Simon had a rougher time sitting with us at Mass in Saint-Michel, the little, highly decorated church in Chamonix, than he did last time. I’d asked him to pack some books for him to look at in Mass—at eleven, and a fairly voracious reader, he still relies on “church books” not to get restless. His current favorite is a beautifully illustrated stories of the saints. But he was worried about losing it and didn’t bring it, and now he is paying the price of having nothing in English to look at (or hear) but the MagnifiKid children’s missalettes I brought. Which don’t last very long.
So by the end of the 95-minute service Mark had taken him outside for some fresh air on the church steps. Even I ducked out ahead of the dismissal, because after Mass the parish was about to have a party to say goodbye to their pastor who was leaving, and a minute or two into the “announcements that precede the final blessing and dismissal” it became clear that it was really a long speech from the deacon reviewing the pastor’s good works and thanking him for his service.
If it had been just me I’d totally have stayed for the party. They had tables set up outside the front door waiting for people to pass by and pick up their treats. Only imstead of a coffee urn and a sheet cake it was wine and cheese. And after the wine and cheese on the steps they were going to have a full lunch in a different location in the parish.
I would like to tell this priest that I appreciate him. I’ve been to this town om Sundays a few times in the last 11 years, and he speaks slowly and clearly with lots of pauses. He doesn’t have the other thing that makes a homily easy to follow, a highly organized structure, but he constantly makes references to phrases from the readings, which help me keep my mental place. Anyway.
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Leo had the idea that somewhere in the Chamonix Valley there would be at least one operation selling bungee jumping, on the theory that the target audience for such a thing (people who climb, ski, mountain bike, and fly on parachute wings down from the mountain) is already here.
He was right of course, and found such an operation in nearby Saint-Gervais. Here’s the link, scroll down to see the jump team making “WE’RE GONNA GIVE YOU AN AWESOME TIME, LOTS OF SENSATIONS, IT’LL BE CRAZY” faces.
High season’s over so the only day they were taking clients during our trip was Sunday. Accordingly, a few days ago I went online and reserved a nonrefundable spot for him. He was assigned a place in the 4 pm cohort. Mark promised to drive him and deal with the staff without me having to be involved.
Mark would probably have jumped too if he could. (“But your joints,” I said.) Malheureusement for Mark (heureusement for his joints) they make you sign a paper saying you have none of the health conditions on a long list, including vision correction with a diopter ≥ 5.
The eyes have it. Mark can only watch.
I trust that Mark, not me, is the best person to send along to evaluate where the operation falls on the “professional–sketchy” spectrum. We discussed the conditions for “turning back” without a thought about losing the deposit: if Leo changed his mind and didn’t jump, or if Mark didn’t feel right about the setup and decided not to let him, or if the weather changed. This is a type of conversation we have had many times over the course of our marriage—obligatory, I think, when one of you (or both, I suppose) likes to hurl himself or herself down mountains, disappear into the wildfire-prone backcountry, etc.
I stayed in the apartment and made soup in the very-well-appointed kitchen.
Mark texted me pictures:
(“Good to know,” I replied.)
And eventually:
I probably won’t post the video of my minor child here, but I’ll describe it. It’s from far away on the viewing platform and on maximum iPhone zoom. Leo’s wearing a pale green top and has his voluminous long hair pulled back. He stands at the edge looking over; a jump team member holds the bungee slack so its weight isn’t hanging from Leo. You see him shake out his arms, a classic psyching-up move. Then you can hear an English “Three, two, one!” and the gentleman places a hand on his back and Leo sort of…rolls forward off the bridge.
He falls shoulder-blades first and disappears behind the trees. You can see the twin cords only. A full six seconds pass before the cords begin to recoil. And then he comes flying up, upside down, looking rather rag-doll-ish.
The audio features a French woman who was standing next to Mark on the viewing platform. She gasps, and says something I can’t make out. I can imagine though. Other people shriek and laugh nervously, again when he boings back into view.
I should have taught Mark how to say: That’s my boy! before he went.
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As for me, I bravely made soup:
And with the help of Google Translate and an onlinr manual in German, I figured out how to run the dishwasher on quick wash even though the dishwasher has a messed-up display and only speaks Turkish:
When Mark got back from taking our som bungee jumping and I showed him how I figured out how to operate the dishwasher, he said, essentially, “Thank goodness I have you to do this, because I could never.”
Indeed, it is nice to get to work together. Creating this CRAZY ambience! And also chicken soup.
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