Christmas in Avril

First of all, to relieve the terrible suspense, I will answer last week’s burning questions. I miraculously did not fall off of a mountain, I have found someone with a cord to fit my camera, and, while I did not instigate a strike, I did witness one.

Before leaving for the Alps, I think I saw the personification of France. It was a man wearing a dark vest with dark curly hair escaping from under his newsboy cap, a scarf flying behind him as he peddled furiously on his bicycle. He had a basket that I’m certain contained a live hen under his arm.

The next day, we left for the French Alps. My favorite part of a trip is often the traveling. I’m that person who looks out the window as if the key to happiness is hidden somewhere in the scenery. I have to say, I think the Alps looked exactly like the picture on the Ice Mountain water bottles. We were momentarily slowed down by an agricultural strike. Farmers brought their trucks and tractors to the middle of the highway, parked, and dumped a bunch of apples into the middle of the road. I must say, I love a good protest. Also, I learned that the French will put a vineyard anywhere, including the middle of the road.

Once we made it to the Alps, I was relieved to see that we had enclosed cars to take to the top rather than typical ski lift chairs that I would somehow manage to topple over. At the top, I chose to snow shoe. This activity not only showcased my natural…poise, but it also offered the opportunity to have a breathtaking view of the red roofed town below through the falling snow.

After our day of revisiting the Christmas season, we arrived to our hotel. Christophe warned us that it would be a little rough and I joked that they’d have us all sleeping in the same room. Well, I got a middle bunk and they made us surrender our shoes at the door in favor of slippers. In the dark, I managed to chose the most questionable looking pair offered. But it wasn’t really that bad at all. After singing a round of “It’s a Hard Knock Life” we all spent a pleasant evening talking, eating, and, at least for me, playing with play dough. The hotel owner paced the building with a not at all discreet blue tooth, leading me to believe he’s an operative of an under funded government agency.

We woke up to an Easter that looked more like Christmas and decided it was best to get an early start navigating the snowy cliffs with a monster sized tour bus. I must say, our driver, Patrick, is a bus-driving artist. He got us safely back to Avignon with finesse.

Times I’ve tripped in France count: (minus anything involving snow shoes): 5.