Condensation.

Allow me to briefly philosophical.

I have spent that last four days trying to condense my life to airport regulation size and weight, cramming the acquisitions of three months of living in a foreign country into a suit case which is, quite frankly, not big enough, no matter how much I plead and sit on it. And at the same time as I’ve been refolding and restacking and redistributing the weight of my affairs, I have been thinking and reflecting and writing in my mind. Aren’t the two somewhat the same? All this condensing and squeezing of my one too many pairs of jeans is simply in order to send them across the English Channel to that English-speaking world up North. And when I think and reflect and write - that too is in order to send my thoughts across the Atlantic Ocean to that English-speaking world to the West. I want to transport so many things, I want to convey so many things. How does one really pack for a five month stay in a continent an ocean away? How does one really respond to a question like “Soooo, how as FRANCE?!” (Sidenote: Do not ask me this. Well, you can ask me something to that effect, but at least think of a creative way to say it.) If my analogy is correct, my bulging suitcase clearly suggest that it’s just too darn hard to fit one’s life into the confines of airport regulations, and to describe one’s life in a sentence or five-hundred.

So here I am, contemplating my last days in Europe, and I’m again struck with that curse with which writers often find themselves stricken - the desire to explain, to portray, to paint a picture with words. And, conveniently, I am simultaneously stricken with that other curse so common to writers - the inability to explain, to portray, or to paint a picture with words, not even a stick figure. I calculated today that I have taken 2867 pictures while in France. If a picture is worth a thousand words, why...(well, math isn’t exactly my forte)...I believe that makes 2,867,000 words. Now that’s just daunting. Where to begin?

To find the answer to the impossible question “Where to begin?” I decided to look back to, well, the beginning of this little thing I call Rachel M. Grimm’s blog. Do you know what I found? (Well, you could always just go back and look at my first post, couldn’t you. But to save you the pain...) I found that I had posted a little facebook trend that had been floating around the virtual world in the winter called: 25 Things About Me. Of course I am ashamed to have caved to such a cliché of social networking sites, but it does in fact work quite nicely into the analogy I was attempting explain earlier.

So, you’re a person (I’m assuming). And as said person, your life is full of countless experiences, fleeting acquaintances, fading memories, and forgotten dreams. How to summarize this existence with only 25 points? How to put three months of clothes in a suitcase? This analogy works, eh?

Where am I going with this? Somewhere in between shaking the goûter crumbs off of the place mat on my desk, attempting (and failing) to kill one last mosquito, and lugging my suitcase off of my bed so I could sleep unaccompanied by its squareness, I came up with the brilliant idea of doing the 25 Things About France/Europe...for lack of a more inspiring name. And although only...*mental calculation* one seventh tooth (1/72) of my life has been spent in France, I feel as though I may have even more trouble condensing my memories and my experiences and emotions and observations into 25 points than I had when describing my entire personal being in the same manner. Funny how life works. Allow me to begin, and remember that the order in which these points are placed really has little to no significance.

1: Food. Ok, perhaps it is somewhat indicative of my guilty pleasures that I decided to place food first on this list, but honestly, it’s the first thing I thought of. When I return to the United States, I expect to remember the food in France the most. A short (relatively speaking) list of foods that should be probably included in the American diet and/or found in my own refrigerator upon my return: crepes, peche melba, croque monsieurs (and croque madames, for that matter), nature salad dressing, carrot salads, cantaloupe, steak-frites, kebab-frites, rice salad, salade nicoise, salade campagnarde, natural yogurt, apricot jelly, designer chocolates (like designer jeans, except edible), sweet popcorn, nougat, gelato, Normandy pizzas, goûters, and chocolat fondant. How I still weigh the same as when I left, I do not know.

2: Memorable meals. Well, after making myself drool after point number one, I might as well continue on with my train of thought and recall a few of my most memorable meals in France.
- The “American” meal that Isabelle made us half way through April, expecting us to be a little homesick for good old hamburgers and fries and coca cola. Frankly, when I return to the United States, I will miss Isabelle’s hamburgers...they were far superior to anything McDonald’s could ever fathom value-menu-ing.
- Jonathan’s goodbye dinner. I can’t remember the food, exactly, just the events that surrounded the food. Shawna and I were given floppy hats, and the rest of the kids were dressed up in old costumes. Natsu and Marie had even learned songs for ukulele and violin and performed them in honor of Jonathan’s departure.
- French Mexican food. After a brief and frustrating stop at a typical Lyonnais café in Lyon, complete with every part of a calf that was “edible” on the menu, Shawna, Elisse, Marie, and I moved on to a Mexican restaurant that was a little bit off the beaten path. Hot mushroom dipping sauce, chicken enchiladas, apple pie, water served out of a used tequila bottle...delicious.
- Normandy, in general, revolved around food. I will break this up. Night #1 of Normandy food consisted of GIANT pizzas for Shawna, Jenny, Catherine, and me...and yes, we each ate our own. Mine had mushrooms, eggs (sounds gross...but uber good), peppers, red sauce, cheese, artichokes, and other vegetable goodies. I simply could not stop eating. Despite the fact that I was literally about to burst, we couldn’t resist desert. Feeling that something fruity might be “lighter,” decided to go for a peach melba. I finished about a third of it. Jenny, on the other hand, finished what she described as her “Everest,” namely the most delicious and enormous crepe that man (or woman, as it were) had ever seen. We returned to the hotel moaning, and did not move for at least another hour.
- Normandy is famous for war, and for apples. In the bakery that was right next to our hotel, we found curious little pastries that had been shaped and painted like apples. Just out of curiosity, we all bought one. It turned out to be a sweet marzipan ball with a shot of calvados inside - an apple liquor. Super super surprising.
- The meal we ate in Mont St. Michel was in no way particularly good, it is just memorable because of our collective grumpy moods, the obnoxious waiter, the bottle of cider we had to buy, and the couple eating mussels at the table next to us that spent a majority of the meal talking about us in hushed French tones.
Starvation led us to the only Snack Kebab we could find in Bayeux, where I ordered my very first steak-frites. Normany steak-frites are, apparently, not like Provençal steak-frites. I was handed about half of a cow, topped with fries.
- The Snack Kebab in Granville deserves yet another mention in memorable meals not because it was special but because it was eaten next to the Atlantic Ocean.
- While I’m on the topic of Snack Kebabs, I must mention my first time eating at the Place Pie Snack Kebab. Despite the fact that I had been in the place countless times, I had never actually ordered anything. On the last week in Avignon, I finally decided to order a Kebab Frites - and the workers took notice. I found this situation semi-humorous.

3: Alcohol. Anti-alcohol people, beware. This section is dedicated to describing the different types of drinks that the legal drinking age in France has allowed me to try (responsibly, of course).
Demie-fraise/framboise/pêche/insert fruit name here = blonde beer with a shot of thick flavoring syrup. This is not a girly drink, and it is not uncommon to see a very large tattooed man walking around with a pink beer.
Girafs = a giant tube of beer for a table to share. I just find the name humorous. (Giraf = giraffe in English).
Tequila shots, must be done with lemon and salt.
Red Sky shots = unidentified liquor and unidentified deliciousness creates unidentified specialty of Red Sky.
Tequila Sunrise = tequila + sweetness.
Pastis = anise flavored liquor, a specialty of Provence.
Rhum avec du Jus d’Ananas = rum and pineapple juice, of course.
Wine = where do I start...and where do I end?
Grimbergen = random beer that has a name that semi-resembles my own. This does not merit trying it. I learned this after trying it, of course. I’ll stick to Foster’s.
Gin + Grenadine + Tonic = favorite. Or, contestable with gin + lime + tonic, depending on my mood.
Beer + Grenadine + Limonade = a special drink Jean-Bernard made for me on the eve eve of my departure from Avignon.
Pinot = well, wine. I know I already had a wine section, but I just had to mention the Pinot that I had in London with Andrew. As Tom Wagener well knows, I am well acquainted with pinot...but not like THIS! So delicious.

4: La Rue Monclar. Well, as many of you know, I live in the ghetto, or something that resembles it at night. It’s complete with its own shady grocery store, laundromat, florist where no one goes, bus station, train station, Snack Kebab, and a healthy population of creepy people.

5: Indiscretion of French men. I have been yelled at, hooted at, whistled at, clapped at, stared at, and honked at more times than I have EVER been before in my life. This gets tiring, and I don’t suggest yelling/hooting/whistling/clapping/staring/honking at me for quite some time so I can detox from obnoxious French men before I again feel the need to have my apparent beauty confirmed by random strangers. However, I must share three absolute favorite stories of all time that are related to this obnoxious Southern France phenomenon.
- Shawna and I walk by the same building every morning on the way to school. Every morning on the way to school, the construction workers (presumably) who are inside doing reconstructive work tap on the window, ever so gently. Strange.
- Shawna and I also walk by a car garage every morning on the way to school. We had become accustomed to normal honks, from cars that are actually on the road, or sometimes from cars that are parked or on the sidewalk, but one morning, the car garage honked at us. We laughed for quite some time.
- While walking under the terrifying tunnel through which we have to pass at least four times a day, a man on a motorcycle twisted his head around to yell at us. He proceeded to nearly run into the wall, and then almost wreck when he overcorrected. I don’t feel sadistic laughing about this...

6: Shawna. I am SO BLESSED to have had Shawna as a roommate. In her absence, there have been so many times that I have felt the need to knock on her door to tell her a little story, or to ask her a question, or to chat. I’m not sure why we became so close, so quickly, but I can’t complain. Perhaps it was the fact that we were alone together in a foreign country. Perhaps it was our mutual French friends that brought us together. Perhaps it was the fact that we walked together for at least an hour every single day on the way to school and back. Or perhaps it was the fact that in Shawna, for the first time, I really found a friend (that was a GIRL at that), who had some personal experience with tough issues that I too deal with. Now that she’s back in the United States, I feel the ridiculous need to tell her the silliest things. Today, while standing in the shower, I wanted to tell Shawna that I had started doing as she did and washing my feet first. When Nicolas texted me the other day, I literally got out of my bed to go tell Shawna before realizing she wasn’t there. When Levy told me that he wanted to fit in my suitcase, I immediately wanted to tell Shawna. Long story short, Shawna helped make my experience in France so much more enjoyable and tolerable, and I can’t imagine having gone through it without her silly smile.

7: Things of a Negative Nature. I will not go into detail, but a few tears have been shed, a few people have been hurt both physically and emotionally, a few bad decisions were made, and a few dangerous situations ensued. But of course, tears were tried, wounds have healed, lives have gone one, consequences were bearable, and dangerous situations were taken care of, and, most importantly, lessons were learned. Due to the overly worrisome nature of certain readers of mine, I will not divulge gruesome details, especially since most of them are not mine to divulge. But hey, life happens, and if I’ve learned anything from this experience in France, it’s that life goes on, no matter what. I refuse to say this phrase out loud, but I feel as though this is an appropriate time: “C’est la vie!”

8: Political climate. As I have mentioned in a previous blog, I have never felt more present in politics than I do here. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was the giant blockade the blocked the entrance to the university for a month and a half of my time here. Or perhaps its the population of young anarchists that like to hang out on the Rue de la République. Or perhaps its the demonstrations I chance upon, including the blocking of a main road due to burning shopping carts. I have never been a big politics person. In fact, I quite loathe them. But, regardless, you can’t get away from them. Living in France made me accept the politics around me, and renewed my hope that my generation does not consist solely of youth whose brains have gone to mush. While speaking of foreign politics, I just have to touch lightly on a small diplomacy issue with which I have become quite acquainted: VISAS! Yes, I know an entire new breadth of vocabulary due to a small misunderstanding back in the United States. I have also had the (pleasure) to find and call the US Embassy in Marseille, call the US Embassy in Paris, find and visit the Avignon Town Hall, find and visit (at least five times) the Avignon Préfecture, visit (twice) the Belgian Embassy in London, and walk through the European Union Foreign Affairs sector of Brussels, Belgium. Hey, at least I learned something: DO NOT LEAVE YOUR COUNTRY WITHOUT A VISA.

9: Travel. I will summarize by giving a list of the towns/places that I have passed through or visited in these last three months. Paris, Avignon, Les Baux de Provence, St. Rémy de Provence, Les Bories, Gorges, Rousillon, Montpellier, Nîmes, Orange, Apt, La Ciotat, Pont du Gard, Uzès, La Fontaine de Vaucluse, Marseille, Les Calanques de Marseille, La Barthemasse, Ville Neuve les Avignon, Bayeux, St. Mère Eglise, Utah Beach, Omaha Beach, Grandpoint, Le Point du Hoc, Mont St. Michel, Pontorson, Granville, London, and Brussels. Now, that’s just impressive.

10: Photography and Art. As I expected upon leaving the United States, being in Europe has given me an incredible opportunity to expand upon my artistic interests. In making a photo album on my iPhoto to show to my parents upon my return, I spent a lot of time revisiting my old pictures from Paris and such. I can see a visible difference in my photography skills. When complimented on my photography, I often shrug it off and say that it’s not hard to take a good picture of such a gorgeous location. But honestly, the practice hasn’t hurt either! Moving on to writing. I haven’t written as much fiction as I would have liked to in my time in Europe, but given the extensiveness of my blog, you can’t really blame me. However, I have had the time to sit down and write a few short pieces, and even a few mediocre poems (many of which can be found here: http://rachelmgrimmwrites.blogspot.com). More importantly than just writing, however, is the manner in which one writes. Being thrust into a language that is not my own has forced me to look at the way in which words and language work. This experience has not squeezed the “best” writing out of my poor author’s soul. However, it has started me on a new thing that I like to call “literary studies.” Instead of writing short stories, or poems, or novels, or what have you, I’ve been writing “studies.” I’ve been concentrating on one thing, like time, or setting, or characters, or lack thereof, and constructing short studies of each of these things. None of these things are exactly publishable, nor are they even worthy for public eyes, but I know that they will help me in my future writing endeavors. In summary: I am not the world’s best photographer, but living in an extraordinarily beautiful country gave me the practice and eye that are necessary to take acceptable photos AND I have not written the world’s next big novel, but living in a foreign country has forced me to reexamine the boundaries of language and words.

11: My Frenchies. I have to give a brief shout out to some of the French people that have helped make my time in France memorable. I could have spent three months in France, seen all the same towns, eaten all the same food, and studied the same subjects, but without my Frenchies, my time in France would have been cookie cutter education. As most of you know, I am not a fan of anything that can be described with the adjective “cookie cutter” (except for, of course, cookies, in particular Christmas ones). It was my Frenchies that utterly changed my French experience for the better.
- Levy. Shawna and I pondered heavily about the first time we met our outrageously attractive friend Levy, and we can’t pinpoint a date. The first time I remember seeing him was at O’Neill’s, at a time when I was mostly preoccupied with Nicolas. Levy is, in all honesty, one of the sweetest people I have ever met. No, we couldn’t fully communicate due to language barriers, but you don’t have to have the most extensive vocabulary to understand when someone’s kindness is genuine.
- Laurent. My first significant memory is the facebook message he sent me after an extensive conversation that we had about our future plans. This is a rough half-translation: “You are a cute and funny young wife.” (Yes, those are his original words.) “When you have a house in Provence with a cat and a beautiful garden, Call me!!!” Clearly, our friendship was destined.
- Nicolas. Despite our somewhat strange “end,” I am still thankful for Nicolas. I remember one early morning, we sat together for hours talking about our own personal goals and the goals the the world has for us. He inspired one of my first “studies” (described above). Yes, my friendship with Nicolas was a bit strange, and the presence of an extra female in the mix didn’t help. But regardless, I’m glad to have met him and to have spent the time with him that I was able.
- Adrien. I don’t know what to say about Adrien, except for the fact that he never failed to make me laugh.
- Soufiane. I couldn’t have asked for a nicer correspondent. His friendship was genuine, his smile was sincere, and his hug goodbye was one of the hardest that I had to give. Soufiane welcomed me right away into Avignon and showered me with friendship, parties, and new acquaintances. For having blindly chosen a correspondent, I can’t really complain!
- Maxime. It’s such a shame that I didn’t get to know Maxi more than I did, and it’s also quite sad that constitutional law doesn’t allow Adam and Maxi to get married (yes, go to your senators and lobby about this unjust law!). Even though I only knew Maxi for a short while, he showed me such kindness in all situations - even if it meant driving me back to the ghetto in the middle of the night!
- Amélie and Clémence. When I was most uncomfortable at the going away party of Pablo and Diego and the birthday party of Hadrien, Amélie and Clémence came to my rescue. Not only were they sweet, they were hilarious. Together, we tented (or attempted), danced in the rain, and played music. How lucky was I to find two lovely girls in my time in Belgium who were nice enough to invite me to watch Moulin Rouge with them and sit on my bed talking as girls do!
- Other honorable mentions include: Thomas (whom I would like to marry), Julie, Alex, Amil (who wanted to marry me), Thomas (the second), Thomas’ brother (whose name has suddenly escaped me), Justine, Etienne, Dorianne, Bernard, Elia, Pablo, Diego, Juan, and Luna (the previous six being my Belgians, who showed me nothing but hospitality and generosity).

12: Walking. Previously, I always considered walking a little bit like aerobics. When one dresses up in brightly colored spandex and does aerobics, it resembles exercise. When one pumps one’s arms faster than the feet are moving, walking also resembles exercise. However, living in the boondocks of Avignon forced me to have a new appreciation for this form of bodily movement. After map questing the walk from my house to the Université d’Avignon, I discovered that each morning and each afternoon I walked two miles...that makes four miles a day, simply to get to school and back. Take THAT grandma, I walked four miles (not uphill) everyday under the Mediterranean sun to get to school! As much as this walk was quite a bother when Shawna and I were running late, I slowly came to appreciate it and the little landmarks that let me know that we were, in fact, approaching our destination no matter how little progress we seemed to be making. I certainly will miss the Shell station, and the building that looks like the bus station, and the prefecture. This four mile daily walk gave Shawna and I the chance to get to know each other, to reflect on the life, and the world, and the universe. And eventually by the end of our stay in Avignon, we were taking walks of our own accord. It started one Sunday evening when Isabelle has once again fed us too much food, and we thought we might explode into gaseous bubbles if we didn’t walk it off. And walk we did. Oh, how I’ll miss walking around the ramparts with Shawna, taking pictures of the Pont d’Avignon, and of the Palais des Papes, and the fake lavender fields. On those walks, we reflected on life, and we decided that it was good.

13: Organization. When we arrived in Avignon, the university was on strike. Although this didn’t “technically” present a problem for us (said Christophe), I have never been more grateful for Ohio University’s organizational prowess (and OU doesn’t really have any to boast of). I certainly am not the most organized person, but even so, I prefer when all the doors to my classrooms are unlocked, when my teachers are on time, when technology works, when staff members can be found, when 21st century computers take USB drives, when classes don’t change rooms and/or buildings on an administrative whim, and when syllabi at least semi-resemble the truth. So I must say, thank you OU, for not going on strike.

14: Classes. I have previously gone into depth about my classes, so I will not reiterate everything. However, since it was in fact classes that were the “goal” of my Avignon trip (so says Christophe), they at least deserve a mention in this little list of mine. Instead of explaining, I will simply give on last word to my teachers...and in certain cases, it’s probably better that they do not read these...!
- Christophe: You’re a darling, Christophe, and I love being taught by someone that is passionate about the subject. But for goodness sakes, don’t scold us for being late if you yourself have been affected by the Provençal tardiness disease.
- M. Bory: Frankly, M. Bory, I’d like to marry you. Given the fact that I’ve met two of your three children, I feel as though your current marital status might present a problem for this fantasy. Regardless of the impossibility of our union in marriage (I’m only kidding, you know), I was very much pleased with your French Literature class, and I may email you in the future to discuss my impending thesis. Be prepared!
- Mme. Mathis: Firstly, you deserve an apology on the behalf of the entire class. Despite our shenanigans, you stayed cheerful, positive, and guiding of our creative juices. So, all rolled up into one: I apologize, and thank you.
- M. Bora: You are an incredibly intelligent man, you just have no place teaching. End of story. You will write a very detailed and very boring book on Jean d’Arc one day, and I wish you the best of luck, but I will never ever read it.
- Mme. Paturaut: Even though you intimidated nearly everyone on the first day of class, I have to thank you for teaching me the spelling of the word “putain,” the correct conversational usage of the expression “ça suffit,” and fourteen different ways to say the word “cigarette.”

15: Avignon, the historical site. While I knew and loved Avignon as a hometown, one must not forget that I did happen to live in one of the major tourist attraction towns in the South of France. A brief summary of what everyone else comes to see in good ol’ Avi:
- Le Palais des Papes: Built in the twelfth century by the Catholic Church, the Palais des Papes (Pope’s Palace) housed nine different popes. It’s a long and complicated history, but Avignon and the surrounding area used to belong to the church, not to France. The enormous Palais des Papes, one of the biggest structures of its time, is a constant memory of this time period in Avignon’s history. I personally like it because it’s a rather photogenic spot, and the park that over looks both the Palais des Papes and the Rhône is a perfect spot to read.
- Le Pont d’Avignon: Le Pont d’Avignon (Avignon bridge), is famous for two reasons. Firstly, there was a song written about it that is known by most people of a Francophone nature. Secondly, it only goes half way across the river. Built by a pope at some point in the papal history of Avignon, the bridge originally connected the church’s territory with that of France. Honestly, I don’t exactly know why the bridge only goes half way across...I believe it has something to do with it eventual inutility after more modern structures were built. The Pont d’Avignon was useful to me only in that it served as a great stopping point on morning runs.
- Apart from these two inescapable landmarks, I could mention countless old churches, old streets, old waterwheels, old houses, and several other things of an old nature.

16: Public Transportation. One thing that I will certainly miss upon returning to the United States is the spectacular system of public transportation that exists in France. I became so accustomed to hopping on a train whenever I wanted, paying 5 euro to go to on a day trip by train, bargain hunting for train deals, and profiting from France’s attempt to be less like the United States and more environmentally efficient. Except for a few exceptions, I had no complaints whatsoever about my public transportation experiences. Instead of going on praising trains and buses and trams and metros, I might as well recall a few of my most memorable public transportation experiences.
- Paris, in general, was a relative public transportation fail on our parts. We were naive, and silly, and uninformed, and did not yet realize that Sakinah + bag + bigger bag + backpack + purse could not fit through the tiny ticket openings.
- Granville to Paris was the train ride from hell. The fact that the air conditioning was broken probably wouldn’t have been quite so horrific had the train not also been overbooked. Instead, both conditions were true, and we spent three hours in a state of near heat-stroke, choking on our own sweat.
- Upon arriving in Paris after our hellishly hot train ride from Granville, we were presented with miles and miles (or so it seemed) of underground walking, carrying our belongings on our back and attempting not to faint due to lack of food, overheating, and claustrophobia. We barely made it, only to find out that our train to Avignon was delayed by at least 50 minutes. The train ride was accompanied by the most unpleasant 20-minute goodbye of a couple outside my window, and the explosive sickness of Shawna. Eventually, we made it back to Avignon TGV, two hours later than expected. The navette between Avignon TGV and Avignon Centre was equally unenjoyable, as I fell suddenly ill, and our bodies were no longer functioning.
- Avignon to Vitrolles to Marseille to London, completed completely alone, was at once thrilling and terrifying. I must say that I am somewhat proud of myself for having accomplished it, but I will never do it again if I have a choice.

17: What Lonely Planet Forgot. As I previously mentioned, Avignon is a huge tourist attraction in the South of France. The outrageous number of shops selling Provençal print aprons and souvenir towels and lavender scented soap is a clear indicator of this truth. But as actual residents of this town, we did not frequent said locations. Instead, we came to know and love certain other aspects of the town that Lonely Planet simply cannot express in a journalistic and compressed style. I will attempt to relate a few of the most memorable, as I am in no sense a journalist.
- Le Palais des Glaces is clearly not the Palais des Papes, but I enjoyed it entirely more. There were only a few flavors of ice cream that I did not try at said glacier, which is indicative of my frequent visits. If for some reason any of you readers are in Avignon, it is completely essential that you visit this glacier on the Rue Carnot...but only when the man with the tattoos is working. He gives the biggest scoops! =]
- O’Neill’s has seen quite a few of the most interesting Avignon happenings. It was there that Katie met her Belgian, that I met the bartender (more details upon request), that we all went out for our first drink, that Nicky sat with Rémy... The view of the Rue de la République from O’Neill’s will forever be in the background of some of my most hilarious memories.
- Red Sky and Xavier. I cannot express how good it feels to walk into a place and be greeted by name, with a smile and a hug, from the bartender. Xavier, a semi-bald, jolly man in his mid-40s, will forever be one of my favorite people in Avignon.
- The Place Pie Snack Kebab. Steak-frites, kebab-frites, frites, kebabs, and various other combinations made up a significant percentage of food consumed by we Americans in Avignon. I am somewhat proud that I only succumbed to its 129764 calorie goodness once, but I know that I will miss this semi-shady hole in the wall Snack Kebab once I get back to the United States.
- Croque au Pain was run by a French woman and a man originally from Tacoma, Washington, and also profited well from the arrival of the Americans. As previous points have mentioned, the food in France is already quite spectacular, but it is the people that serve it that make all the difference. The smiles and friendly conversation offered by the owners of Croque au Pain made the taboule and crepes and coffee all the better.

18: Shopping. As I recently explained to my friend Andrew, the Avignon H&M was closer to my house than the university. If given a choice, which one do you think I frequented more often? I have to admit that I splurged a little on clothes, but at least I didn’t go overboard. There’s nothing wrong with a little French spice added to a wardrobe! Allow me to outline to you the outfit that I am wearing at this very instant. My shoes, black satin flats, were purchased at H&M. My pants, grey skinny jeans, are from Pimpky, down the street from H&M. My shirt, a yellow tank, is equally from H&M. On top of that, I have a black sweater that comes from Kohl’s (disappointment, sorry). For a little spice, I am wearing a long yellow, black, and white beaded necklace from Jennyfer. To top it off, a short black jacket from H&M and a checkered scarf from a stand in London. (Yes, I am wearing an abnormal amount of layers, but hey, I’m traveling at the moment, and I simply can’t fit everything in my suitcase). Anyhow, my point is that I’m glad I allowed myself to spend a little money on clothes in France. Jennyfer, H&M, Pimpky, NafNaf, People’s Paradise, and Zara, you have my best regards...and my money.

19: Appreciation of Color. I have never been more aware of color than I was while in France. Perhaps it was the fact that I found myself so often looking through the lens of my camera, or perhaps the colors in France truly were more spectacular. Never before have I seen more shades of blue...the pure blue of the sky around 14h00 on a clear day in the middle of June...the faded blue of the English Channel...the blueberry syrup colored water as seen from the Calanques...the crystal clear blue water at the Fontaine de Vaucluse...the aqua colored water that sprung from the mouth of the Sorgue...the green tinted, smooth blue of the water that flowed under the Pont d’Avignon...the deep navy blue of a starless night in Avignon...the washed out blue of the roofs in Granville...the cole blue of the Mediterranean in Montpellier in late March... And the greens! The green of the tree that slowly filled out from March to April to May to June that was just outside my window...the green of the grass in the park near the Palais des Papes, the fresh green of the leaves of the flower beds leading to the Rue de la République...the timid green of emerging leaves at the end of March...the green that glinted in the water that flowed from the Fontaine de Vaucluse...the green of the fields of Normandy, broken with bright swatches of yellow mustard fields... We live in such a beautiful world!

20: Popular French Culture. Being blessed with my darling Frenchies, I was able to get a youthful perspective on French popular culture.
- Music: I cannot separate my life from music. A brief playlist of songs that I would regularly hear while driving with Levy or Adrien, or dancing in a discotheque, or waiting in line in a grocery store:
Même Pas Fatigué - Magic System feat. Khaled
Garçons - Koxie
Wrong - Depeche Mode
Ayo Technology - Milow
Day and Night - Kid Cudi (who is from Cleveland, btw)
World Go Round - Busta Rhymes feat. Estelle
Right Round - Flo Rida
I Know You Want Me - Pitbull
Wake Up - Sliimy
Gold - Antoine Clamaran
Ca M’Enerve - Helmut Fritz
One 2.3 Four - Martin Solveig
Vocab - Hocus Pocus
Don’t Upset the Rhythm - The Noisettes
Like a Hobo - Charlie Winston
Liberta - Pep’s feat. Djazia
In For the Kill - La Roux
Just Dance - Lady Gaga
C’est Beau la Bourgeousie - Kylian Mash
F*** You - Lily Allen
Mamma Mia Soundtrack
Kelsey - Metro Station (which I heard preformed live in Virgin Record, Champs Elysées, Paris)
- Film: Seeing movies in France was quite the interesting experience...a brief summary.
Coco Avant Chanel. A beautiful film about the life of Coco Chanel, in French, zero subtitles. Seen at Utopia 2 (Republique Theatre)
Fast and Furious 3 (? is it three...or four...?). A classic awful American film, dubbed in French. Seen with Adrien, Levy, Shawna, and Nicolas at the mall cinema. A very strange perspective of America. I left feeling the need to explain that, no, America is really not like that. I also left strangely missing American rap music...
AntiChrist. A Danish (or perhaps Swedish...somewhere from that part of the world) film. Incredible cinematography. Seen with Kyle, Zoe, Adam, and Jenny at the Utopia. Confusing, graphic, horrifying, but intriguing.
Looking for Eric. A British film. Seen at Utopia 2 with Kelby and Lance. A character study about a disenchanted mail carrier and his imaginary relationship with his hero, Eric Cantona, a retired French soccer star. A somewhat strange plot with a few awkward scenes, but the film was made by a few truly touching scenes that passed between the main character and his friends.

21: Disparity. I must admit that during my time abroad, I felt a certain disconnect with what was happening on the other side of the ocean. For example, near Week 10 of the Avignon program, I glanced at the Billboard Top 100 Songs...and I knew very few of them whereas I recognized a majority of the French charts. This is something small, but it is indicative of the separation that slowly happened between the United States and myself. To add to this gap that is filled with the Atlantic Ocean, I had very minimal news sources other than French ones. My house did not have a television disposable to me, and so I simply do not really know what is going on politically/economically/socially/culturally in the world outside of France, unless it has a direct effect on France. Although while I can catch up with current events and listen incessantly to the radio, there is another sort of disconnect that has happened in my life: my social life. Before leaving the United States, I knew this would happen. I knew that I wouldn’t have time to stay personally connected with all of my Dalton and Athens friends alike. It’s hard to explain my position. Once my American cell phone was finally turned back on and I once again had free texting, I didn’t feel the burning desire to text everyone and tell them “I’M HOME!” In fact, the only people that know have deduced this from facebook conversations and statuses, and I did send a quick text to Devin Hughes. I just feel so...disconnected in the United States. As I had predicted before leaving, I was not be able to stay in personal contact with everyone. But apart from that, a certain gap has also grown between us that not just daily skype conversations could have remedied. Let it be known that it is NOT because I don’t love and miss you - I just don’t know what to do with the disparity between the new Rachel that I have become and the world of the old Rachel that I left behind.

22: Observations. There are a few things that I would like to point out that simply don’t fit very well into other categories. I will place them here.
- Something that surprised me and frightened me at first was the presence of armed, uniformed guards at certain locations, like train stations or airports. I’m not sure if this is supposed to make me feel safer, but I always got a chill when I saw a group of armed guards walking by.
- French driving is, as I have mentioned in previous blogs, awful. Terrifying, really. It is frightening for the pedestrian, who, due to the sporadic use of turn signals, never know where a car might turn. Plus, sidewalks are apparently not considered pedestrian territory in the minds of French drivers, who often turn them into parking lots. French driving is not only scary for the pedestrian, but for she who might be in the car with said French driver. Roundabouts, although they look cool in movies, are obnoxious. As they are specifically designed to force traffic to slow down, when a driver does not do this, the result is a little unsettling (and often causes the back seat rider to be smashed unpleasantly against the window). *ahem, Levy*
- It is perfectly acceptable to bring your dog with you wherever you should choose...including the hair dresser, the bakery, the grocery market...
- There are more pigeons than people in France.
- The French don’t hate America as much as people often think - they’re more curious.
- While I like Paris, I do not like the Parisians. But that's alright. The French don't like Parisians either. As for the Parisians...well, they just don't like anyone.
- I get the impression that the entire South of France simply doesn’t work. I saw business suit clad men in London, and realized quite suddenly that I hadn't seen that for, well, three months.
- Paper towels are a luxury, and in Isabelle’s house, so are normal towels.

23: Time Alone. Although it was weird to have a few days alone in Avignon after Shawna left, and alone in London after Andrew left, I am in a way very glad that I had the time to myself. On my last days in Avignon, I went on extensive, wandering walks, took lots of pictures, went bike riding, sun bathed, swam, and explored l’Ile Barthemasse. While alone in London, I followed the walk of Clarissa in Mrs. Dalloway, found Charles Dickens’ house, and sat and wrote in a park. No, none of these things are THAT exciting (other than the Dalloway walk, which my nerdy self found wildly exciting). However, it was my last days in Avignon that really solidified the place as my home. I was no longer there as a student, running between this class and that meeting and scrambling to get assignments done. I was no longer there as a visiter, constantly checking train tickets and times to visit this city or that Roman ruin. I was no longer there as an American, in awe over the boulangeries and the ancient churches. I was in Avignon as if it were my home (which, after this experience, I should switch from the subjunctive tense in that sentence to the indicative).

24: Language Acquisition. For the last composition we wrote for Christophe’s Grammar class, we were supposed to discuss our language acquisition. I had a hard time putting it down into words, ironically. There are no bar graphs or charts that can tell me by which percentage I improved each week, or any ticker that counted the new words that I’d learned. But nevertheless, I knew suddenly that I had in fact improved. Perhaps it was the fact that one day, I understood what the obnoxious men were yelling at me on the street. Perhaps it was that I found myself having an extensive conversation with a man named Laurent about ninetenth century French literature while hanging out drinking a demi outside of Red Sky. Perhaps it was that I could now sing along to the French songs I heard. Or perhaps, quite simply, it was that I was no longer afraid to speak. I could go into detail about the grammatical structures that I now frequently implement in my French conversation, or the idiomatic expressions, or the new vocabulary, but that’s much too complicated. Let it suffice that after three months in France, why, I can speak French!

25: Happiness. I will make this last point short, as going into too much depth will ruin it. Virginia Woolf in To the Lighthouse says it best: “And smiling she looked out of the window and said (thinking to herself, Nothing on earth can
equal this happiness).” I cannot recall at time when I was as happy as I was in France. On day, at a dinner party of Thomas’, Shawna looked across the table and said to me, “Rachel, why are you smiling?” And at that moment I realized quite profoundly, that I was happy, and what more, I was happy for no reason. No, nothing on earth could equal that happiness."

Photo Documentation

Voila, c'est presque tout.

Paris, France
Part One:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2007113&id=1417500098&l=f7921ccab0
Part Two:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2007114&id=1417500098&l=09746be873


Montpellier, France
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2007517&id=1417500098&l=c5665e15d5


Les Baux de Provence/St. Rémy en Provence, France and La Cathédrale d'Images
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2007845&id=1417500098&l=e0cd4af396


Nîmes, France
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2008267&id=1417500098&l=83db4a2c61


Random Happenings in Avignon, France
Part One:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2007520&id=1417500098&l=6d07f5320b
Part Two:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2008529&id=1417500098&l=7d4ad0a64b
Part Three:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2009889&id=1417500098&l=76c8727c2


Les Bories/Gordes/Roussillon, France
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2008679&id=1417500098&l=732d31e3a5


Lyon, France
Part One:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2009137&id=1417500098&l=dc5806b11d
Part Two:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2009141&id=1417500098&l=be569798e1


Orange/Avignon/Apt/La Clotat, France...the most random weekend ever, hands down
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2009495&id=1417500098&l=117023af3c


Uzès, France and canoe excursion under Le Pont du Gard
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2009868&id=1417500098&l=3a37b9e4b3


Avignon/Fontaine de Vaucluse, France:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2010080&id=1417500098&l=7bbbd8139


Bayeux/St. Mère Eglise/Utah Beach/Omaha Beach/Pointe du Hoc/Pontorson/Mont St. Michel/Granville/Normandy, France
Part One:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2010321&id=1417500098&l=7fd717ea07
Part Two:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2010325&id=1417500098&l=e104987b65


Marseille, France
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2010684&id=1417500098&l=7454f8f9f6


London, England
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2011638&id=1417500098&l=8005341e06

Upon This Day That I Thought Would Never Come

She decided that she would buy flowers that day. Or just one, rather, a red one perhaps, one of the long stemmed zinnias that would compliment the white vase that sat on her desk. And a red ribbon, yes, that would go nicely.

But first there were things to do, places to see, errands to run. The clock struck eleven when she left, each tone falling on her ears like a leaden circle. Eleven, said the clock, and she walked more quickly.

The market street was crowded, she noticed, for a Saturday morning, but she paused in front of a stand at the market that she had never seen before. A man had set up a radio on a table littered with books and various useless objects that would eventually find their ways onto dusty shelves and into forgotten cabinets. And though she could not understand the Arabic words that were coming through the radio with a rhythm like the clatter of a broken machine, they had the air of a Muslim televangelist. A paperback Koran with characterized figures on the front was set up next to the radio. Is this what they have come to? she thought, unable to tell if she should laugh or be sad. Have they too stooped to this level of metallic spiritual conversion that leaves nothing but the taste of bitter minerals in one’s newly holy mouth? But the clock ringed her neck with the leaden circle of half past eleven, and she moved on.

The man who sold the honey was kind, and he patiently explained the types of honey, and the types of flowers, and how the field and the climate and the bees all change the subtle flavors of the sweet natural nectar. She imagined this man, jolly under his hat, golden under the Provençal afternoon sun, softly guiding those tiny creatures that could so harm him had he not been so kind and gentle with his movements. And it was this image of him, almost childish, alone in a field of lavender, or of daisies, in his hat, that convinced her to buy a little jar, one with his name printed on the front, as if people would acknowledge it before dipping their greedy spoons into the liquid gold of his afternoon labors.

She imagined the way the sun reflected in the gold of the honey as she thanked him and walked away. Behind her, she heard his voice, calling out to the next customer, asking them if they would like to hear about his honey, about his fields, about his bees. His quiet voice that dripped his product in its smoothness was replaced by the soft ivory sounds of a piano, their source invisible. All she saw was the bleached sides of building that had seen too much sun, and the empty streets of a quiet Saturday morning.

A little boy was playing soccer by himself in the next street over. The melancholy chimes of the clock were replaced by the steady beat of the ball as it hit the wall, and fell back, then met his foot again. She wondered what he dreamt of becoming, what he dreamt of living his life as. Perhaps as a soccer player, appropriately, as all little boys do.

She was suddenly jealous of him, that little boy alone in the alley, with his soccer ball and his dreams. He still had so much time. As she walked farther away, she could hear the clock chiming again instead of the rhythm of his future career goals. From what church was this melancholy toll coming, in this city of so many churches? Perhaps the one by the university, whose steeple was topped with an odd formation of rusty metal, a contrast to the worn stone of its walls. She had sat there once, in the park where few people go, beneath the church with the steeple so out of place. And she had felt like that twisted formation of unidentifiable metal, so different, so distinguishable, so banal, compared to the violet flowers peaking their shy Spring faces from the soil. Was she, like the metal atop the steeple, blessed to be close to a place so holy, or simply a disgrace to its beauty? She was not sure.

Or perhaps the toll was coming from the chapel near the 12th century gothic palace that so marked the little town. She always found herself there, in that empty square that opened onto the palace like a wide mouth, when the bells were ringing. She imagined herself, a pope, eight centuries prior, yawning out a barred window at the crowds below who came each Saturday for the scraps of the Church’s breakfast. The present day population liked to forget about said hypocrisy. The palace was certainly a source of income for the little town, and the park that overlooked its majesty had a fountain, and ducks. And there, people that didn’t belong in the little town could look out over the red roofs of houses they’d never stepped foot in and over the gently flowing water of the river they’d never touched. And there, the people could read books in languages in which they were not originally written, and talk in all the tongues of the world.

The leaden circles fell, and she walked on, past the boy with his soccer ball, and the church with Indian faces carved into its three hundred old door, and wall whose graffiti accumulation she noted each time she passed. The line at the post office was longer than normal, so she patiently stood, with her paper, and her intended destination, and thought of the places the others’ packages would go. She loved that feeling, that feeling of opening a box and knowing that the air inside was a little taste of that home an ocean away. Perhaps if she heightened her sense of smell, she could catch a waft of that scent that she had nearly forgotten. She closed her eyes and opened her nose, but smelled nothing but recently bronzed skin and salt. Perhaps the receiver of her own letter, when he opened it, would smell that scent, that distinguishing odor of the south of France in the middle of summer.

She smelled herself, her skin, her hair, and wondered if she too smelled of it. Did she look it? When she kept her jaw straight, her her hair dark, and her back taunt, could she pass as one of them? Or would she always be different, distinguishable, a foreigner in the place she had grown to call her home.

Yes, she thought, this is my home. When she walked by the cafe that sold tartines, on white square plates, the man with the apron always nodded and said hello, and exchanged pleasantries, and sometimes even joked with her. And ice cream shop man, the one with the tattoos on his arms and a big jolly mustache that contrasted his skin streaked in blue lines of forgotten memories, he knew her too. He gave her the biggest scoops when she came in with a smile. And the man who sold her sandwiches at noon, he knew that she liked the orange sauce best, although sometimes the white sauce was just as good, if not better. And the man at her favorite bar, why, he gave her two doses of nerve-easing (or nerve-tensing, depending) tequila for the price of one. They all knew her, knew her name, knew little bits and pieces of her story, but did they only know her as the foreigner? She would never know.

Upon leaving the post office she had intended to buy Gaston Leroux’s Phantom of the Opera in its original language, but she was distracted by Charles Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal in pocket edition. She bought it from a quiet smiling man who calmly asked if she could place her two coins closer to him. And as he searched for change in his little box, which had been previously buried under something Zola, or perhaps Balzac had written a century and a half before, she noted that she had just purchased Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal from a smiling cripple, alone in his dusty shop full of memories of the past. She gently thanked him, and walked into the sunshine of the present.

She regretted her next errand, only because it stole her from the quaint little town that secretly was still functioning in a time period from centuries before, and cast her into the bright silver street that actively remembered the present date and year. She noted that there had been an increase of somewhat dirty young anarchists in the recent weeks. She wondered what they did there all day with their dogs, and how they fed the dogs, and how they fed themselves. There was a man who painted himself silver each and every day, and his hat too, and his shoes, and his pants and shirt. She never saw him posing, pretending, acting. She simply saw him sitting with a particular young man who often wore a beige, billowing shirt beneath his dreadlocks. She was at once saddened by what their young lives had become, and overwhelmed with the sudden realization that she had never seen either of the young men frown.

The night before, she had ridden her bike through the streets to the Opera. She sat in her red velvet seat in the balcony, fanning herself, immersing herself in the mind of a long deceased genius, listening to his thoughts as projected in black and white on a score that would be so many times reproduced and interpreted. Yes, she thought at the time, this is culture. This is happiness. This is pure emotion as my ears understand it. The applause was sensational after the conductor violently turned the last page of the heavy score, and after he sharply sliced the air in front of him with his baton to signal the end of one of the greatest musical masterpieces ever written. The clapping went on for minutes on end, punctuated by tasteful cheers. The soloists bowed five times, perhaps even six. She was delighted, she cheered and clapped along with the grinning crowd. And then she looked at the faces of the performers and noted that they themselves were not smiling, except the four soloists in front. But their lips were trembling as lips do when they hold a smile for too long without emotion. And suddenly she realized that although they had all played their parts, they had perfected their notes and rhythms and articulation and dynamics and trills and subtle nuances of a musical masterpiece, their faces displayed only the emotion of one who had spent the last hour in a somewhat uncomfortable chair, smothered by an instrument that had become like a heavy extra limb, reading black notes on a white page.

But these two here, these young anarchists, as she called them, these two with their dreadlocks and their billowy shirts and their mangy dogs and their rancid breath, she had never seen them frown. Suddenly, she was embarrassed of herself, of being ravished at the Opera, of carrying her shopping bags through the streets of the little town, of complaining when her shoes didn’t match her new outfit. She had no right to be dissatisfied.

The sole leaden ring that fell from the blue sky at one o’clock in the afternoon nearly strangled her as she realized that, once again, she had forgotten to stop time before losing herself in her thoughts. And though she had accumulated Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal, and mused over the emotional and mental state of those who spend their days immersed in the work of someone who would never hear them play it, she had not accomplished her designated task for the day. She would buy flowers that day, or one, rather. A long stemmed zinnia, with red petals and a red ribbon that matched.

As she walked back to her house, she couldn’t help but thing how much more beautiful a beautiful woman looked when carrying a flower. There was a certain loveliness about it, something about her stature, something about the mystery those delicate petals contained. For whom had she bought the flower? Whose lips would grace her own in thanks for such an unexpected but lovely gift? And she thought of this as she passed for the last time the cafe with the man who always stood outside, his hands on his hips, and his apron blowing gently in the wind.

But he was not there to see her pass by, and nor would she be there to watch the petals slowly fall off of the flower that was still so new and fresh and young. The red would look like drips of blood on the desk where she had so often sat, so often mused, so often wrote. But in a few more hours, no more leaden circles would fit about her neck, and she would have to yield to their weight, she would have to leave that desk chair, that room, that house, that little town, that somehow had become her home, whether or not she had wanted it to be. And nothing would be left but the glowing face of a flower that would too one day realize that too many hours had passed, too many days, and would fade, as if it were ashamed of its age.

But until then, it could remain solitary, alive, beautiful, in the room that had seen her lust, and had buried her sorrow, and smelled her home country when she opened packages sent from that land so far away. It would bathe in the golden light that streamed through her curtains on clear mornings, and it would hear the music from the invisible piano downstairs, and it would feel the breeze from the open windows on refreshing evenings. And though the leaden circles would one day weigh down the delicate neck of the flower, and make it bow to the incontestable power of Time, at least she could prolong her own presence in that room and in that country that she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving.

The sky had become blue in the hours that had passed, and the trees had taken on a new shade of green that she had never seen before. It was with this natural palette that she painted her sentiments, and colored her heart, and remarked suddenly as she saw the product of her inner most creativity that nothing in the world could equal this happiness that she felt in this moment, with a red flower in her hand and her feet on the path that she had walked so many times. And with this realization she opened the gate to her house that squeaked, led by the leaden circles, and in doing so she had come home for the very first time.

My Dashboard Countdown Reads Single Digits Until London

Oh, the craziness of these last days. I am going to explain them through pictures, instead of going through every little thing. Hopefully that works better...


So, Isabelle made us these AMAZING desserts called "Les Religieuses" (nuns). Doesn't this actually look like a nun, if you squint? It's filled with chocolate pudding-like stuff. Probably about 15 thousand calories, but SO YUMMY!


In a moment of niceness, Isabelle took us to get ice cream in town. There's this artisan ice cream shop that literally shapes their ice cream cones into flowers. You can't really tell in this pictures, but it's seriously flower shaped! Plus, the ice cream is absolutely delicious. Yay dessert! The first time I went there, with Isabelle, I got a combination of biscotti flavored ice cream and cherry flavored ice cream. It literally tasted like cherry cobbler. So...I couldn't help it, and I went back to the same place with Jenny a few days later. This time, I got caramel amaretto. Also delicious. I need to stop eating ice cream...either that or I need to start running more regularly!


The glorious heaven sent glacier that creates said flower-shaped ice cream.


So, Adam and Maxime were talking about gay marriage legality. Apparently, if a gay couple gets married where one of the partners is a US citizen and the other is a French citizen, the French citizen will not gain US citizenship because the marriage. For this to happen, they couple has to be a man and a woman. DAMN YOU CONSTITUTIONAL LAW!


This picture has nothing to do with my story. Friday night, Jenny, Zoe, Kyle, Adam, and I went to go see "Antichrist," an award winning film from the Cannes film festival. I have never been more disturbed in my life. By the end of the movie, I was literally sick to my stomach. I mean, it was VERY well made, and the cinematography was incredibly beautiful. But, seriously...disturbing. That's the only word for it. And, to make it worse, I CAN'T FIGURE IT OUT. Jenny and I literally sat at O'Neill's for an hour afterwards discussing what the whole movie meant. We have not yet reached a decision.

Speaking of random movies I've seen in this last week, on Sunday, I went to see Looking for Eric with Lance and Kelby (instead of working on my resistance final). It was such a good character study... I recommend it. However, it's from the UK, and I literally had to read the French subtitles sometimes to understand what they were saying.


This picture also has no story. It's just a cool picture taken outside of Adam's apartment.


Speaking of Adam's apartment, here is the view from his door. He lives on top of the world.


Speaking of living on top of the world, here is the view from Katie's apartment. Even though I do live two miles away from the university, at least I don't have to climb stairs!


On Saturday morning, we finally went to Ville Neuve, the Avignon suburb just across the Rhône. It's kind of small, but it's CLEAN, unlike Avignon. We paroozed an antique market, bought some Provençal honey, and visited this random château. It had been our goal to visit Ville Neuve for literally two months, so we were glad to finally go!


Just a pretty flower picture...I have lots of those.


...and again.


Shawna and I love our Sunday evening walks. They are such a good relaxing way to end the weekend, to take time to chat, and to wander around the city that we've grown to love.


Shawna and I made it a goal at the beginning of the program to visit lavender fields. We failed. However, there is a tiny patch of lavender by the Pont d'Avignon. We pretended that it was a real field. =]


So, Avignon randomly erected a ferris wheel. I'm not sure why, but I'm SO excited. Isabelle says it opens next week, and I BETTER get to ride on it before I go.


It's really strange to take pictures of Avignon. I'm so used to taking pictures of all the places that I visit, but not the place where I actually live! Walking around Avignon on Sunday night with Shawna was such a surreal experience. It was our very last Sunday evening walk through Avi's winding streets. And I realized quite profoundly for the very first time how much I truly do love the city, even though it's kind of dirty and kind of dangerous at night. It's become my home, undoubtedly.


While passing O'Neill's, I just had to take a picture, even though it was kind of a creeper thing to do. So many weird things have happened here...


I also had to take a picture of good old Snack Kebab, the bane of my existence. At the beginning of the program, Shawna and I were intrigued by Snack Kebab. We thought it might make for a good late night snack. Oh, how were were wrong. The scum of Avignon tend to hang around the train/bus station, and thus hang around this Snack Kebab. I once saw an arrest happening here. Oh, Snack Kebab, how you have become such a strong image of my life in Avignon in my mind...


Here starts a series of something that I've grown quite accustomed to...graffiti! There is a series of very similar looking graffiti all over the city, and I took a picture of as many as I could find. I feel as though there's a deep and profound political statement hidden in these graffiti stamps, but I haven't quite figured it out yet. Anyhow, this one says (roughly), "And if tomorrow, nothing?"


"On Thursday."


"Forget."


"You're alive."


"Wake up."


"What are you thinking? You say nothing."


I just thought this one was cool...


...and this one just made me chuckle a little inside.


So, we had our final reunion on Tuesday night with all of the teachers and the host families and such. It was a surreal experience. I remember so long ago putting the "Dernier Réunion" event in my iCal, and never believing that it would actually arrive. But alas, it has. It has, and it's gone by.

I can't really say it was sad. There were no tears. We did, however, have to read selections from certain writings we've done in Creative Writing class over the quarter in front of the group. This is what I read:

"C'est dans l'océan interminable, ou le ciel bleu et pur, ou les montagnes magnifiques, que je me vois. On ne peut pas les tuer, ni peut-on me tuer. Je vais devenir auteur, je vais produire les mots comme le ciel produit les nuages, et comme les nuages produisent la pluie. Je vais couvrir le monde avec la poésie, et comment tue-t-on les mots? Pendant longtemps, on a cherché la fontaine de jeunesse. Elle n'existe pas, sauf dans l'écoulement de l'encre. C'est dans les lignes qui se répandent sur le paper qu'on trouve l'infinité."

Translation: It's in the endless ocean, or the blue and pure sky, or the magnificent mountains, that I see myself. One can't kill them, nor can one kill me. I am going to become an author. I am going to produce words like the sky produces clouds, and like clouds produce rain. I am going to cover the world with poetry, and how does one kill words? For a long time, people have looked for the fountain of youth. It does not exist, except in the flow of ink. It is in the lines that spread on the paper where one finds infinity.

Ok, that was a really bad translation. I assure you that it sounds better in French.

In other news, I found out last night that I got an A+ on my French History final, which is considerable, considering my remarkable lack of attention span in that class. It's not as if I'm secretly listening to M. Bora and his drawling Marseillaise accent from behind my doodles and look of physical pain. No, that's not it. I really just don't pay attention. Thank goodness for Wikipedia's article entitled "The History of France," which I devoured before yesterday's final. Woohoo!


Is it bad that I have this kind of relationship with the bartender? This is Xavier, our most favorite Red Sky bartender. Last night in honor of our parting, he provided the table with a round of 12 "Red Sky" shots (a bar specialty, obviously). Then, he made our demie-framboises bigger than usual. He's a dear. When I asked him if I could get a picture, this is how he responded, hence my laughter.

One thing that I've come to LOVE about Avignon is the relationships I have with random shopkeepers and such. Xavier is a perfect example. Yet another, is the Snack Kebab men from the Snack Kebab on Place Pie. Allow me to provide you with a short anecdote. The Place Pie Snack Kebab has been a favorite lunch/snack spot from the very beginning of the program. I am constantly accompanying people there while I eat my pb&j or my granny smith apples. The Snack Kebab people noticed that I never actually eat anything when I'm there. Last week, I finally ordered my first kebab-frite. They were very proud that for the first time I had actually ordered something. Another short story. On Tuesday night, Adam went into the Snack Kebab for the last time. He was chatting with the Kebab men, and suddenly, he was being asked for money. He had never ordered. They just made his kebab-frite with mayonnaise by habit. The couple who runs le Palais des Glaces (another extremely good Avignon ice cream shop) has also gotten to know us, and we had a 10-15 minute conversation with the man there (he gives the biggest scoops, by the way) about the state of American politics. *sigh* It's these little things that I'll miss the most.


My darling roommate and me. Tuesday night, most of the OU group and our French friends as well went out to Cadillac Club after going to Red Sky to dance the night away. Of course it was fun, but at the same time, it was incredibly sad. When I said goodbye to Laurent, I literally teared up. When will I see him again? Ever? In my entire life?! It's a legitimate question! When I left my OU friends, I was clearly sad. But most of them will be there when I get back in the fall. But honestly, when will I see Laurent and Levy and Adrien and Maxime and Soufiane etcetc ever again in my life? I quite literally could have seen them for the very last time on Tuesday night. Isn't life tragic and funny at the same time? I can't wrap my head around it.


On Wednesday, we finally went to this adorable cafe that we pass every time we walk to Red Sky/Adam's house/Katie's house/etcetc. I probably walk by at least once a day. Anyhow, it's a tartine cafe, and they sell a large variety of, well, tartines. In English, that roughly translates to an open faced sandwich, but not really. It's better. And less soggy. I had pesto, fresh tomatoes, and melted mozzarella cheese on toasted bread, and Katie and Jenny both had an eggplant tartine. It seems to me that I'll remember the food the most when I think back on my time France...

Well, I am going to wrap this up for now before it gets too extensive. More blogging will be in store, have no fear.

Nous Sommes Marseillais!

What a tiring weekend! We got back yesterday evening from our fourth and final excursion with the Ohio group, this time to Marseille and area. We’ve been reading and hearing about Marseille all quarter, so it was nice to finally get to go there!

Our weekend started much too early on Saturday morning, and most unfortunately involved the two mile walk to school with our rolly suitcases. Those poor wheels. Why Christophe can’t pick a more central location, I do not know. Anyhow, around 11h00, we arrived in Cassis, this little town on the Mediterranean Sea. We left some of the group behind who didn’t want to go hiking, and the rest of us took off with our backpacks and water into some of the most beautiful hiking trails that I have ever seen.

We hiked in the Calanques, the mountain range near Marseille. It was a beautiful day. The temperature was in the low 80s, and thank goodness, there was a light breeze. We climbed up to the top of a high ridge, where we had the most incredible view of the Mediterranean, of the ridges, of the little harbors below. I cannot describe to you the way it looked. I attempted time and time again to take pictures that could even remotely begin to display the landscape. But I guess there are just some things that I’m going to have to resign myself to not being able to describe. For example, the water in certain sections was literally blueberry flavoring colored. How is that possible? How is that imaginable? Well, it’s not, exactly. But trust me - it was blueberry flavoring colored. I can’t describe it any other way. And how am I supposed to describe the way the cold wind felt when traversing the barren path at the very tippy top of the ridge, and the way the dust felt on my face, and the way the sun played in the backs of my legs? *sigh* In these last few weeks in Avignon, and in France, I’ve discovered so strongly that words simply do not suffice some times... And that’s hard for an English major to say!


(See look, blueberry flavored water!)


(From the top of the ridge, looking down on the Mediterranean.)

Anyhow, after our actually somewhat strenuous hike in the Calanques, the Mediterranean Sea was welcome. We dove into the high waves in the crystal clear water, and we spent quite some time floating around, letting ourselves be lifted by the current and waves. My family knows that when I’m given the chance, I’m quite the fish... Imagine how stoked I was to swim in the Mediterranean Sea!


(The beach, clearly.)

Our hike and swim were tiring, so we spent the next couple hours laying on the beach, avoiding wrinkled topless women, gazing at non-wrinkled topless men, and chatting between naps. Yeah, I burned the back of my legs a bit, but I can deal with that. Burns go away, memories don’t! Ha, cheesy.

Anyhow, we drove next to the heart of Marseille, to our hotel. We showered and got ready, and before dinner, Jenny, Catherine, and I wandered around a bit. When we met outside the hotel, we discovered most ironically that we had unintentionally all dressed in color groups...purple, blue, yellow, black stripes...it was kind of humorous. Anyhow, dinner. SO YUMMY. I mean, I love Isabelle’s cooking and peanut butter and jelly. But it was nice to have a change for once. For an entrée, I chose Salade Niçoise, the traditional dish from Nice. Nice is right on the Mediterranean Sea, and tuna is apparently one of their specialties. So anyhow, Salade Niçoise has fresh greens, tuna, eggs, peppers, beans, and various other vegetable yummies. My main dish was, for the first time in like three months, chicken! I don’t particularly mind the quasi-vegetarian cooking of Isabelle, but sometimes, you’ve just gotta have some chicken! It was so tender, so juicy, so delicious. And accompanied by green beans and peas! Yay for vegetables! Dessert was, of course, equally if not more delicious. To explain, I need to give you a brief French lesson. “Fondre” is the infinitive form of the verb “to melt.” “Fondu”, as in chocolate fondu, is the past participle of the verb, and thus means “melted.” We did not have chocolate fondu...we had chocolate fondant. “Fondant” is the present participle (adjective form) of fondre...and means “melting.” Our chocolate fondant had a soft brownie texture on the outside, but the inside was still kind of gooey. The plate was rimmed with rich caramel, and accompanied with whipped cream for dipping. Loved it. With wine for our table, good food, and some of my favorite friends on this trip, it was SUCH a nice “last hurrah.”

After dinner, we participated in, uh...cultural activities! Saturday night was the French soccer championships, and Marseille was in the running. As the Marseillais are quite proud of their city and of their soccer, the game was a big deal. There were huge crowds in the streets, all crowed around giant screen TVs facing out of the bars. We joined a crowd, and we had so much fun. Each time Marseille scored, it was slightly scary, I must admit. But the atmosphere was so much more agreeable than the football scene in the US. And, to make the night even better, Marseille won!


(Take that, Palmer fest.)

As soon as the game was over we went back to the hotel and crashed - we had an early morning on Sunday! Sunday morning around, we came down to the lobby of the hotel for a breakfast of croissants, pain au chocolat, and café au lait, and then we headed out to Vieux Port to catch a boat to Ile d’If. On Ile d’If, one finds the Château d’If, where the Count of Monte Cristo was fictionally imprisoned in Alexandre Dumas’ famous novel. As I am a literary nerd and in the process of reading said novel, it was such a treat to see the place. Dumas essentially created the genre of historical fiction, and in writing the Count of Monte Cristo, he visited Château d’If and did extensive research to get the details accurate. Thanks to this, the actual cell where the Count was held was actually able to be identified. Of course, I stepped in.


(Château d'If.)

The very top of the Château offered a beautiful view of the Mediterranean Sea, the harbor of Marseille, Marseille itself, and the surrounding islands. We (Catherine, Jenny, John, and I) caught the next boat to visit one of these islands. It was bigger than Ile d’If. Most of the landscape was occupied by tall, barren cliffs, on top of which a quarantine for victims of the Pest can be found. We walked around the cliffs to finally find a little beach facing calm water on the Mediterranean. John went swimming, but we girls were content to enjoy the nice day and the sunshine. We didn’t stay terribly long, and we then walked back to the dock to take the next boat back to Marseille.


(Waiting for the boat.)


(Ya know, just walking along.)

In Marseille, we walked around in a deliriously hungry state for a time until we found a relatively cheap Snack Kebab. I ordered falafel. Yummy, but filling. John had to finish it for me. With little energy and not enough time to hike up to the Bonne Mère (the cathedral that overlooks Marseille), we wandered around Vieux Port for a time. We found a few other people, and Jenny and I took the famous Ferry-Boat of Marcel Pagnol’s trilogy: Fanny, Marius, and César, all three of which we have read in grammar class. It was silly, but kind of fun. On the other side of the harbor, we tourist shopped for a while (I bought opium flavored soap that actually smells really delicious), searched La Canebière for some cheap post cards, and then collapsed back at the hotel.

Sitting down on the bus felt good, and it was nice to nap a little before we had to hike with our suitcases back to our houses again. What a nice weekend...but a tiring one! Needless to say, I got very little done last night homework wise. Oh well. Today is a day off, so I can *hopefully* catch up today!

I hope everyone’s weekend was equally enjoyable. =]

Much love, and of course, many pictures: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2010684&id=1417500098&l=7454f8f9f6