From previous update we have changed countries – not that our passports have any evidence of the fact. Transition from Club Med sumptiousness to backpacking through Italy was not entirely smooth thanks to the bullet-proof (at least from the bugs I'd brought home from work) Brooke stomach meeting it's match in the form of French gastro. Nic was laid pretty low all of Sunday morning and we thought about staying put in Chamonix but the our stingy scottish genes cringed slightly at the cancellation costs of the hostel in Turin and the bus so we proceeded to travel...
At least Nic's illness did not impact on his time skiing. We finished the week skiing with perfect blue skies every day – all that we could have ordered differently would have some powder overnight (not that we are complaining). As the German in our group joked – this club med deal is all inclusive including weather! On Friday we did the Vallee Blanche from the top of Aiguille du Midi. Pretty amazing. Starts from 3800m that you get to from 2 gondala rides. First up was a slightly hair raising trip down an icy ridge where you are roped to your guide and other skiers. We were briefed and connected in an ice cave out of the wind and where we could could hear instructions although none were given on the event of needing the rope.
It looked like it would be quite difficult to lose yourself down the cliff on a rapid vertical return to Chamonix – thanks to the ropes on either side of the path and your umbilical cord (from the groin!) connecting you to the rest of the group. I didn't fancy the chances of my skis however due to the fact that my fingers were becoming rapidly numb and I am a lousy ski carrier at the best of times – think it is best left to my gallant man. Some slightly tricky sidestepping preceded the start of what would mainly be relatively straight forward skiing - apart from one significant bit which was the descent onto an icy steep mogul field that led onto the Mer de Glace, the glacier that heads down the valley to Chamonix. I struggled with this (read snow ploughed my way down like a beginner at Happy Valley on Whakapapa) although fortunately was slightly more confident than a French woman in our group who was escorted down behind the guide. My pride was already suffering after he carried my skis down the icy steps from the Aiguille du Midi ridge – that is how my skis survived those steps!
Lunch was on a few rocks that gave us a view of the glacier. A wall of ice with its facets of blue, grey, white and steel that gave an impression of momentum – quietly. We skied after lunch over stationary waves in the sea, seperated by small crevases. Nothing truly sufficient to warrant the loops of rope around our waists. The mountains rose either side of us as we sailed down the sea of ice stopping occasionally for a photo. Ducking into the shadows of mountains our vision would have to rapidly adjust before ducking back into the brillant sunshine. We were heading for a gondala that would take us up onto a the train heading back to Chamonix. The alterantive was to ski throught the trees back to Chamonix that we were advised did not have sufficient snow to make this worth it. Plans changed when we saw the gondala was closed. Jean-Pierre gave little indication that this was a disappointment as he would have to persist with his group for longer. Further down we joined the queue of people skiing down more moguls, although these were much softer, to get off the glacier prior to ascending the opposite valley wall to where a bar was improbably set up.
The trudge up this valley wall was difficult only due to the uncertainty that ski boots have on icy steps. At the top we started our hesitant descent onto the slushy trail through the trees. Edging it was easiest. Snaking slowly we got to corners which were so churned up that the snow was banked to the outside. Even further down we would reach points where the snow had thinned to the point of needing to dismount from our skis and walk through the icy mud before clipping back in to continue. A couple of points where we stepped our skis over a couple of metres of mud and gravel (following the guides lead of course), made us very glad to be on hired skis. We finished the route and caught the bus back to Chamonix at 4pm. Later we were informed by our adrenalin junky ski instructor that he and his mates would do “runs” of the Vallee Blance – up to 3 in 1 day. I do not doubt him and know there is no way I would want to emmulate.
Last days in Club Med we had dinners with our ski group and we all swapped addresses - think we were the winners on this exchange as I cannot see many of them travelling to NZ (Mum and Dad it was your address I gave out, Christoph the tall 24 year old ski instructor actually sounds keen on coming - I told him to rename himself Michael and he would be very welcome).
So back to the travelling with gastroenteritis. I would advise against it despite the fact that it was a successful mission named the “do-not-crap-pants-on-public-(in-public?)-transport”. I had failed to stock up on Loperamide, an anti-diarrhoea agent, prior to leaving as I do believe better out than in and to keep flushing until it is all out. Time and hydration being the most important curative agents of viral gastro. When Nic failed to keep breakfast (stewed apple and some juice) I was worried particularly when he started to look quite grey (for all that that makes sense in a clinical assessment). Paracetamol was about all I could offer him. I managed to slightly extend our check out but ended up placing him on a couch in a corridor off from Club Med's lobby. He was not a good advertisement for all the guests checking in. Went to check to see if the bus had a toilet which it didn't. Managed to feed him coke and chocolate gelato with some stewed apples for lunch (the coke and chocolate were recommended by Dominique from our ski group as this is what French children are fed when unwell)! He kept this down which was encouraging. He also handled his pack to the bus station which was even more admirable.
The bus to Aosta was crowded with skiers returning from Chamonix to Italy. It smelt and took a while to get going. We wound our way up Mont Blanche to the tunnel (and I think border although you wouldn't know. The tunnel since the fire has minimum speeds, maximum speeds and minimum distances to stay from the vehicle ahead (150m). Slightly claustrophobic trip. Emerged on the other side unscathed although the same cannot be said of my pack after it was unloaded into the mud by some frantic skier as the majority of skiers were unloaded just after the tunnel with my pack suffering from hasty attempts to retrieve skis. We were off loaded at Courmayer where we learnt to our surprise that there was a change of bus. At least there were toilets.
The bus from Courmayer and Aosta wove itself down a valley created by a river fed from the snow melt from the Italian sides of Mont Blanc. It stopped at every village it seemed on the trip down. Villages that appeared to be slowly rotting into ruin with the shingle roofs caving at the center. Streets were wide enough to permit the bus – just. Further down the valley, construction of houses was taking place despite the lack of habitation further up. The style of what looked like significantly older houses was echoed in these new buildings which was surprising. What looked like houses centuries old may only have been built recently? As the valley widened, terraces of vineyards appeared. Withered by winter, these wrapped themselves in distinct lines up the sides. An occasional cemetery was illuminated by a stained glass crucifix in its wall.
Our anxieties about how to get ourselves from the gare autobus to the gare treno were completely unfounded in Aosta as it was just across the road. Purchasing a train ticket was equally easy. Our trip to Torino, known in English for some reason as Turin, had only some anxiety attached with me worrying about where to get off. When in doubt act like New Zealand's most populous animal and follow everyone else.
Trudged to our hostel where we were met by a fag carrying large Italian man. Our room looked clean if slightly disappointing with twin beds. An interesting alcove was attached which appeared to be the remnants of a ripped out bathroom. However all that we were interested at this time in was the proximity of the (working) bathroom next door and a bed for Nic to lie on. The hostel lacked a kitchen which was a little limiting. Fantastic pizzeria around the corner from where I got dinner - 3.50 euro for a marguerita style pizza with real mozarella and wood stove baked more than compensated (Nic's stomach was a little too delicate to participate).
He improved enough by the morning to have cold pizza for breakfast (not what is recommended for a recovering stomach but it stayed where it should). We then managed about 5 hours walking round Turin. Saw the fake shroud in the cathedral and with a lot of difficulty posted back our ski gear (2 helmets, 2 ski pants and pairs of gloves plus socks) to Ashton Rd. I am sorry it did require washing for which I enclosed a hopefully suitably charming post card for my mother (I tried pre washing the socks but they probably needed more than just a shower wash). Happy mother's day! Arranging postage took nearly 1 hour with us having to get little tickets giving our waiting order - had 4 trips to the counter with these tickets. Second trip we had a long conversation (except this implies communication whereas being talked at by a woman in Italian with us nodding and shrugging - hopefully appropriately - probably does not count), the end result was a quoted cost of 123 euro to get our 5kg home. This seemed a bit much but we didn't have much choice – we thought we had got across the “ non-rapide” which was the closest thing in quasi Italian we could come up for “snail mail”. That was until we realised they had ticked the box for air mail not surface – brought the price down to 53euros – slightly more manageable although when we put our packs we did appreciate it. On the fourth trip back having re-filled out essentially the same form for surface that we had inadvertantly filled in for air mail, we had written the total weight for the box that had been weighed on one of our earlier counter trips. It seemed slightly strange to have to go back and fill in the itemised weights for our helmets, pants, gloves and neck warmers. Since we had never weighed these items individually and the total weight seemed the important bit this was very much a guesstemation yet the postal worker insisted it was done! First experience of inpatient Italians struggling with out lack of any language (although not sure I would have been any nicer or more patient). I was very glad not to have tried taking skis, boots or poles over as the gear we hired in Chamonix was fantastic and cannot imagine trying to post those!.
Our first kiwi spotting experience (outside of London which does not count) occurred with me spotting a guy stuffing a Bivouac bag in the room opposite ours in the hostel. Shane was a teacher from Wellington. He had also come from Chamonix – arriving that day and we ended up sharing pizza for dinner. When I meet people travelling alone it makes me very glad to be sharing the experience of travelling with Nic. Although being alone gives a freedom and allows for more easy connection with other people, I like the security of company as well as the pleasure of knowing that the my memories will be shared by someone else who will help remember, and not be bored by the remembering, in years to come as they are an active participant in that memory.
