Classe de Neige

When I was in the sixth grade, my entire class packed up and moved from the converted barracks we used as a school to a chalet in La Giettaz, a small village in the French Alps.

This is a shot of the village square. I think the building on the left is where we actually stayed, schoolroom and dining area on the first floor, boys rooms on the second floor and girls on the top floor.

Our mission, so to speak, in addition to the perpetual mission of any self-respecting sixth grade boy (getting to know the girls better) was to become American versions of Jean-Claude Killy (Wikipedia notes Killy won the Triple Crown of Alpine Skiing at the 1968 Winter Olympics in Grenoble, France: gold medals in the slalom, giant slalom and downhill events). Classe de Neige helped us meet both of these "prime" objectives.

Okay, technically, Classe de Neige means Class of Snow, but keep in mind that the title for our working vacation was conceived of by our New York-born teacher, Miss Fink, and her French language skills came with a Brooklyn accent. Maybe something was lost in the translation because we most certainly we bussed through the narrow mountain passes to within sight of Monte Blanc to ski.

And we did, just like this:

In fact, I think this next one is me:

Really. Yeah, me, deep powder, just like Jean-Claude. . . that's the ticket.

Now days, the village touts its Ecole du Ski Français, with fifteen ski instructors who will "pass on their love of skiing" in either group or private lessons for about 20 euros an hour, but we got six weeks of afternoon lessons as well as room and board at the chalet for about $100.00. Imagine that.

As the official web site says, "Locals, shopkeepers and all our services are looking forward to seeing you at La Giettaz!" I'm convinced and ready to return.

I think I'll write some later on how the girls sat legs-hanging-off-the-balcony singing "Goin' to the Chapel," about our daily tea time and about my first "date," sitting shyly (and silently) beside the girl of my dreams on the 12 hour bus ride home (arranged through a series of "love notes" passed through my best friend).

©2007 David R. Childress. All Rights Reserved.