Saturday, Oct 30-- Geneva

Up and packed before the sun reached the valley floor.  Surprising amount of cleaning and tidying to do including taking the ropes off the bed and setting a fire in the pierre olair.  Perhaps a word or two of explanation is in order.

Mme. Crettaz, as gentle and welcoming a soul as one might wish to find in a landlady

The ropes on the bed were not for recreational purposes, as those of you whose minds are in the gutter might assume, but rather serve as reinforcement  against collapse as happened a couple of visits ago with the result that we spent most of the night sleeping with our heads on the floor and feet on high.  This was not an experience we wished to repeat, so last time we found twine and tied the sides together.  We are happy to report that it worked.

A pierre olaire is a stove which is the epitome of Swiss patience and efficiency. While the rest of the planet was building huge fireplaces and stacking them with countless cords of woods each winter, the Swiss designed a way to heat their homes with three twigs and a piece of newspaper.   The stove is made of soap stone with the insides comprised of a series of chambers and the outside carved with rural designs of animals or saints or  whatever the buyer wants.  It operates by placing a tiny pile of fuel in the combustion chamber and setting it alight.  This wee bit of fire heats the soapstone which in turn cranks out hours of warmth for the house.

A master craftsman beside one of his pierre olaire creations

A final stop into Gaudin Alimentare for some viande seche before leaving.  Perhaps a word... The store is of a type long since abandoned by modern society.  It is a small, family run emporium which sells food and books and firewood and clothing, and which has survived in a village of fewer than 500 souls despite the incursion of a coop down the valley.  The owners, M. and Mme. Gaudin tend the operation which is open from before we ever get up until they go to bed.  We have rarely found the store closed.  They accomplish this feat, of course, by living above the establishment and having a bell, not annoying buzzer, it is important to note, but a lovely tinkling bell which rousts them from upstairs when a customer enters.  They know everyone, even infrequent Canadian visitors, and all are greeted with a smile from Madame and/or a nod from Monsieur.

Gaudin Alimentaire, let's see 711 match this

They seem as happy to sell you four slices of meat or half a loaf of fresh bread as they are a week's groceries, and are obviously content with their lot.  M. Gaudin, at least as far as we can tell, never leaves the store, however, Madame ventures out frequently and can be seen driving around the valley behind either one of her cows or the wheel of her ancient, red, license plate-less Toyota.

So off we went, headed for the bright lights of Geneva, but leaving with the silver glow of snowy, moonlit mountain peaks etched in our memories.

One of our first stops in the outside world was at a French train station to buy our tickets for Monday's trip to Paris.  Unlike the Gaudins, French SNCF workers do not live above the station and are frequently off shift.  This was an off shift time as the station was closed for a two-hour lunch break.  On to Petit Lancy and the sight of Careen's friendly little house.  The rattling of the medieval key in the front door and the welcoming creak of the stairs are as fondly established in our memories as are the stunning peaks of Val d'Herens.

Unpacked then out again to the train station.  An American with a large suitcase and backpack was asking the clerk if there was a train to Geneva.  With patience and a genuine smile--not one of those supercilious Parisian ones, the clerk explained to him that, although in France, he was essentially already in Geneva, and  referred him to the bus stop across the street.  We purchased our TGV (Train Grande Vitesse--Train Big Speed) tickets, thrilled at the prospect of flying across the French landscape at 325 kph.

Spent the rest of the afternoon meandering around Carouge, an old Geneva neighbourhood recently gentrified by artists.  We were treated to an array of small shops with handmade clothes and hats and toys and more.  It felt like we were easing back into western civilization.  There was a wedding which we found as we walked towards a stream of colourful balloons let loose in celebration.  The band was a trio of Alpenhorns--think Riccola commercials--which greeted the bride and groom out of the centuries-old church. 

Balloons and Alpenhorns and gawkers, essential parts of the wedding

.