Steve Dilbeck: Crossing the line
Walked over to France today.
Had laundry to do. Alas, there is no place in my temporary home of Claviere that offers such a service.
Since my hotel is a stone’s throw from the Italian entry into their country, crossing the boarder was a snap. Simply walked right over.
In this era of the European Union and the Euro, it’s almost like the whole continent is one big happy country. No passport, no visa, no anything required.
Took a path beneath the highway, completely covered in snow and paralleling a cross-country trail. The sign from Italy said the next city, Montgenerve, was one kilometer away. Coming the other way, the
French claim Claviere is two kilometers away. Thinking the French have the edge in the engineering department.
Montgenevre is a lovely, classic French ski village. A long street of cafes, bars and hotels face the largest ski mountain. Tourist and skiers sat in outdoor cafes, eating and drinking and just talking.
The little shop I was told to take my laundry to is down a narrow, cobble-stoned street only wide enough to allow a single car at a time. It mostly sells things to tourists they forgot to pack.
The shop is maybe 8 x 10 feet. The owner stood on a scale and weighed herself. Then she took my pillow case full of laundry and stood on it again.
``Thirty-six Euros,’’ she said. ``I take home. Back 9 a.m. Thursday.’’
Actually she said ``Tuesday’’ but assuming she didn’t intend to take a week.
My stay was too short, since I had to head down the mountain for the first time in 11 days to cover the women’s figure skating.
On the way back as I crossed into Italy, the police were having a snowball fight. True story.
One started to approach me. I was wearing a hooded, black nylon jacket from Disneyland that said ``Grumpy’’ on it. Guess he was intimidated and let me pass without a word.
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