, ie I sent a tweet to @jeffreyinmotion a professional in the UK hospitality industry. He gave me the name of a few places and the Harwood Arms was the first on the list to have availability. The menu looked good, and that was good enough for me, so good, I never bothered to looked at where the Harwood Arms is on a map.

Its in Fulham. You’ve heard of it, non? Well, me neither. Mostly because it is a bit remote and far from the tourist path. In Paris that would not be a big deal; have metro, will travel. In London, it’s a deal. We got off at a station to change trains and learned over the loudspeakers that our train would not be stopping at that station over the weekend. Back on the train we tried to connect at another station, but there were five different terminus possible and I got us on the wrong train. We went one stop and got back on to go back where we’d come from. A one stop error cost us 40 minutes of our time and I was very happy we’d planned on arriving early to enjoy a drink at the bar.

Getting out of the tube at Fulham we were in London, but had the impression that we’d stumbled into a sleepy little suburb. Mr French looked at me skeptically, teasing, “I hope you know what you’re doing.” I had no clue, but I wasn’t going to tell him!!

Following the street maps that were helpfully posted every 100 meters, we soon found ourselves on a quiet residential street. I started to panic, but Mr French noticed some bright lights ahead. As we got closer and closer, he became confident that we were in the right place. And we were, in so many ways.

A light, airy restaurant that simply oozes with a relaxed, friendly vibe. The decor is quaint, with wild flowers on the tables, a deer’s head mounted on the wall and black and white photography of ammunition. It was the British version of Brooklyn Hipster. After a weekend of good behaviour, I was ready for a truly London cocktail. I was at the wrong bar for that and instead I had a lovely glass of white wine. A really large glass, because it turns out that a British “glass” is 1/3 more generous than a Parisian “verre”! Behind us burned a cheery fire, with guests nestled into leather couches. They were snacking on outstanding bar food; a venison scotch egg, honey roasted nuts with rosemary, cauliflower croquettes with picallili and garlic potatoes that made me melt with hunger from tables away.

The dinner menu changes with the seasons. Now here is the sad part. I forgot to take a photo of the menu and I was somewhat tipsy from the wine so, I don’t exactly remember everything we ate. Mr French had deer, I had fish then we shared a light rhubarb desert and there was a lot of ooh-ing and aah-ing. It as all truly delicious. Mr French (who was completely sober) assures me we’ll be going back!

Paris Fashion Week: Issey Miyake

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And yes, its my favorite season, once again, Paris Fashion Week. It also happens to be winter break for the Paris school district, so I have had to tear myself away from the cocktails, street fashion and buzz of creative energy, tuned so high the sun is threatening to shine and drag the teen to the Alps. But not before I got in one show, and what a show.

On Thursday I received my invitation to the Issey Miyaki show, squealing with delight as I opened the envelope and terrifying my neighbor, who was also in our lobby at his mail box. That’s how it works for fashion week your Friday invitation arrives Thursday am, and you drop everything, changing your plans for the privilege of attending a show.

It was freezing outside, but I donned my bowler hat and headed out the door a bit early to catch the street fashion scene around the tent. Outside, it was bright grey skies, with the imposing white tent. Inside we plunged into a pitch black cavern.

The backdrop was white, cut with a long rectangle of electric blue light. Like fish in a tropical aquarium a team of DJs began spinning and dancing, a tsunami of energy flooded the room as the first model sauntered on out. Smiling. You rarely see models smiling during fashion week. I’d assumed that it was some unwritten code, like being quiet in museums.

But designer, Yoshiyuki Miyamae sees things otherwise and the models looked so happy to be wearing the fashions of this young, dynamic man that it seemed wearing his fashions would make me happy, too. It didn’t hurt that he showed a naïvely refreshing palette, like a kid gone wild with his classic 1958 Crayola coloring crayons; Prussian Blue, Spring Green, Orange Red and Salmon pink.

The cuts were just as generous, with large jackets, mammoth-bell bottom pants (the term is my way of saying, considerably wider than elephant bells) that fanned seductively and wide shift dresses.  The skirts were young and fun, while being long enough to cover my knobbly knees, for fashion so attractive I felt younger just watching the show.

Usually, after a show, the fashion journalists and buyers keep their faces as straight the models on the catwalk, trying to digest what they’d seen and draw a conclusion for themselves, But last Friday the crowd was a buzz with energy, talking about how much they’d loved the show and the explosive energy of what they’d seen. Monsieur Miyake knows that smiles really are contagious.

Friday@Flore

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Hitting the streets a bit late with this post today, because Friday@Flore has left the café and headed to the Tuileries gardens where the Issey Miyaki show was going out on to the catwalk in the “tente ephemère” that city officials construct and de-construct each season, for Paris Fashion Week.

The designers are unveiling their Fall 2013 collections just as the kids in Paris head off on their winter break. Having a kid in Paris means that I’ll be missing most of the shows as we head off to the mountains and I do my Mom thing. I know, “We’re going to the alps” sounds oh, so, chic, but last time we went to the this resort I came down from the slopes in an ambulance and spent more time in the hospital than at the hotel!

I am in town long enough to attend at least one show, so I bundled up and headed out to see what the designer of Pleats Please had in mind for us. As always happens during Paris Fashion Week, I saw some really great street fashion along the way.

More than previous seasons, I was shocked by the uniformity of it all. There is definitely an accent color that is “IN” ladies and gentleman, with a second color trailing close behind.

As a pale skinned red head, this does not bode well for me, but everyone else looked simply ab fab in their quirky mustard yellows and warm reds.

 

 

 

 

 

Everyone except the star of the day for me, Mr Bill Cunningham, the street fashion reporter for the New York Times and my idol. He was wearing the cooler blues and greys. I am not usually great at recognizing celebrities and I don’t recall ever having seen the man, beyond the tiny photo of him on his bike that they use for the online NYTimes, but I recognized him immediately. And then I stalked him, noticing what he was photographing, and how, adding a street fashion master class to my day at Paris Fashion Week. I can now head for the slopes, visions of silks and laces slaloming in my head.

 

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