Ok, then. It’s begun and everywhere I go there’s a sense almost of relief; the waiting is over and the Season has started. Just as when the first serious snow fell a fortnight ago there were grins, even as we shuffled about watching our steps in a still unfamiliar way, my neighbours insisted that it had to be, there had to be snow. So it is with the winter season. We are conspirators all of us in the great skiing phenomenon that is the European notion of alpine winter. A few days ago twinkly lights were set up on two christmas trees, attached to the pillars of the old fire station opposite my flat, one set blue and the other white, the more usual colour. Lights are everywhere, attached to lampposts, strung over the streets, on roundabouts and on every public building. They will stay there all winter, coming on each evening around five o’clock. Thanks to the recent good snowfall the chalets on the mountain, above about 1,300 metres look very much the part, with snow covering their roofs and gardens and softening the outlines of bins, sheds and leftover building debris. I notice small firtrees are supported by tripods of timber to protect them from breaking under the weight.
So everywhere looks picturesque, ready for the early skiers. But who runs the show? Season workers do, of course. Across the whole ‘Rhone-Alpes’ region which stretches from the Ardèche to the Haute Savoie following the course of the Rhone, there are 147 ski stations employing 35,000 workers on season contracts. The popular image of young people working the season, living a high-octane life fueled by snowboarding and partying is only a part of the picture. True, they do but many do not last past the New Year. It takes stamina to continue doing for five months whichever job you accepted in order to be here. Hotels and restaurants require long hours, cooking is often solitary and away from public contact, running catered chalets means early mornings and late nights. The pay is not good. At 1,100 euros the ‘smic’ is the basic wage and from that there will be deductions for rent, uniform, food, heating. Renting a studio or flat is unlikely unless you find a person to share with. The wage is not intended to let you live well enough to run a car or live independently. Buying the ski pass may have to wait until January. Whereas persons of means, here just to ski for the season, have already obtained their Three Valley Season pass and collected their gift (a steel thermos one year, multi-function torch another) offered to the lucky first takers.
Although not mentioned by name, I am one of about 100,000 workers, according to the ‘Rhone-Alpes’ magazine, living in the region and directly involved in winter tourism in some way. A few earn very well during the winter months, ski instructors for instance. Traditionally these were artisans in the summer months, working as carpenters or builders. You can still see this in the lined and weathered faces of older instructors. My neighbour, Yves, is 75 and still goes up the mountain each morning to teach. He says four hours a day is enough now, at his age. Another friend has been working on building sites all summer. Once it snowed I noticed he was becoming restless, eager to finish with his building contract. On Thursday he put down his plumbing tools and today he lays out his ski gear ready to join his colleagues tomorrow at ‘Snow Systems’ ski school. I began work this week too. Most ski stations opened last weekend so there was a stream of workers’ vehicles going past the end of my road early in the morning. I slotted in amongst the little white vans. At the roundabout I left most of them heading for Courchevel 1350, 1550, 1650 and 1850 and carried on to Bozel further up the valley. I drive through the town at about 7.30 am passing twenty to thirty Three Valley employees waiting on the steps of the Mairie for their transport up to the ski resorts. Black and yellow uniforms for piste security, black and red for ski lift personnel, not all young people by any means, but each with a rucksack on one shoulder, ready to face a day on the mountain. The first day, a young instructor crossed the road to join them, carrying his skis. He dropped a ski pole; his hands just weren’t adjusted yet. It’s a fine thing to head up from Bozel towards Champagny when it is barely daylight, climbing a road up the valley side with the half moon up to my right shining on the glacier above Pralognan, and the Grand Bec standing out like a piece of stage scenery. It seems two-dimensional in some lights. I often think if I drew these outlines you would say, ‘’come off it, you’re exaggerating a bit’’. The mountains look like kids’ drawings.
The white vans are absent on Sundays, most trades allowing for a normal weekend. Not so at the Residence where, from next weekend the departures and arrivals make Saturday and Sunday the busiest days of the week. Today I am enjoying my last weekend day off until the end of April. It takes a while to get used to. There is a different rhythm to the week. Festive days are for clients, not employees in the tourist business. Yet there are advantages. I am spared the frantic activity on the roads with cars queueing at the tolls on the motorway. I don’t have to join in the mélée at Super U every Saturday as whole families in ski jackets, dash in to stock up on beer and supplies for their week’s skiing, calling out to each other in loud voices up and down the aisles as they push their towering trolleys to the checkout. I shall have my days off during the week, say, Tuesday and Wednesday. There will be fewer cars on the road, no queues where I pay for my goods and time to speak with Katy or another of the regular cashiers. Find someone who has the same days off and straightaway you have an alternative life, parallel to the usual one. Better still, my timetable gives me afternoons free so I can ski, once I feel able to again, every day if I wish, as I did last year.
I shall see less of my neighbours for a while. Those who work a normal week creep out early like me, but their cars will still be in the garages on Saturday and Sunday when I set off. The ones who have retired are less likely to be out so early. Yesterday morning I met the post lady, ‘la factrice’ who stopped her yellow van for a brief chat. It was good to be able to say that, yes, I am back at work now, thank you. Now all I have to do is survive the season. That’s another story.
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copyright Julia Austen 2015