I never paid much attention to the concept of a love-hate relationship between the U.S. and France, but after two days in Chamonix, I’m starting to feel like a microcosm of that very phenomenon.
Arriving here on Sunday, the last let of my day-long train trip from Milan was a two-hour ride on the scenic Mont-Blanc Express. The “Express” part is seriously questionable, but “scenic” is quite fitting. The train winds slowly through the steep cliffs of the Alps, taking its passengers past rivers, waterfalls, lakes, plummeting cliffs, quaint villages, and expansive forests. On the ride up, Gnorley and I made friends with Scott & Tricia, a couple from Boulder Colorado. They were like my friend April split into a couple – she’s a travelling nurse, and he manages a rock-climbing gym.
Once in Chamonix, I immediately felt right at home. Everywhere you look it’s Northface jackets, jeans and fleece – it’s like being at Mt. Hood in Oregon, but with cute Swiss-style buildings. Unfortunately, my joy was short-lived.
[If this were a soap opera, this is the moment where everyone would look dramatically worried, turn their heads to show their good sides, and then they’d fade to commercial. Thankfully, it’s not. :-) ]
On Monday I was set to do two tandem paraglides with a local instructor, but all definitely did not go as planned. I ended up only doing one of the jumps, because when it came time to go running off the mountain, I basically got dragged for the last part of it, over rocks and dirt and who knows what else. 
My clothes got all torn up, I lost one of my tennis shoes, my camera got significantly damaged, and my legs are now bruised all over (in the picture that shows my knees, imagine that where you see dirt on my jeans, that’s where there are now scrapes and purple bruises on my legs). As you can imagine, I wasn’t eager for a second go of it. (That said, I will say the view was spectacular, and I think if I’d had time to do the full training I probably would have had a much easier time on my first real glide.)
Being the master seamstress that I am, I was able to salvage my jeans (after all, these days they sell jeans with tears in them, so now I just look trendy). My favorite fleece, a turtleneck and a t-shirt were all goners though, along with the shoe, so I set out to replace them, which turned out to be a bigger challenge than I’d anticipated. Apparently in Chamonix there are no Amazonian women like myself who wear size 42 shoes (10 US), so eventually I resorted to just walking into stores and asking if they had any shoes at all in my size. After visiting more than a dozen stores, I finally procured a new fleece and a pair of tennies. Phew!
Sadly, the new shoes came after the brief break in the clouds today, which meant that I made the ascent to see the top of Mont Blanc on the Aiguille du Midi cable car wearing sandals. I was fairly comfortable in my open-toed shoes in town, but after rising 3,842 meters and disembarking into fierce winds and sub-freezing temperatures, let’s just say I was a tad uncomfortable. 
It was worth it for the stunning views of the Alps though – and to see the stunned look on the face of a Japanese tourist who noticed my poor choice of footwear.
Regrettably, I had to make the tough decision not to bring Gnorley out of the backpack while we were up on the cable car platform. The wind was so strong, I didn’t dare risk bringing him out for a photo shoot, lest he meet the same fate as my right shoe. I did get a shot of him on the hotel balcony though, so at least he can prove he was here.
Tonight I will head in search of the last on my list of French foods I must try in France: Fondue. I’ve already enjoyed a fantastic French omelette (much different than American ones), tasty cappuccino (which, oddly, is served with whipped cream here), fabulous baked goods, delicious chocolate, and of course fine wine. In my personal love-hate war with France, at least the food has been an ally. C'est la vie!