Praz de Lys, but Hardly a Fleur de Lys

         Well, I've joined the police. Or the "gendarme", as you say in French.

         But I am not an officer. I'm an "accompagnatrice," which is as hard to pronounce as it looks. The gendarme de Bonneville hosts a ski association. On Wednesday afternoons, they take about 80 kids to the mountains. It meets at one of the schools and students and adults hop on huge buses to go up into the mountains. I found out that several of my students are in the club. They all saved seats for me and introduced me to their parents. They still use the informal "tutoyer" towards me, meaning that I am just as popular outside of the classroom (or that they really do think I'm ten). They're all in very advanced groups of skiing, despite being nine. Depending on the amount of stars each child has (from one to fourteen "flocons" or snowflakes), they join one of fourteen groups. Each group has an instructor and four adults - the French police take ski-babysitting seriously. French children don't have school on Wednesday and almost every kid here knows how to ski because the grammar schools do ski trips at least once a year. This gendarme group is one of the best in the area because it goes to all the resorts in the area. Today we went to Praz de Lys. 

Unknown skier blocking my photo of Mont Blanc, which is the highest point in the background. 

            I started with the youngest kids today, luckily enough. My skiing skills, which I had heralded as "excellent" when applying for this program, would not have merited me a "flocon" today. First of all, as soon as I tried to put my skis on, my students loudly informed me that they weren't going to fit my boots. I insisted that they would because I had just had them fitted. I was wrong. After creating a debacle, I trudged back down to find a ski shop. The ski shop I stumbled into had the nicest people who refitted my skis. Back up on the mountain, I rejoined my group and skied with the little kids, who were excellent skiers. They did little snowplow exercises all afternoon. 

          All was well, except for the lift issue. The flatter slopes at this resort use one person, bar ski lifts. The bars hang from the cable and you put the bar between your legs and it pulls you up the mountain. Unless you accidentally cross your skis, in which case it pushes you into the mountain. This happened to one poor little boy every single time. And me, twice. It hurts. But we both got used to it (ish).
          In the midst of skiing, the instructor for my section kindly turned me into the seventh student. And I got fabulous ski lessons. Apparently I "stick my derrière" out when I ski. Thanks to her lessons, I ski "normally" now. On the baby slopes, of course.

         After skiing, all the adults have a little snack. They brought cakes, pastries, chocolates, and pies galore...and my chocolate covered raisins were a hit. And, most importantly, as they had been telling me all day, they brought out mulled wine.

Blurry but picturesque photo from le bus.