This past weekend I traveled to the French Alps. The entire college population of a whopping number of 235 ventured into the mountains. My friends and I were able to get some of the last available seats in the back of the bus. For anyone considering traveling to the Alps, rule number one: do not sit in the back of the bus. It was about a four and a half hour bus ride through tiny streets and huge mountains. The entire ride was gorgeous, but the majority of the time I was wondering how the bus driver is actually navigating the bus through streets that were created centuries prior.
When we finally arrived, the trip just turned weird. Now, trust me I’ve done some pretty weird things in my life, been to some pretty odd places, but I have nothing I can compare this too. When I originally thought about traveling to the Alps, I thought of pure snow, chic French skiers, and sitting by comfortable fireplaces while the “Hills are Alive” plays in the background. Little did I know…
After we exited the bus, we were broken into groups with French tour guides. We hiked up a GIANT hill to our building and smooshed ourselves into the elevator with all our bags. The guides showed us to our apartment, or at least attempted. We looked for our room for about ten minutes and could not find it. The tour guide knocked on the door of a little French woman who was quite concerned as to why someone was knocking on her door asking her where 506 was. I eventually decided to stand in the middle of the floor while the remaining members of my group ran back and forth on the floor in search of a room which clearly was not there. Finally, we passed through a corridor, which looked more like a fire escape exit, to find more rooms, including ours. We opened the door to find ourselves transported back into the 1970’s. I have never seen so much wood paneling and orange in my entire life, my last name might as well been Brady. Adding to the ambiance were little animals all over the place, in many forms, photographs, stuffed, books. I accidentally wrapped my hand around the beam in the kitchen to touch a baby deer ankle that was converted into a bottle opener. My absolute favorites included one of those “cow mooer” toys in the water closet that lost its moo and a half a dozen dried out lychees in a basket in the living room. First of all, I had no idea you could dry out lychees. Two, I did not think I would ever see the lychee fruit in the French Alps, and three, just why? Then we discovered that we did not have running water, wifi, shower curtain, and a very small amount of toilet paper. We were able to turn the water on, but the remaining is still a mystery to me. After we unpacked a bit, and our new roommates unpacked their eccentric personalities as well, my friends and I decided to walk down to the “town” to get something to eat and get away from the madness. When I mean walk, I mean hike down a vertical mountain for about 20 minutes on a road covered in ice. We were able to find a little place, where we ordered pizza. Little did I know, but the French here eat a ridiculous amount of pizza. Being the properly odd girl from New Jersey, the pizza here, is just not the same.
People say that the French are the chicest dressers in all of the world, I still agree. However, there is one exception: when skiing. The amount of extremely vibrant highlighter colors in clothing form was astonishing. AND, I had no idea Moonboots were still manufactured yet even worn by many people. For the first few hours, I was really confused, everything I knew about French fashion went right out the window. I did not think the French were so attached to the 1970’s. But the amount of bright yellow ski jumpsuits proved me wrong.
Luckily we were able to get our hands on some toilet paper, which only lasted for about a half a day. But it was better than nothing. The weekend continued to be weird as we passed to men who spoke entirely in French while we were hiking back up the mountain to our apartment. They were incessantly speaking to us, we kept walking; we had no idea what they wanted and I really did not want to find out. Then they switched to Italian and then English. Which we could finally understand. Though I still wanted to remain silent and carry myself to my bed, my friends did not. We found that they were from Milan and were relieved that we spoke English since they were tired of speaking to French. The one kept asking for a lighter for his cigarette. We kept saying that we did not have one, but that answer was apparently not enough. So, toward the end of our journey, I “politely” said, I do not smoke, Americans do not smoke like Europeans, and it is looked down upon in our culture. Let’s just say I was able to have a quiet hike up our driveway. I never trusted him anyway, he had an obnoxious orange and gray jacket on…
Regardless of the other countless weird events that took place that are too lengthy to describe, the overall views were miraculous. I have never seen anything like it before in my entire life. From my childhood, I spent summers in the mountains. (I know what you are thinking, a Jersey girl not going to and, god forbid, not liking the shore…scandalous). I more of a mountain person, I’ll leave it at that. And whenever I think of the mountains, I imagine my father. Now, for most of my friends know, I rarely talk about him. It becomes difficult to talk about someone who had their life cut short just at the beginning of your own and you are constantly surrounded by people who still have both parents. But that never ceases to keep him close to my heart. I always carry his handkerchief, wherever I go, whether it be to class or the grocery store. As for someone who spent their livelihood in the mountains, I knew he would have loved to see the views that I just witnessed. Even though this weekend was extremely wacky and transported me back in time, I knew I was not alone. I felt that I had my father with me even though he has been gone for such a long time. I think that is what I needed most, I may not be in the United States. I mean, it feels like I am in a completely different world at the time. But for a moment, I was able to have a sense of home in the mountains with a handkerchief and honestly I would not trade that feeling for anything, not even bread.