Aiguebelette

Aiguebelette, ag-buh-let, the name of the lake is as elegant and delicate as the sport of rowing, the world championships of which were held on its waters last week. At only an hour's drive from Grenoble, my wife and I went to watch the finals on their last day.
I remember the lake as dark and cold from a bike ride along its shores on a damp, grey morning in autumn, so I didn't expected much of the place. The difference couldn't have been starker. When we came around the bend and caught our first glimpse of the lake, it expanded before us as a brightly sparkling carpet of a thousand shades of blue. On one side, steep cliffs of the Chartreuse mountains towered over it, on the other, rolling hills with patches of trees, meadows and chalets.
On google maps, we had picked our designated viewing site, on the lake's eastern shore where the shoreline came closest to the race track that was laid out in eight dead straight parallel lanes spanning two kilometers between the little village of Aiguebelette-le-Lac and the lake's northern tip.
A grass strip at the end of a line of parked cars, between the road and the steep bank leading down to the water 10-15 m, we judged just wide enough to park ours. A few places down, another parked car was making an odd angle with the horizon, one wheel dangling in the air. As we walked over to lend a hand, we saw one guy hanging in the upper most door opening like a wind surfer, trying to level the vehicle with his weight. Men had gathered under its nose to push it back onto the road. It worked, the car was saved, and we could turn our attention to the world class sports that were going on on the lake.
We came well prepared, with binoculars, hot water, instant coffee, tea and all. So we walked along the road a bit to find a spot to savour our preparedness with a good view of the starting area. There were plenty excellent spots, but they were all on private properties, which covered pretty much all the narrow land between the road and the lake. Proprietors don't like rowing, because we saw none. Just gates, and hospitable signs commanding us to stay out. In between: tall, leafy trees blocking the view. And so we ended up in the village, on the narrow stretch of shoreline where access wasn't for-customers-only. It was a peaceful place, nice view on the lake, families picnicking, little castle on the hill across. So we took out the thermos. Rowing, though, took place on the part of the lake that was out of sight. We almost forgot about it.
When we woke from our snooze, we quickly headed back up the road toward the narrow break in those view-blocking trees close to the starting line. We shouted in support of the Dutch women's eight. They finished last. A little later, we shouted for the Dutch men's eight. They passed us in last position, and, watching the finish through our binoculars, we were convinced they failed, too. But they actually came in third, we discovered! Well done, lads. To be watched in replay at home.
In the men's single final, a strange fellow in lane six confused us lakeshore spectators. "It's a French guy, he's got the bleu-blanc-rouge on his blades," one guy said. "But he wears a red top, unlike the other French," said another. The fellow turned out to be a Cuban, a possibility too unlikely to bet on for us high on the banks. Although he came in last, his was the coolest of composures of the six finalists; he rowed like it was just the lovely Sunday afternoon at the lake that it was. At ag-buh-let.
In the Cuban's wake, the course was dismantled and the floating bill boards towed to shore, to be redeployed wherever the circus' next landing site. And Rio next year. A world away from Aiguebelette, where no trace is left, and certainly no concrete ones, if a local action group of lakeshore residents got its way, except for the promised economic impulse for local shop holders.