Pisa

Pisa was gray and wet. It had neither the charm of Florence nor the size of Rome and it gave off, ultimately, a sad sense of neglect. It was as if the entire city thrived on this single tourist attraction (which, when you think about it, is itself slowly decaying) at the expense of other municipal developments. But perhaps we only felt this because it was a rainy (fewer tourists) Monday and many of the shops were closed (it's a European thing).

Despite the weather, Pisa made for a rather nice day trip. We stopped at a local market and were given free samples at nearly every booth--cheese, beans, saucisses, and the best olive I have ever tasted. It wasn't easy, but we finally decided on some exceptional pastries and dried apricots.

The tower itself is...well, leaning. While this fact is quite commonly known, I was surprised at how urban its location was. The sight of one of the most famous buildings in history looming up from behind power lines and apartment buildings is rather strange--un peu surréal, if you will.

When we learned that it cost €15 to actually climb the tower, we groaned our poor student groans (to which I have long grown accustomed) and decided just to sit and look at it instead. And so we ate some conciliatory pastries.



Mine is on the right, covered in powdered sugar and sliced almonds. Inside were hundreds of fine, doughy layers which gave it almost a custard-y taste. Thus the disappointment passed rather quickly.

As we headed over to take our obligatory Leaning Tower of Pisa photos (see below) we were stopped by two highly questionable Italian boys, Jimmy and Enrico, who attempted, in their very broken English, to talk to us. We fled after the initial necessary politesse and took refuge, like so many others throughout history, in the church.



While it may seem that the tower stands largely isolated from other buildings, it is actually part of a large complex of shops, museums, and an incredible church. I must have been in hundreds of churches since arriving in Europe but I never cease to be amazed by the breathtaking intricacies that each one has to offer. It is often physically overwhelming to enter some of these buildings, as one is instantly enveloped in a mass of gold, marble, paint, and stone in every possible combination. While the chapels and altars and relics are all impressive, I personally have a weakness for the ceilings. As you can see, I was not disappointed.

Florence

Where to even begin...ten days in Italy, countless gelatos later, nearly an entire bank account's worth of traveling, bus, foot, train, plane and I have finally returned to Aix. A girl from my program and I just spent the past week and a half traveling through Italy for our spring vacation, stopping in Florence, Pisa, and Rome. I am unable to find the words or the time to describe everything I've experienced, and so this feeble sketch will have to suffice.

Florence is one of the more beautiful places I have ever been. The light there has a most particular cast, giving everything it grazes a warm tint of gold. As the sun sets over the Arno River each night, the city's multiple bridges are silhouetted against the fading spectrum. It's remarkable. And it makes all the more sense to think that this was once the center of Western art.

But this appreciation of art has not disappeared with time, as the city is still home to a multitude of statues, fountains, palaces, museums, and cathedrals. I was able to see, most notably, Michaelangelo's David and Botticelli's The Birth of Venus and La Primavera. I always find these moments somewhat surreal (like seeing the pyramids and King Tut's treasure in Egypt) to see with my own eyes what has previously been confined to glossy textbook pages. We wandered through countless galleries of early Christian art as well--something for which I have developed a strange fondness. I only wish I was better adept at interpreting all the religious symbols utilized in the paintings.

Perhaps one of the best recognized symbols of Florence is its large domed cathedral known as the Duomo, dominating the rest of the clay-tiled horizon. The church itself is magnificently done--intricate frescos, carved doors, layered stone--but my favorite part was its nearby tower. It is well worth the six euros and four hundred something steps it takes to reach the top. Indeed, the view is breathtaking from such a height.

But in spite of all that we experienced there, I have to say that my favorite place were the Boboli gardens at the Pitti Palace. The morning's rain had turned into fog by the time we arrived, and the myriad of gravel walkways were edged by this fine mist. Branch-lined archways, moss-covered statues, fountains, endlessly-splitting paths--all possessed the slight sense of neglect that makes a garden mysterious and compelling. I could have spent hours there, lost in the immensity of dozen different gardens.


Sunset over the river


A piazza and carousel by night


A view of the city from the Boboli gardens


A floating citrus orchard in the Boboli gardens

Escargot, anyone?

Walking home last night in the rain, it occurred to me how ridiculous I must have looked weaving sporadically across the side-walk, attempting to dodge the snails in my path. Large, taut-bodied, juicy snails that always feel the need to ebb themselves underfoot. Whose, really WHOSE, brilliant idea was it to eat these most disgusting of creatures?

Le Printemps

I had initially planned to spend these few days before Italy at the beach and exploring local sights, but the lack of money and desire to make more travel plans has rather quenched it. And so, I've stayed in town catching up on movies and spending time with friends.

Today, my friend Xaviera and I decided to walk around the outskirts of our neighborhood. I've always meant to explore the unknown part of "farther up the hill" but it's usually too exhausting just to make it to my own apartment after a long day of class. The weather was the warmest it has been in weeks. Sunny, clear--the perfect epitome of spring.

We traipsed down long gravel roads, through tall fields of grass and wildflowers, past well-hidden houses covered in vines and colored shutters. We bemoaned the lack of accessible nature in Aix (she's from Sweden, so she understands) as we searched for somewhere soft, grassy, or dry. We finally found a charming field with olive trees, wild flowers, and an exquisite view of Mont St. Victoire.

And so we frolicked.


And made flower chains.



It was lovely.

Tout est Bien Encore

Tail between my legs, heart pounding, I slumped into the living room today to make up with a rather irritated host mother. "Umm, Michèle, can I talk to you for a minute? I know you're not very happy with me and I just wanted to apologize for whatever I did..."

After an entire week of avoiding a frightening 5' woman, everything is finally resolved. Turns out, it was a problem of laziness and a culmination of letting too many little things slide. Go figure.

1-I put my laundry in the hallway on Sunday morning (because I was going to be gone until very, very late) instead of in the bathroom on Sunday night.

2-I left my shutters open for several nights in a row, despite the absence of violent, winter winds.

3-My desk was covered in papers when she tried to clean it.

4-I leave the closet doors open when I go to school.

5-My clothes in the closet are thrown in rather haphazardly.

And so, after 20 minutes of discussion, of hearing how many times I had forgotten these petites choses, I finally told her that while there was no way to undo my past mistakes, I would recommit to doing everything better.

"It's all I can say to you. I'm sorry and I won't let it happen again."

And then, as if an entire week of short comments and critical looks had never existed, "Apology accepted. You know, my brother-in-law has a vascular problem and I'm very worried about him. I was at their house the other day and all of the sudden he stopped hearing, but fortunately I was there so we called the firemen and..."

Looks like things are back to normal.

The Return

Sorry it's taken me this long to post another entry. I've been shamed long enough by my friend Katie's regularly updated, always entertaining entries and thus I'm recommitting myself to being more diligent at writing--that is, at least until next Thursday when I depart for a week in Italy.

So, what have you been up to? Here's a rather brief summary of some of the things that have happened recently (or rather, not-so-recently due to my erratic posting):

1. Camargue:
This is a region in Southern France known for its white horses, black bulls, flamingos, and salt marshes. We were lucky enough to go with a fellow study abroad program who had already organized the whole trip--a two hour horseback ride through the salt marshes to the beach, a stop at a local town for lunch and a quick rest on the beach, and a traditional Course Camarguaise bullfight. These are what I like to call "nice bull fights" where the animals are not slaughtered like their unfortunate counterparts. In fact, the only goal of the game is to remove several small pieces of string that are attached to the bulls horns. As you can see, it's a little easier said than done.



2. Bordeaux:
I spent the weekend of Pâques (Easter weekend) in the French city of Bordeaux with several other kids from my church. Although the weather was far from pleasant (rain, puddles, wind, more rain) it was an absolutely wonderful weekend. We toured the old downtown area of Bordeaux, had a "P" themed party (I went as Le Penseur [The Thinker]), met a lot of neat people, and spent an otherwise perfect time together. I spoke French for three days straight and I only wish I could have that opportunity more often!


3. Chocolate:
Candy is as much a part of Easter tradition here as it is in the US. But in France it is the church bells and not a rabbit that delivers the treats--which, when you think about, is just as nonsensical. My favorite part about Easter in France though is the display windows of the local bakeries and artisan candy shops. Instead of the highly processed, over packaged products you'd find elsewhere, these windows are filled with the delicate chocolate shells of a whole menagerie of creatures: white chocolate lambs with little bows, hens with slightly tinted feathers, fish with bulbous lips, clowns, chicks, rabbits, and any other slightly springish creation. They're beautiful, these bonbons, but you pay a hefty price--some of the bigger ones ranged up to 45€. Although I was in Bordeaux over the week-end de Pâques, my host mom still bought me Easter chocolate which she gave me when I returned. It is a two sided shell (very traditional, I was told) filled with the tiny figures of ducks and hens and fish and flowers. I am proud to say that, after almost a week, it is still less than half-way finished.


4. Losing my Mind:
I'm entering that transitional point between French and English where I'm beginning to lack a precision in both languages. While my vocabulary is not as strong in French as I would like, I'm also beginning to forget basic English words. This week I forgot the words inside joke, alumni, fastidious, and recommitted. Soon I'm just going to have to resort to hand gestures and cross-cultural grunts.

Just Bear With Me

This week, I am tired of France. Of this impossibly gendered, over-tensed, non-accented language. Of the millions of vocabulary words I have yet to learn.

Of the lack of grass. Or rather, the lack of grass not covered in cigarette butts and dog poop.

Of my host mom's various rules that she can break but I can't. Of not being able to slam doors and play loud music and eat whenever I please. Of having to listen to the perpetual health problems that afflict the people around me.

Of being stupid. Of giving up mid-sentence. Of being constantly corrected.

I miss generosity, even side-walks, and having a car.

I miss wearing pajama pants and t-shirts and flip flops to the store.

I miss having a dryer. With nature scented dryer sheets and not the air itself. Where jeans are never stiff.

I miss understanding background conversation on the bus. A list of ingredients on a food package. A mumbled comment from a television character.

Yes, this week I am tired of France. Vraiment trop fatiguée.

Cassis

This Sunday was spent at the sea-side village of Cassis. Sans camera but full of sensations:

-Sitting on a pebble beach. Warm sun, cold water, cool wind.
-Sifting through pebbles to find the loveliest fragments of sea glass; blue, green, white and perfectly smoky.
-Squeals of little naked children as the water met their feet.
-My double decker ice cream cone of grapefruit and mandarin melting faster than I could eat it.
-Watching the old men play pétanque.
-Boat ride around the white cliffed, brush covered calanques.
-Well-dressed older women clutching sprigs of olive branches for Palm Sunday.
-Walking through warm, deserted streets. Linen drying from the windows in fragrant rows.
-Musical melange of guitar, carnival ride, passing mopeds, waves, and the hum of a thousand content voices.

Maybe This is Why You've Had Several Wives

Quote from my French professor:

"The problem with women is that you mix love with ownership.
I love you but I don't belong to you."

Translation

Here is a passage from a short story we read in my literature class. Please forgive the rather poor translation, as it is my own.

From Michel Tournier's "Les Fiancés de la Plage":

Au centre du groupe, la maman, plus toute jeune, un peu corpulente déjà, serrait en silence sur ses genoux le plus jeune, six ans peut-être. Mais autour d'eux les adolescents parlaient avec animation d'un concours de beauté avec élection d'une "miss" locale organisé le soir même au casino. On lance des prénoms de demoiselles ayant des chances de vaincre. Les filles se défient, intimidées et envieuses, affichant un détachement apparant pour ce genre de manifestation.

Soudain, un ange passe, et on entend la voix du petit garcon: "Mais toi, maman, pourquoi tu ne te présentes pas au concours de beauté?"

Stupeur d'un instant. Puis hurlements de rire des adolescents. Ce gosse, quel idiot! non mais, tu vois ça, maman au concours de beauté!

Mais, au milieu de tout ce bruit, il y en a deux qui ne disent rien. Le petit garçon qui ouvre de grands yeux et qui regarde passionnément sa mère. Il ne comprend rien, mais vraiment rien du tou à ce déchaînement de gaieté grossière. Il a beau écarquiller les yeux, ce qu'il voit indiscutablement, c'est la plus belle de femmes.

Et la maman, plus toute jeune, un peu corpulente déjà, qui regard son petit garçon. Non, qui se regard avec émerveillement dans les yeux de son petit garçon.

Les fiancés de la plage...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the center of the group, the mother, no longer completely young, already somewhat plump, held in silence between her knees the youngest child, six years old perhaps. But around them the adolescents spoke with animation of a beauty contest and the selection of a local contestant that night at the casino. They tossed around the names of those who had a chance to win. The girls challenged each other, intimidated and envious, displaying an apparent distance from this type of event.

Suddenly, a silence fell and the voice of the little boy was heard: "But Mom, why don't you enter the beauty contest?"

Stupor for an instant. Then howls of laughter from the adolescents. This kid, what an idiot! But no, can you see it, Mom in a beauty contest!

But, in the middle of all this noise, there were two who remained silent. The little boy who opened his large eyes and looked passionately at his mother. He did not understand anything at all of this outburst of raucous gaiety. Try as he might to see otherwise, the person he regarded was, indisputably, the most beautiful of women.

And the mother, no longer completely young, already somewhat plump, who regarded her little son. No, who regarded herself with amazement through the eyes of her little son.

The fiancés of the beach...

Poisson d'Avril

So I know I promised a rather riveting story of my experience with the French grading system, but I've changed my mind. Given that April 1st comes only once a year, I'd rather explain this most playful of holidays French style.

Quite simply, with fish. April Fools Day is called Poisson d'Avril in French which, is to say, Fish of April. I'm not quite certain of its origins, but the modern holiday involves secretly sticking a small paper fish on the backs of unknowing people. It is also a day where one is permitted to say whatever one pleases, n'importe quoi, with a grand "Poisson d'Avril! April Fools!" at the end.

Here is a rather amusing vintage postcard celebrating the first of April:


Today we spent an hour in class discussing 1st of April practices from all of our various countries (America, France, Germany, Japan, Taiwan, China, Korea, Nigeria, Sweden, and Syria). What started as a rather mellow reportage of our respective cultural jokes ended up in a hilarious slew of French blagues from our professor. While the jokes themselves were amusing enough, it was the near hysterical paralysis they caused in our professor that was the most amusing.

So, you need to know that the French LOVE mocking the Belgians. There are countless number of belge jokes in France (to be fair, I know that the Belgians have a great many French jokes of their own.) But, as I was informed, it is just too easy to mock the rather "slow, naïve" belge (I'm not endorsing any of the mockery--just calling it as I see it.)

And thus in honor of my time spent in France on April Fools, I will impart to you two typical Belgian jokes:

1. Two Belgians were trying to buy a new car. They checked the steering wheel, the doors, the locks, the trunk, and all the other features to ensure that they worked. Finally, the first Belgian told his friend to go outside the car and make sure that the blinker was working properly. He turned on the blinker and the second Belgian cried, "Ça marche, ça ne marche pas, ça marche, ça ne marche pas." Or, "It works, it doesn't work, it works, it doesn't work."

2. A Belgian couple was driving down the interstate in their car when the following announcement came over the radio, "Attention, attention, there is a maniac driving down the wrong side of the interstate. It is necessary that you take caution. Attention!" The man turned to his wife and said, "In fact, they need to say that there are several. Look at how many just passed us!"

Briefly

As I should be studying for a grammar test tomorrow I don't have much time. Tomorrow I will recount the rather drôle experience of the French grading system. Intrigued?

Tonight as I was searching through my notes I found a piece of paper which I had used during my last language exchange. You see, each of us writes down the words from our conversation that the other does not understand. I had to laugh somewhat to myself when I glanced through the strange list of vocabulary I imparted on my poor, unknowing French friend.

It reads as follows:
Liberal Arts
Peace Corps
headquarters
Eco-Tourism
orphan
host family
drama
zipper
siblings
to tailgate
tailgating
honking
to honk a horn
red neck

Only in France...

I find I rather enjoy all the various ways in which I am reminded of my presence in France. Of course there are the obvious and cliché occurrences such as flower markets, cobblestone streets, dogs in department stores, floating auras of cigarette smoke...But it is far more amusing to me to witness the more subtle, often unconscious, displays of cultural identity. Take for example my language worksheets, composed of hundreds of grammar practice sentences. Among the other tedious lines insisting on the correct usage of verb tenses, indirect discourse, subject/verb agreement, etc., can be found some comical statements that I doubt exist outside this fine republic. Moreover, I doubt that any average French citizen would even notice their peculiarity as a sentence. Although I've stumbled across many more, I could only find three for tonight:

Ayant trop mangé, il a eu une crise de foie.
Having eaten too much, he had a liver crisis.
(The term crise de foie could merit its own entry, as it seems to me so indefinable. In effect, it is something that attacks French livers after their owners have eaten too many rich foods. After such a "crisis" it is necessary to cut back on wine and chocolate and to tell all of your close friends of the pain you are currently suffering. All that said, I'm not sure if the condition truly exists)

Nous n'avons jamais mis les pieds dans un McDonald.
We have never set foot in a McDonald's.

Je n'ai pas réussi ma mayonnaise. J'en suis désolée.
I was sorry that I did not succeed in my mayonnaise.
(Because as everyone knows, it is an absolute abomination to buy mayonnaise from the store.)

Man of my Dreams!?!

This Thursday, sitting happily alone on a bench in the school courtyard, I was approached by an elderly man (read: anywhere from 60 to 75). I had my headphones on, several open books in my lap, and was clearly not interested in being interrupted. Despite this otherwise obvious sign, he began to talk to me. Mundanely, at first, with an accent so strong that I struggled to understand him. And then, in that way so seemingly natural to French men, it became, "So, are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? Do you have liaisons?" He began this lengthy tangent about amour, none of which I understood due to his accent, and I was slightly flabbergasted as to how best respond. And then he invited me to lunch and this conference at the local cathedral about the life of St. Paul. When I told him I couldn't go, he proceeded to give me ALL of his contact information--address, two email addresses, phone numbers...At one point, he couldn't remember one of his phone numbers and so he pulled an immense magnifying glass out of his pocket to look in the phone book of his cell phone for the number. I, ever unable to say no and thinking that I would never have to see him again, consented to give him my cell-phone number when he asked for it. Clearly, I thought, I just won't answer when he calls.

And so the whole event seemed comically concluded by Friday afternoon; nothing more than another excuse to make fun of French men. It was for this reason that I thought nothing of my ringing phone. I answered it, excited by the French number, only to be greeted by the gravelly and practically incomprehensible voice of Jean, my geriatric new love. He invited me to lunch on Saturday, if the weather was nice. Being that I am terrible in situations like this even in my own language, I stammered out a response of "I'm completely busy this weekend (which was true) but I will get back to you about a later time (which wasn't so true)." When I recounted the whole tale to a German girl in my class, she offered to call him back for me. She, pretending to be me, thanked him for the offer but replied that she/I wasn't interested. Oh, how I appreciate these blunt, take-charge Germans!

When I told the story to my host mom that night she replied, "Well it looks like you've found the man of your dreams. Or rather, the grandfather of your dreams!"

And thus ends my oh-so-fortunately short-lived French romance.

La Vie à la Rue

I enjoy people, I do. And yet I've always considered myself to be somewhat distant, independent, unaffected by the actions of others. In this regard, France has served me well. I am able to walk through the streets completely uninterrupted, singing or talking to myself if I please. No one will look or make anything that can be construed as acknowledgment. The streets of Aix, crowded as they may be, are one of the few public places in which you can completely retreat to your own planet.

And yet, there are times in which you feel like sidling up to the unknown woman on the bus and singing into her ear how lovely a day it is. Or smiling at the old man you pass on the sidewalk; smiling so warmly so as to tint the rest of his day a little brighter. There are no patting the heads of loitering children here. No cooing over babies or matted dogs or to-die-for shoes. No haphazard run-ins with people you haven't seen in months. You walk with purpose, your gaze fixed ahead, avoiding potential eye contact and unfortunate run-ins with mopeds.

But then, one day, after having lived in France long enough to know more than the two people you live with, you are surprised to see someone you recognize--the lady with the green reusable shopping bag, perhaps. The server from the restaurant. The old woman with shockingly light blue eyeliner. And as time passes, these encounters are more frequent, until the day when you finally see someone you know. Really know. And you stop in the street and kiss their cheeks and feel, for that little moment, so fulfilled to have actually touched a person in the rue. It's at this moment when you finally appreciate these small instances of contact, of Provençal warmth, of the French romantic sensibility. Passing classmates on the way to the market. Strolling arm in arm with a copine. Chance meetings in the school courtyard. Knowing that the woman in the corner store recognizes you and charges you less for oranges. Hearing someone address you as you walk, be it only a pardon or merci or excusez-moi.

I tried today to explain to my language exchange partner that, where I come from, it's considered rude to not acknowledge a person in passing. "Really?!?" she said. "That is so much better. The French are too serious."

Trop serieux.

The Endive: Save Your Tongue the Agony

I rather enjoy eating. As this is something I've known for some time, you can imagine my excitement and expectation in coming to one of the most culinarily celebrated cultures on the planet. And France has not disappointed. Lamb cutlets, delicate slices of saucisse, roasted pork with homemade mayonnaise. New turnips, potatoes au gratin, fleshy Tunisian oranges with flecks of red under their skin. Lemon meringues, fresh fruit tarts, canelles, crèpes, chocolate flan, éclairs, pears in chocolate sauce, madeleines...

While it may seem that I am simply a gourmand (which is probably true) I have to draw the line of edibility somewhere. And while I preach tolerance in all other realms of life, I must confess here: I detest endives. They are not even worth the effort it takes to pluck them from the ground. As the vegetable racist I have come to be, I cannot support the eating of this, the most galling of foods the earth has ever produced. Imagine an ear-wax flavored piece of celery, sometimes baked with ham and cheese, sometimes cooked with sugar and crème fraîche. This is the endive. Avoid it at all costs.

In more positive news, I learned how to knit tonight.

Une poème

Not much to report on the French side of things. Sun and school. Eating and walking. Du jour au lendemain.

Today I received an email from my little sister in which she had written the most adorable poem:

The Eiffel Tower is so far away, why don't you visit it another day?
You will be safe in France I pray
Can't wait to see you at the end of May!

Le Lundi au Soleil

Here is a rather cheesy 70s French song that seems to describe my day quite completely. For you non-Francophiles out there, the title simply means "Monday in the Sun" (pour les Francophiles, il faut que vous me corrigiez si je suis trompée.)

I sat through my one class of the day and proceeded directly to the park to eat my lunch. I napped in the sun while the nearby boy strummed his guitar and the high school truants wrestled in the grass. Ahhh, this life of leisure is going to be hard to leave.

A Change in Plans is Not Always a Bad Thing

At least, this is what I tell myself. Today should have gone like this: wake up leisurely after having showered last night, enjoy breakfast, catch the 7:18 bus, make it to the Gare Routière (bus station) by 7:40, spend the whole day in Arles with my program, see the inspiration of Van Gogh's The Night Café and an old Roman amphitheater, return happily home by 6 pm. But since real life does not always proceed the way we feel it should, this is how it really went: woke up at 6:50 after only 5 hours of sleep, took a shower this morning, was told by my somewhat irritated host mother that I had made too much noise so early in the morning, ate breakfast at the bus stop, decided that I had missed the bus and so would walk to the stop of another line only to be passed by the very bus I needed, waited for the different bus that had a much longer and indirect route to the Gare Routière, ended up missing the bus to Arles by 5 minutes, learned that the next bus wasn't until 2 pm.

Stop.

At this point in the morning when I was wallowing in the self pity of a wasted day, I discovered that two other girls in my program had missed the bus as well. Although it didn't quite nullify my exclusion from Arles, we decided to enjoy ourselves the best we could. And what wonderful a day it turned out to be! While they returned home to shower and change, I wandered through the Saturday market at the Palais de Justice (courthouse). I was undeniably irritated when I entered the square, but there was something magical about the market that completely lightened my mood. Perhaps it was the sensation of walking past stalls of dried lavender and scented Savon de Marseille. Perhaps it was the new shirt I bought. Perhaps it was seeing someone I knew in public, making me all the more an inhabitant of Aix. Or it simply could have been that the narrow walkways were crowded with people in brightly colored outfits, fashionably shouting that the blacks and grays and plums of winter are finally over. It was there that I met Sam and Greta and we proceeded to buy items for our planned picnic at the Parc Jourdain.

Want to know what we had? A huge loaf of bread, uniquely shaped and still coated in flour. A baguette with olives baked in it. Salami. Tapenade made with sun-dried tomatoes, basil, salt, and olive oil. Yogurt. Clementines. Pears. A raspberry custard tart. A lemon almond tart. A chocolate Caribbean tart.

We sat there on the grass, surrounded by bags of food, simply talking and enjoying the nearly-forgotten warmth of the sun. It was perfect, this afternoon. Full of food and indolence, good company and pleasant surroundings.

When I finally had to leave to meet another group of friends for dinner, I was surprised to find a large mass of people standing on the sidewalk of the Cours Mirabeau. As I approached, I saw that there was a jazz band playing in front of the steps of a local store (basically the French equivalent of Target), surrounded by at least 50 spectators. They were incredible, and the blatant spring-ness in the air made their music all the more appealing. I wish I could have put more than one euro in their open guitar case but, after all, I have to live too!

Dinner was held at my friend Rezzi's villa. Yes, villa. She lives only 5 minutes away from me in a huge Provençal house with 12 other people. The villa has vines growing on the walls, a red-tiled roof, and a view of the surrounding country side unlike any other. In the afternoon, the sun falls onto the back porch in thick bands, warming everything for hours. I love it there. Today I was invited to a BBQ hosted by her housemates. We had grilled sausages and hamburgers and charcoal roasted Camembert topped with herbes de provences. The food was good, the conversation better, and I spent a thoroughly pleasant evening sitting and talking and eating.

Although Arles would have been amazing, I would not exchange it for this languid, initially ruined day. I would not choose it over the sunburn I've developed, the food I've eaten, and the people I've encountered. Sometimes a change in plans is really for the best.

Pictures and Other Things

Here's the link to my pictures of Egypt on picasa. There are not very many and of course they do no justice to the reality of the place, but they will just have to suffice until you can see Cairo for yourself!

And since I realize this post is a little dry, I'll also leave you a link for a great Algerian singer I discovered while in Egypt. Her name is Souad Massi. Heard of her before? Well, here's a good start: Ech edani, Houria, and Hagda wala akter.

Se Vanter

So I know I just barely made a post, but I need to take a moment to revel in the change that has occurred tonight. After nearly a month and a half of living with them, Alain and Michèle have finally told me to exchange my vous (formal "you") form of address for the tu (informal "you") in conversation with them. Yay for tutoyer!

Calling all Paupers

To all you impoverished students and not-so-impoverished working-folk, I would like to offer a little advice: go to Cairo. Why? Because it is quite possibly the only time you will ever feel as if you've just walked out of the Monte Carlo casino with all the potential of the world contained in your wallet.

As proof of my week of opulence, here is a summary of only a portion of my spending: (EGP stands for Egyptian pounds)

A pair of prescription sunglasses: 150 EGP ($26)
A huge bag of hand blown glass items : 50 EGP ($9)
A thirty minute taxi ride : 35 EGP ($6)
A very good haircut: 100 EGP ($18)
A 4 course meal on a boat on the Nile for 3 people: 266 EGP ($47)
A one night stay in a hotel with a private bathroom : 60 EGP ($11)
Student museum admission : 25 EGP ($4)
A metro ticket : 1 EGP ($0.18)

So, who's ready to feel like a millionaire?

Deserted

Sorry for my somewhat lengthy neglect, but I've been rather preoccupied with vacationing. I returned to France just last night (after one taxi ride, two shuttles, two flights, an 8 hour layover, and two bus rides home) where I promptly indulged myself in a 12 hour night's sleep. And so, I begin in retrospect to finally recount my adventures in Egypt.

On Saturday I returned from an overnight safari in the desert with my Egyptian friends and I know of no way to adequately describe it to you. It is a place that belongs most closely to satellite pictures of distant, rocky planets; a place other-worldly. Heba, Mahmoud, and I all left Friday morning from our hotel in the small oasis village of Bawati for our one night safari in the desert. Since we had arrived at the hotel in the middle of the night, it was surprising to wake up to the sound of roosters and the utter barrenness of the surrounding desert. At the hotel we were joined by our very Bedouin guide and another American tourist named Zach (who looked alarmingly like my father in his teens). It took several hours to drive the 190 miles into the bowels of the Black and White deserts and our guide made several stops to let us climb large dunes, collect crystals, wash our faces in mineral springs, and rest under a palm-shaded oasis.

Cruising over sand dunes and past bizarre rock formations at speeds reaching nearly 80 mph, we finally found ourselves deep in the heat and solitude of the New White desert. Our guide began to set up camp with the supplies he had brought while we watched the sun set against the contrast of thousands of chalky, white rocks. It was so peaceful, that evening, listening to the music of my friends' Arabic fall around us, magnifying the utter silence of the desert. After our guide prepared an absolutely exquisite (and yet incredibly simple) meal over the campfire, we stretched under our blankets and slept under the vast desert sky. At one point in the night we were awakened by a strange chirping sound. As the moon was nearly full, we were able to see the silhouettes of two slim desert foxes enjoying the remains of our meal, scampering through camp in celebration of their fortunate find. Eventually, the weight of the blankets and our meal put everyone into a deep and contented sleep.

Around 6:30 the next morning I awoke suddenly to an unknown but albeit odd sensation. I sat up abruptly only to find everything completely as we had left it the night before. When I laid back down, the feeling (similar to a cat dancing up and down my legs) recommenced. So again I sat up to find nothing but my sleeping companions. By the third time, I was completely alert and decided to approach the problem more stealthily. As I slowly emerged from my blankets, I saw at my feet a desert fox (presumably one from the night before) staring at me. And so my friends, I have been pranced on by a fox in the middle of the desert. Erwin Rommel, I have met your namesake. In truth, I didn't really mind that the little guy felt like scampering on my torso at 6 in the morning, but I was a little scared that he wanted to nibble on my face. So after a few more kicks of my feet, he finally left.

Several hours later, we packed up the jeep and began the 3 hour journey back to the hotel. The wind was strong that afternoon and we eventually found ourselves in the middle of a sandstorm. At several points in the trip the air was so dense with sand that it was impossible to see the road. Although I was certain that our guide knew the road and the weather well, I am still surprised that we survived the journey home. Between swerving cars, huge sand drifts, and reckless speeding there were times when I feared that I had survived Cairo on my own only to die in the desert. Fortunately, that was not the case.

Although I've seen pictures of the desert my entire life, the immense reality of the place cannot compare to any representation. It possesses a beauty and strangeness I have never before seen; an atmosphere which I will forevermore respect and remember.


The beginnings of sunset


The camp


The white desert


The sandstorm

Clips from Cairo

I have successfully been in Egypt for two full days now and with the passing time I am growing to love Cairo more and more. It is overwhelming and somehow comfortable at the same time. While cars hurtle through the streets with the seeming desire to flatten anything that is stupid enough to be in their paths of trajectory, it is also possible to see wooden carts pulled by donkeys ebbing slowly through the masses of people that line the road. I think it is this melange between traditional and modern that, in part, makes the city so compelling for me.

And yet, it is a place in which I am constantly foreign. I've never before been so utterly aware of my American-ness. Although I have never once sensed a feeling of hostility, I am constantly looked at. Today as I rode in the womens car of the metro (I didn't really feel the desire to be potentially harassed in the mixed car) the stares were quite blantant--not disturbing or rude in the slightest, but nevertheless present.

More Reasons Why I Love My Host Family

Now don't get me wrong real family, I love you too. It's just that you're not really here at the moment and thus I am unable to provide my multitude of readers with amusing familial anecdotes. But as Michèle and Alain seem to be constantly adorable, they will just have to be the subject of my stories for the next few months.

1-We spent the night of Mardi Gras eating beignets and debating what the lumps of fried dough resembled. Alain made fun of me when I tried to explain that one looked like the bagpipes, but he can't really talk because his top suggestion of the night was one that (somehow) looked like a penguin dancing with a flamingo.

2- Last week I asked them where I could find a good used bookstore because I was looking for Madame Bovary. The next night when I came into the kitchen for dinner, I found an old copy of the book sitting at my place. "What's this?" I asked. "Alain brought it for you from his father's house," Michèle replied. "For you to keep."

3-Being that they are both huge amateur Egyptologists, I have been thoroughly overwhelmed with homemade travel movies, photo albums, and suggested sites to tour. Alain has also equipped me with a few things he finds necessary for Egypt: a wind-up flashlight to look at the engravings better, several pages with pictures and names of places I must visit, and a really cool belt that has a zipper on the inside to hide drugs or money or something worth stashing.

4-I walked into the apartment after class today to be greeted by an amazing smell emanating from the kitchen. "Mmmmmm," I sighed as I passed by the door. "It's soap," Michèle said. "Really?" Laughter. I don't know why she finds it so terribly funny to mislead me like that. Turns out it was our dessert: a lemon meringue tart that was most delicious. At one point she said that it was for me, but I couldn't understand the rest of her sentence. Why? Because I'm going to Egypt tomorrow? Because she knows how much I love desserts? In fact, it doesn't really matter why. It was incredible all the same.

Past, Present, Future

Sorry for petite repose, but I've been lazy lately. Sore too. I've only just recovered from climbing Mt. Saint Victoire (pictures are on Facebook if you are interested). Please understand that there is a great difference between hiking and climbing and I use this verb quite intentionally. But sore muscles, a cut face, and several wrong turns aside, it was an absolutely amazing day with an equally stunning view. Southern France has got to be one of the prettiest regions I have ever seen and an elevation of 3000 only increases the magnitude of the beauty.

Today was a completely carefree day as I spent it, practically, doing rien. Nothing. My first and only class today started at 10 and so I leisurely got up, ate a huge pain au chocolat, and walked to the institute. Spring is finally ebbing its way into Provence, but my host mother still made me wear a coat for fear of the cold. "You Americans always think that sun means a warm day," she said. And, like almost always, she was right. After class ended I met up with my wonderful (and pretty much only) French friend, Laura. We ended up getting lunch and walking around parts of Aix. I can't tell you how much it helps (and often how frustrating it is) to be able to speak French with someone for 5 consecutive hours. When I finally returned home for dinner, I found Michèle in the kitchen completely surrounded by bottles. Her response when I asked her what she was doing? "Making alcohol." She laughed and Alain piped in, "You know the word péché (sin)...?" "Ahhh," I said. "Well, I'm sure there are worse things." When she managed to clear the table of the bottles, we had a nice dinner of vegetable soup, potatoes, lamb (literally collier d'agneau or lamb throat) and bread. And I, ever the glutton, had maronsui's (basically a sweet, chestnut mousse) for dessert.

But our first vacation (Yes, we get two breaks in one semester. For a total of 3 weeks vacation. This is France, you know) is coming up next Monday and I can't wait becaussssse...I'm going to Egypt. I have a dear dear friend who lives there with her husband and I'm going to be able to do Cairo with her. I've been looking forward to this for months but I feel slightly worried being that there was a bomb attack in a tourist area of Cairo only several days ago. I would like to be able to come back and finish the rest of my time here. For my parents and those others who feel like cautioning me, don't worry. I'll be careful. But I'm still going.

Moment: Thursday afternoon.

There were four of us at the café. With two coffees. I knew better than to take up space like that, especially at a café as high-class as the Deux Garçons (a famous haunt of Cezanne and Zola).

As we sat down, I saw the woman sitting next to us--fat, overly made-up, sucking a huge cigar--grab a chair from our table to hers. We explained that we were expecting someone else and she pointed behind her and told us to get another chair. After my friends ordered their coffee, she leaned in and asked us how many drinks we had gotten. "Is the waiter coming? Did he understand you?" she asked my German friend, insinuating that her accent was far too poor to be understood.

In an impeccably timed movement, the waiter arrived just then and delivered the properly ordered coffee.

When our oh-so-charming neighbor's friend arrived, she gestured towards us in contempt. "Two drinks and four places, can you believe that?"

So you know what, French lady? Suck on your cigar. At least we're young and thin and have better things to do than insult foreigners.

A Month in Review

It's hard to believe that one month ago, almost at this very moment in fact, I was driving to Atlanta to make my departure flight to France. If every month goes as quickly as this, I fear that France will start slipping away faster than I can experience it.

The other night I dreamed that I had returned home and was welcomed by all of my friends and family after my long absence. But the only thing I could think was how upset I was to leave France, as I hadn't accomplished everything I had wanted to; as if I had been extracted from something wonderful far too early.

But even if I were forced to leave now, I would be completely content with the time I have passed here. This has been an overwhelming month of firsts and I will never forget it. These firsts include eating rabbit and rooster, dancing in a disco, touching the Mediterranean, functioning entirely in French, walking into the Monte Carlo casino, and getting a hot baguette from the bakery. It has been a wonderful melange of simple and grand but I can't help feeling that the best is yet to come.

Monaco

View from the palace garden. See the sailboats in the background?View of the Monte Carlo casino at night

View of the bay from the palace

There are moments in life when one is made fully, if not abruptly, aware of one's status in the world. For me, this would be the status of impoverished student. And so I tell you that there is no better place in the world than Monaco to hand you this realization (on a golden platter of course.) I have never before experienced a place that exudes wealth so completely; that so thoroughly reminds you of your exclusion from a lifestyle of excess. But although it may seem otherwise, Monaco is not entirely perfect. There is discarded gum on the sidewalks and people in ill-fitting track-suits that serve, fortunately, as a reminder of the reality of the place. That said, it is also a place where orange trees and placid policemen line the streets. Where sunny, open-air markets hum with the sounds of buyers and sellers and local children. Where hundred dollar meals, thousand dollar coats, and million dollar yachts are readily available to anyone with the funds. Where the glow of a real palace rises above the rest of the city.

Although I hardly have the credibility to say so after just spending one day there, I believe the best part of Monaco is the palace gardens. As the palace itself is elevated from the rest of the city, the garden seems to hang magically from the side of a cliff, giving one a most incredible view of the sea and the nearby Italian shore. The weather was absolutely perfect the day we were there and I could not help feeling that I had witnessed a small portion of heaven. Blooming flowers, meandering pathways, shady trellises, sailboats dancing coquettishly in the distance...I wish you all could have seen it.

I suppose Walt Disney has disappointed me again as I found the palace itself to be somewhat lacking. The architecture and surrounding statues were beautiful, but not as appropriately palatial as I would have expected. The changing of the guard at precisely 11:55 was interesting to watch but, again, it seemed kind of farcical to me, as if it were all a big game of make-believe. The royal family, however, is entirely real and their presence in Monaco is a rather intriguing if not long story (their family has been in power for more than 700 years.) As history goes, the first Grimaldi arrived at the Rock of Monaco (where the palace is now) disguised as a traveling monk. He begged the guards at the existing settlement to allow him entrance. Being the humane people they were, the guards let François Grimaldi into their walls where he proceeded to kill everyone with his hidden sword. I am happy to report that the more modern members of this family are quite unlike this founding ancestor. During the Nazi occupation of Monaco, the Prince secretly warned Jewish members of the community that the Gestapo was coming for them. Now, the country has abolished capital punishment, instituted universal suffrage, and has abolished taxes for everyone except the French and Italian.

Although I can hardly imagine myself a member of such a world as this, it was wonderful to be in a place that felt so wholly and satisfyingly perfect.

Irresistible

A long weekend behind me, I'm wondering when and how to describe to you what I've seen: Carnival in Nice, Monaco, the Monte Carlo casino, the Mediterranean in such blue profusion that I don't think I'll ever forget it, Grace Kelly's tombstone, Eze, and a cavalcade of images so intense in light and color, so ineffably beautiful, that I have no words to express them.

And so I think I will start with the last and perhaps simplest of our adventures: the Galimard perfume factory. The Galimard perfume factory was founded in 1747 and is now split between two locations, Grasse and Eze. Grasse, if you would like to know, was one of the major settings in Patrick Süskind's most strange novel, Perfume.

As there were about 50 people in our group (we were traveling with a fellow study abroad program) it was somewhat difficult to fit everyone in the narrow, white-washed hallways of the factory. I'm increasingly glad that our program only has 13 people in it--traveling with this many people is not the most comfortable way of seeing the world. We were led through the museum part of the factory by a slender Dutch woman named Sylvy. The combination of her accent and slightly rehearsed tour commentary made for a hilarious 20 minutes and I wish now I would have written down more of what she said. Although I think my favorite must have been the following: "Shall I tell you about the irresistible perfume? It is a mixture of caramel, jasmine, and vanilla. Ladies, when you put this on the men will want to eat you. How else do you think I get this skinny?"

One aspect about the factory that I found very interesting can be seen in the first picture. In both Grasse and Eze one has the ability (for a price of course--I believe that it was 200€ in Eze) to create one's own perfume. What you are essentially paying for is the opportunity to sit for two hours with someone the perfume world calls a Nose. There are approximately 300 Noses in the world and 2 of them work in Eze. Noses study for roughly 12 years and must be able to identify thousands of scents. They cannot smoke, drink alcohol, eat spicy foods, or swim in chlorinated pools in order to protect their most marketable olfactory organ. What you see in the first picture is the room where you create your perfume. The bottles are darkened so as to increase the longevity of the scents and there were about 3 more rows of these shelves.

In the end, Sylvy's most excellent and rather adorable marketing skills payed off as I was lured into buying some authentic French perfume. It took me forever, but I finally settled on one called Pêle-Mêle, which is composed of bergamot, tangerine, jasmine, lily of the valley, and rose. It smells so amazing that I have to restrain myself from coating all of my belongings in an aromatic pell-mell.

Beware of False Friends

The rather appropriately named French term faux amis is used to describe the hundreds of false cognates found between French and English. Literally, this translates to ''false friends.'' And, like any good traitor, these friends can get you into trouble. The main problem for English speakers is that these words look so similar to our own we just assume that they are identical in meaning. Not so. Here are some common faux amis:

Blesser (to injure) vs. Bless
Attendre (to wait for) vs. Attend
Bras (arm) vs. Bras
Chair (flesh) vs. Chair
Coin (corner) vs. Coin

You begin to see the problem. And so, with the potential hazard of this situation adequately described, I would like to tell a story. Tonight I sat down to an absolutely delicious dinner (spinach and goat cheese quiche, ravioli, green salad) and, like every night, began talking to my host family. We discussed the food, the weather, our day, and my recent trip to Nice. At one point, they began talking about my sandwich meat in the refrigerator. I was somewhat confused about the relevancy when I realized that they were worried about it spoiling. They simply wanted to know how long ago I had purchased it. Then I proceeded to tell them that I'm not really used to having meat spoil so fast because in the states everything is so full of préservatifs (those of you who know French, feel free to start laughing at my expense). My host mother looked at me a little quizzically and so I repeated it. Plein de préservatifs. She started laughing. "You mean conservateur,'' she said. ''Préservatifs is something completely different. For another conversation.'' By this point I knew that I had finally made that inevitable slip of the tongue and so I finished the sentence and looked over at my host father whose English is the better of the two. He smiled and said, "Condom." And so, friends and family, I just informed the French that American lunch meat is full of condoms. In truth, I have absolutely no idea what packaged sandwich meat is made of, but I'd like to think it doesn't really matter. All the preservatives cancel it out anyway, n'est-ce que pas?

Rita Hayworth

Today my professor told me my hair looked like Rita Hayworth's. If only.

But then again, I am somewhat disinclined to believe the compliments of a man who told several girls in our class that he would marry them in his next life.

Fast Forward

I'm going to be in Nice and Monaco this weekend and so I'm not sure how dedicated I'll be to posting. Since I'll most likely be occupied all Saturday, Happy Valentines Day! And so, appropriately, une lettre d'amour:

Chère Aix-en-Provence,
Ma puce, ma belle, ma poupée. I don't know if I can list all the reasons I love you. I love that, at any given moment, I can walk into a shop and buy the most delicate, chocolate-plump pastry available. I love that my school has cracked walls, peeling paint, and a history as old as my state's. I love walking the 20 minutes to my house with cold cheeks but an invigoration not easily matched. I love climbing the stairs of my apartment and hearing the various television programs blaring through thin doors at each level. I love the flower market, the produce market, and the otherwise un-classifiable stuff market. I love cracking into a fresh baguette. I love the candy shop where hovering employees approach with free samples. I love the man who plays the accordion on the street. I love that the soles of my boots are nearly worn to a pulp from the cobblestones.

But Aix, mon amour, if we are to stay together some things must needs be remedied. I don't understand why a mildly clean public restroom is such a difficult request. All I ask for is a little light, dry floors, and a few squares of toilet paper. And what about water fountains? I know, I know. You are the city of fountains, elegantly carved and covered in moss. But what I need is something less...old-fashioned. Metal, perhaps, and temperature controlled. And why is it that nearly everywhere I step there is some form of animal excrement waiting to cling to my carefully chosen outfit? Mon chou, plant some grass, lower your prices, stop playing American music, and smile just once in a while. Do these things, and I'll be yours forever.

Bises,
Allison

Les Deux Mistrals

There are two Mistrals in France (in actuality I'm certain there are many more but these are the only two of which I know).

Mistral N° 1:
Frédéric Mistral (born 1830) was a French writer and lexicographer who is primarily known for his efforts to revive and disseminate the Provençal dialect. For those of you who aren't aware (and trust me, I didn't learn this until pathetically recently), French has not always been this country's central language. Provençal, a dialect of Occitan, is spoken primarily in Southern France and is rooted in the Romance and Gallo-Romance language families. It is also the name given to the older version of the langue d'oc used by the troubadours of medieval literature. Mistral, as you would have it, also studied law at a school here in Aix-en-Provence. Thank you Wikipedia.

As informative as this all is, it is Mistral N° 2 which I would like to discuss tonight.

Mistral N° 2:
Le Mistral is a strong French wind that blows from the North and North West. As French Wikipedia states, it is strong, dry, and can reach speeds of up to 62 miles per hour! I don't think this is an entirely complete description.

Le Mistral is a wind that hurls glass jars across parking lots, rips small infants from the arms of their stunned mothers, and threatens in an instant to undress you. It is a wind that offers no mercy to persnickety umbrellas, bare hands, or carelessly closed shutters. Even at this minute I can hear it heaving itself against my window pane, insisting entrance. When I first arrived I was somewhat confused why my host mother insisted that I close the shutters of my window every evening. Shutters, how quaint, I thought. Several nights later I as was walking home in the dark, it all became clear to me. Or rather, it would have had my eyes not been streaming from the fury of an unseen but all too fully felt blast. But it's true, there are shutters on nearly all the homes and apartments here. Not simply the purely decorative and thus completely useless ones you see in the states (ironwork shutters, really?) but ones that have worked for years to keep out a force more persistent than gym sales reps. And so here I am, only miles from the Mediterranean Sea, wondering if this winter wind will ever cease blowing.

How's the weather in your part of the world?

Moment: Last Friday. 3 pm.

Sitting in my theater history class. The professor is speaking fast, but in a manner I can comprehend. He writes various dates on the board--probably ones worthy of further investigation---that I've now forgotten. The lugubrious drone of an accordion eases through the window and I'm instantly distanced from the lecture. Can it be that I'm actually in France?

Rather insignificant, and yet...

...I'm still proud of myself.

Yesterday as I was walking past the bus stop near my house a woman asked me for directions. This was a triumphant moment for several reasons:
1. She had a slight speech impediment that made her French rather difficult to understand but I was able to do so nonetheless.
2. I actually knew where she needed to go.
3. I was able to answer her in French.
4. I must not have looked so completely American and out of place as to make her avoid asking me.

In retrospect, though, I wonder if she actually found the place.

Ma Nouvelle Famille

Being that I hesitated to hop on this blogger bandwagon, I feel the need to catch up with some posts.

Remember my French host family? Well, they are still here and adorable as ever. We live in a small but nice apartment on the North side of town. When I return home, the historic Mont Saint Victoire (I'll explain this some other time) towers in the distance.

Try to imagine. Michèle: petite, short gray hair, loves her cats. She is very generous, but does not hesitate to tell you the truth. Although she seems capable of a strong temper (I would never want her to be angry at me) she has a wonderful laugh that I love to hear. Alain: photographer, amateur Egyptologist, loves his cats. He likes the Beatles and cowboys. The other morning as I was happily eating a tarte aux pomme (essentially apple pie) for breakfast, he came in to wish me good morning. When I looked up I saw that he was wearing those zip up pajamas you see on three-year olds. It was covered in a bumblebee pattern. I can't get over how adorable he is.

The other night after dinner we started discussing music and the various artists they enjoy. They brought a CD player and a stack of CDs into the kitchen and started playing some songs by the Belgian singer Jacques Brel. At one point we simply sitting there at the empty table, silent, listening to the power of his songs. Of the few I heard, my favorite by far was Jaurés. As Michèle described it to me, it is a song sublime; better felt than heard.

Late, Like Everything I Do

Does anyone else realize that in nine days I will have been in France for one month? Hard to believe. I've been meaning for weeks now to actually sit down and create this blog, but of course I've found other things to divert me. What with all the crèpes to eat and streets to explore there is hardly even time to study. And then there was the problem of not having a laptop at my apartment. Of course there are always school computers, but that would require me to painstakingly peck out the letters on these oh-so-frustrating French keyboards (read: the Q is in the A spot, you have to SHIFT for a period, W is in the Z spot, and all other sorts of aerobatic switching of locations). But, as luck would have it, my charming French host family offered me the use of their second laptop and so I have no other excuses. So please just know that I am painstakingly pecking at this very moment just for you. And thus I begin late, as usual, with an account of my marvelous and sometimes mundane adventures abroad.

So, to recap the past month: I arrived safely in Aix-en-Provence, France after a rather uneventful trans-Atlantic flight, a seven hour layover in the heinous Gatwick London airport, and jet-lagged bus ride from Marseille. I am living with an adorable older French couple about a 20 minute walk from the school. Adjusting to living with strangers was a little difficult at first, but I think I've finally found a comfortable balance between family member and boarder and I really enjoy being here now. School (the official reason I am here) is going nicely as well, but I'll have to explain this in more detail later. In effect, I am completely content in this jolie ville of Aix. Now if only the weather would improve.

Rather unrelated to my travels abroad, today is my brother's sixth birthday. And so, bonne anniversaire Stewie! Je me te manque!