MEGEVE - MAJESTIC RENDEZVOUS
BY ROBERT RAGAINI
Special to The Record
What do Hubert de Givenchy, the count of Paris, Sweden's royal family, and chess
champion Garry Kasparov have in common? Why, Megeve, of course, Megeve.
Since the beginning of the century, when the Baroness Naomie de Rothschild
resolved to place her stamp on this little village in the French Alps, celebrities of
every stripe have sported on its winter slopes and bathed in its summer sun.
The celebrities' rough-hewn chalets, among others, dot the fir-clad hillsides,
brushing shoulders with rambling farmhouses that have stood for as long as anyone
can remember.
"I grew up milking cows," says Pascal Feige, who looks like a French movie star
masquerading as a ski instructor. Feige is a moniteur, teacher and guide, whose
services are indispensable for newcomers baffled by Megeve's vast terrain.
"I gave lessons to Ringo Starr for a week," he says. "A great guy. Very cool." He
points to a huge shutters-closed chalet. "One of the Saudi princes I taught. Some
of them are nice."
But Megeve is not a resort created from scratch to suit the fancy of the world's
most privileged skiers. Its medieval lanes are genuine, not widened to provide space
for hotels and boutiques. Hermes is pleased to cohabit with an 18th century town
hall emblazoned with bright tricolors and another dominated by a pugnacious stone
tower. Marvelous bakeries, pastry shops, and cheese and candy stores are owned
by old Megevan familes who fashion window displays so artistic they should be
preserved for posterity.
"In Megeve, we practice the 'Art of Living,'" says a woman whose emphasis
capitalizes the phrase. "We honor our traditions, the old-fashioned way of life.
People come here to repair their spirits. They stop, look, eat well, enjoy."
Perhaps that explains why there are not one or two "altitude" restaurants as at
most ski resorts, but 30. The cuisine at L'Alpette, for example, "altitude 1,895
meters," may be high but it is certainly not haute. Simple wooden tables spill out
onto a large porch with views of dozens of ski runs and, looming on the horizon, the
fantastic white bulk of Mont Blanc.
Potee Savoyarde is a typically unassuming dish at L'Alpette: a variety of sausages,
pork loin, earthy vegetables, and many kinds of herbs bathed in a flavorful broth and
served in a steaming clay pot. Yet, even here, the menu lists 38 wines. American
skiers weaned on burgers and Coke have to wonder where we went wrong.
But my lady friend isn't finished. "Other resorts have sharp peaks and rocky slopes.
Have you noticed how soft our mountains are? Under the snow is only grass."
It's true that Megeve's mountains are not intimidating, at least at first. But
levitating over the town on the Rochebrune lift is like emerging from the center of
the Earth into a double-rimmed crystal of limitless space and light.
The inner circle's snowy meadows and deep green forests are laced with miles of
runs sewn together by a complex network of lifts. Above and beyond soar the Alps
of French Savoie, gaping ice-bound jaws with gentle Megeve trapped in between.
Not that it seems to mind. On one side is the Mont d'Arbois ski area owned by the
Rothschilds, then the Rochebrune runs, and completing the circle, Le Jaillet -- a
total of 200 miles of ski slopes and 81 lifts, all on a single lift ticket.
Instruction is available in everything from downhill and cross-country skiing to off-
trail, slalom, heli-ski, snowboard, snowshoeing and climbing. But the most fun is to watch the children at the Jardineige (Snow Garden). Hardly old enough to walk, they are led through tunnels, around standing cartoon characters and up slow rope tows
by special "instructresses." When they fall, the children are unceremoniously
uprighted by the seat of their pants and brusquely sent on their way. No coddling here. But most seem to love it.
Theoretically, Megeve's ski runs present four levels of expertise. Yet most are so
immaculately groomed that even non-experts will find themselves on top of the
world surrounded by the most breathtaking, most glorious panoramas in creation.
And they won't have to wait for a helicopter to bring them down.
Amazingly, this applies even to non-skiers. For them, Megeve has provided 35 miles
of walking trails that thread the snowy heights. Gray-haired French matrons, cheek
by jowl with plummeting teenage snowboarders, insouciantly walk their dogs.
For those who take their skiing straight, there is an elaborate 46-mile system of
cross-country trails. And one of several guided snowshoe treks is a 45-minute
excuse to dine at an altitude restaurant with a return through the forest by
flashlight.
While skiers vainly attempt to exhaust the ski runs -- succeeding only in exhausting
themselves -- farmers park horses in the shade of Megeve's 18th century church
tower. Attached to each is a brightly painted caleche, a wooden sleigh laden with
thick fur lap robes. Each afternoon, when the square fills with colorful ski jackets,
the caleches roll into the streets with their charges of hand-holding couples,
cheerful families, and delighted children.
As the light fades, the old buildings are softly illuminated. Strollers admire the
beautiful shops, stop at La Prieure for a drink or dessert, or lounge on the
banquettes of the Jazz Club des Cing Rues and listen to the band. Then, for the
fortunate, it's off to Nadine de Rothschild's Chalet du Mont d'Arbois for a dinner to
remember.
There are many fine hostelries in Megeve, but the most remarkable is Les Fermes de
Marie. In a stroke of inspiration, Jean-Louis Sibuet dismantled several derelict
farmhouses and reshaped their weathered beams and stones into a hamlet-hotel of
52 rooms and suites, a health spa, and a superb restaurant. His wife, Jocelyn, has
filled the place with country antiques, rustic carvings, fine fabrics, and personalized
touches too numerous to mention. The result is a triumph of casual elegance.
"We are always doing something new," says Jocelyn Sibuet as she arranges fresh
flowers on a huge antique chest. Most recently, that meant bringing the historic
Hotel Mont Blanc in the center of town up to the Sibuets' ultrahigh standards, and
adding two luxury chalets to their growing list of properties.
The surprise is that a week in Megeve is no more expensive than a comparable one
(if there is such a thing) in the United States. And Megeve is easy to get to. Simply
fly Swissair non-stop to Geneva, Switzerland, and head 50 miles south to a village
distinguished by natural beauty, cultural richness, genuine camaraderie, unforced
athleticism, and a healthy regard for the good things in life.
It's called the Art of Living.
