Pollarding: An Essay on Studying Abroad, Alphabetically Arranged

Abroad 

Away. Overseas. Studying. I knew what it meant, but the concept didn’t seem real until I was driving to the airport, knowing I wouldn’t be home for four months. Up until that point, I only thought of all of the wonderful experiences I was sure to have. I refused to let my reluctancy, my hesitancy, my fear creep in until that drive. 

Bruno 

He was with Emilie and one of their sons, Adrien, when they picked me up at the Marseille airport. About a week later, I was told he would no longer be living with us. A few days passed and I returned to find Bruno standing outside the apartment door. He asked to come in. Confusion ensued. 

Ça va? 

“Ça va?” 
     “Oui, ça va.” The standard question. My standard response. It goes. Don’t know what to say? Ça va. Ça marche. It works. 

Dryer 

I will never, ever take for granted having a clothes dryer after I return home. My soft, fluffy towel has become cardboard-stiff and scratchy. It’s as uncomfortable as I feel when Emilie discusses her relationship issues. 

Emilie 

Ma mere d’accueil. My host mom. Kind, questioning, easily upset. But not without reason. Mais pourquoi? Fragile but tough. “He left me for that… that whore.” 
     My response: “Je suis tellement desolée. Les hommes sont horrible.”
     She is always busy, always on the go. Traveling. Trying to keep thoughts of Bruno and the whore at bay. 

France 

     Capital: Paris. 
     Area: 213,011 square miles, or if you’re like the French and use the metric system, 551,695 square kilometers. Or, if you prefer another way to think about it, roughly the same size as the state of Texas. 
     Motto: Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité.
     Government: Republic, currently the Fifth. 
     Head of State: François Hollande.
     France: Land of baguettes, cheese, wine and berets. Stereotype? Yes. True? Baguettes, cheese and wine, yes. Berets? Not so much. 
     It’s also the country to host the most foreign tourists in the world at around 83 million annually. How that number is calculated is beyond me, but it makes me wonder what they consider students studying abroad. Am I a tourist to France? Probably. 

Growth

With the emergence of spring, there’s new, green growth on the plane trees that line the streets. During the late winter and early spring, these trees are pruned in a style called pollarding, which consists of cutting off the new branches and offshoots. While this may seem counterintuitive and harmful to the tree, it turns out to be quite beneficial. Plane trees grow quickly — up to nine feet per year — and trimming them back to the major branches eliminates weak spots, removes excess weight, and allows for the tree to flourish. Additionally, it is the pollarding that causes the plentiful, aesthetically pleasing foliage in the late spring and summer, as if the tree is making up for its bald, scarred branches. After its stark nakedness, one can find solace in its shade. 

Hitchhike 

Hitchhiking has such a seedy, dangerous connotation to it. Never, in a million years, did I ever think I would willingly accept a ride from a stranger, let alone in a foreign country. However, it’s interesting what you will do under certain circumstances. My friend and I weren’t actively trying to hitch a ride — we weren’t standing with our thumbs out — but we were sitting on the side of the road, at a bus stop more or less in the middle of nowhere looking miserable. I guess the two send the same message: Somebody, anybody, take us with you. Please. 
     Just as we were sitting there, talking about how we wished we had the guts to try and thumb a ride, a lady passing by must have saw our forlorn selves and pulled her car over. 
     When I recounted the situation to Emilie, she told me it was probably better that I hitched a ride here than back in the States. “At least you know that people here don’t have guns.” I’m not sure if it was meant to reassure me or not. 

Intercultural      

The reason I decided to study abroad. To experience a culture other than my own, Midwestern American culture that I’ve known all my life. To better learn another language. To explore. To become more independent. To do things, like hitchhike, that I never thought I would do, ever. To learn to better relate to people with views, opinions, lives different than my own. To see how cultures are similar, to see how they’re different. To become a citizen of the world. 

Journal 

In general, humans like to keep track of time, events, memories. We document everything. We take photographs, we keep ticket stubs, we clip newspaper articles. We write down our thought and feelings in journals, diaries, notebooks. Some things we document for a public audience, other for a specific audience, sometimes just for ourselves. Now we even document the most minor things, thanks to social media. Have a delicious-looking meal? Snap a picture and show hundreds of your closest “friends” with a few taps of the finger. 
     All that being said, however, journaling, writing, documenting can be a great way to process change and what is happening to and around you. It can aid in figuring out the new and the unknown, and cope with what is no longer present. 

Keen

Adjective: 1. Having or showing eagerness or enthusiasm. 2. Sharp or penetrating, in particular: (of a sense) highly developed: keen eyesight; (of mental faculties) quick to understand or function: keen intellect.
     Keen to go. Keen to see. Keen to do. Keen to explore. Wishing I had a keen sense of direction. Being surprised when my gut feeling for where to go is actually right. Maybe my sense of direction and navigational skills are becoming more keen. Maybe it’s like a muscle. Work at it long enough and it will grow and develop. 
     Peachy keen, adjective (informal): attractive; outstanding. Origin: mid 20th century from peachy in the sense “excellent” and keen in the sense “wonderful.” 
     If things aren’t always peachy keen, don’t worry, they’re not supposed to be. Not everything, at least. If things are never peachy or keen, though, maybe you should worry. Be proactive and do something to change your situation. Advocate for yourself. Strive for peaches rather than lemons.  

Love Language, Lost Love 

When people think of France, everyone has this inherent notion of love. Amour. French is a romance language after all, right? But all that means is that it has Roman roots. Nonetheless, French still has a reputation as the language of love. So, what is the reality of love in France? From my experience thus far, pretty bleak. 
     My host mom is in the process of divorcing her husband of over twenty years because of the aforementioned “whore.” While in general she is doing a good job of not being too down about it — or at least not showing it in front of me — the day Bruno moved his stuff out was rough to say the least. She was in full-on meltdown mode, lamenting the fact that she did and gave everything to their relationship, and look where that got her. 
     As for my own, personal experience with love in France… don’t get too excited. Guys here, while different in some aspects from guys in the States, are the same in that they don’t seem like they’re looking for love. Which isn’t to say that I am right now either. But I’m definitely still guarded, perhaps a bit too cautious for my own good to really have any further insight on the issue. 

Missouri 

“D’où viens tu?” 
     “Uhh,” I hesitate, knowing what the response will be. “Missouri?” I say, with my American accent. I then repeat it, doing my best to say it with a French accent. 
     “Ahh! Missouri!” they say. But it sounds like Misery. 
     “Oui,” I repeat. “Je viens de Misery.”

Nobody Knows Anything About Missouri 

Even Americans. Half of the IAU students I’ve told I’m from Missouri have told me, seemingly without any embarrassment, that they don’t know where Missouri is located, or that they forgot that it existed entirely. 
     So it’s even more fun when I tell a French person. Especially after my friends from California and Texas say their states. Everyone knows California and Texas. Missouri — or should I say Misery — not so much. 
     The best reactions are when I tell people I’m from Kansas City, Missouri. Here’s how that typical conversation goes: “But isn’t Kansas a state too?” 
     “Yeah. It’s right next to Missouri.” 
     “So you’re from Kansas?” 
     “No, I’m from Kansas City.” 
     “Kansas City isn’t in Kansas?” 
     “Well, it’s actually in both. It’s two separate cities. Kansas City, Missouri and Kansas City, Kansas.” 
     “But… why is it Kansas City if it’s in Missouri?”  
     “I don’t know, it just is…”
     “Oh… Wait. Where is Missouri again?”

One Percent 

I miss American milk. Milk that’s always refrigerated, always cold. Milk that doesn’t sit out on the counter until you begin to drink it. Milk that isn’t sickly sweet. 

Pigeons 

Someone once told me that pigeons always bob their heads back and forth when they walk because they have tendons that run from their feet up to their neck, so whenever they take a step, it pulls on this tendon, which in turn pulls on their neck, making them peck at the air. I accepted what seemed to be a statement of fact without question, until sitting down to write this. After some quick, cursory research, however, it seems that the tendon explanation is a myth and the actual reason behind the head bob is to improve the pigeon’s ability to focus on something while walking. This happens by letting the pigeon’s head stay in one place for a longer period of time, therefore allowing it to focus, while the body moves forward. The head then jerks forward, ahead of the body, creating the bob effect. 
     Humans, however don’t have to do this because we rely on our eyes to move and focus on objects as we walk. Sometimes, though, I feel like my body needs a similar focusing mechanism to notice details as the world flies by me.

Quoi?

What? I take a breath and repeat myself. “C’est près de la Rotonde.” 
     She furrows her brow again. “Quoi?” 
     I know I’m saying it correctly — it’s not even that difficult of a sentence. “La roh-ton-duh,” I emphasize. 
     “Ahh!” Emilie says, as her face finally lights up, realizing what I’m saying. “You mean la rotonde,” she says. 
     Now it’s my turn to be confused. Because that is exactly what I just said. “Oui, la rotonde,” I confirm. 
     “Non, c’est la rotonde,” she says, her voice emphasizing the guttural French r sound that I cannot make, despite countless efforts. 
     I sigh with frustration. Did she really not understand me the first three times I said it? Does that r really make that much of a difference? 
     “Oui, c’est ça,” I say, defeated. 

Ryanair 

A word of warning: Be prepared to be dangerously behind schedule. And for a landing so rough that you question if the pilot was even paying attention to the ground. But hey, a girl’s gotta save a Euro wherever she can, right? 

Sainte Victoire  

Montagne Sainte Victoire is a limestone mountain in Provence with its highest point at 3,317 feet. It was a muse of painter Paul Cézanne, and as such was the subject of many of his paintings. I’ve climbed the mountain 1 and 3/4 times and it is quite a workout. My second time climbing it, and the only time I reached the church and the Croix de Provence which mark the summit for most hikers, we underestimated our water needs, nearly finishing our water bottles by the time we reached the top. I think I assumed there would be some water source at the top, either in or near the church. After all, hundreds of people hike the mountain on the weekends when the weather is nice. But you know what they say what happens when you assume. 
     The one faucet we found in the refuge at the summit didn’t work. Two separate people staying in the refuge kindly showed us a large, round concrete water cistern in front of the building, telling us in mixed French and English that we could get water from that. We looked warily at the small plaque that read “eau non-potable” and debated what we should do. Finally, looking at our nearly empty bottles, we decided to take the plunge and trust the men from the refuge. 
     I’m happy to report that our consumption of this water was victorious, as was our return trip to Aix with the kind woman who let us hitch a ride with her, rather than wait another hour and a half for the next bus.  

Toilette 

I walked into the WC in my host’s apartment for the first time shortly after I arrived. I stared in confusion at the toilet, which looks essentially like any other toilet I’ve ever seen, except for the fact that it is missing a toilet seat. Now, from having traveled to France previously, I knew that they had some squat public toilets and I had encountered a few public toilets sans seat as well, however, it never occurred to me that someone might have a toilet without a seat in their own home. 
     In my confused, jet-lagged state, I decided to consult google to see if this was a normal thing in France. According to toilet-guru.com (no, I’m not making that up), toilets can be a lot cleaner without a seat because it’s easier to clean just the non-porous porcelain bowl than it is to clean the seat too. It makes sense, then, why many public restrooms lack toilet seats, but it doesn’t really answer my question as to why Emilie doesn’t have one on the toilet in her apartment. This is most likely to remain a mystery to me because one, I don’t know how to say toilet seat in French, and two, it’s really not a conversation that I would like to have at this point in time — or at any time, really — having not verbally questioned the lack of a seat for this long. 
     And if you’re looking for a free, easy-to-find public bathroom in France, good luck, my friend. Once you do find a bathroom (that you more than likely had to pay 50 centimes to use) it will probably lack either a toilet seat, as previously noted, toilet paper, or both. Like a Girl Scout, always be prepared for this possibility. For a country that draws 83 million foreign tourists annually, France is amusingly (as long as it’s not urgent for you) ill-equipped in providing sufficient facilities for basic human needs. And if you’re thirsty? Don’t get me started on water fountains in France. Sometimes the best you can manage is a questionable water cistern that may or may not contain drinkable water. 

Umbrella

According to the ever trusty Wikipedia, Aix has a yearly average of 91 rainy days. I’ve not exactly been keeping track, but I think I’ve been here for about half of those days of rain. That might be a slight exaggeration, but still, I think I’ve held an umbrella more during these past couple months than I have in my entire life. Granted, the two worst rainy days I’ve had haven’t been in Aix, but rather in Venice and Lyon. I spent my first day and a half in Venice fearing that one of my eyes was going to be poked out by one of the thousands of umbrellas that ineffectively tried to protect their owner from the elements. 
     After being completely and thoroughly drenched in Lyon despite my umbrella, I spent the train ride back to Aix being self conscious of the fact that my poor, now twice water-logged boots were making me the smelly person on the train. I daydreamed about getting back to Aix, peeling off my cold, soggy socks and jeans that were still plastered to my legs and snuggling up in my warm, dry pjs. 
     All that being said, an umbrella is an indispensable item to have, because even if it fails to keep anything else dry, it can usually manage to protect your face. Not only have I been unsuccessful in easily finding drinkable water in France, but also in protecting myself against water. Funny how that happens. 

Video Chat 

Skype and Facetime have both proved to be quite useful during my time here, letting me see familiar faces, even if only for a few minutes, and helping me to deal with and process my new environment by talking it over with my family or a friend. As much as I love snail mail, I’m thankful for this new technology. 

Watch 

Inevitably, at some point while studying abroad and traveling, you will end up behind schedule. Perhaps your Ryanair flight left late or your bus gets stuck in a traffic jam going through customs at the border. Whatever the case, you’ll spend minutes on end, staring at your watch as it ticks away precious time that you’re losing. You do some mental calculations. You know exactly how much time you can afford to spare. You realize it’s going to take more time. Times like this, your watch, time itself, has the potential to be either your best friend or your worst enemy. Will you make your connection? Only time will tell. 

Xeno-

A Greek prefix meaning relating to a foreigner or foreigners, as in xenophobia, xenophilia, or xenolith. What is xenocurious? Is it the desire to learn more about foreigners or the desire to be a foreigner? To lose oneself in another place, another culture. To lose all sense of what is the norm. To melt away into a foreign place.  

Yet

“No, I haven’t gone there yet.” “No, I’m still not fluent quite yet.” Yet. The implication that something has not happened, but will. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a month, maybe in three years from now. “I didn’t get to travel everywhere I wanted to, yet I know I’ll be back.” The intention of returning. 
     A word used with a glimmer of hope. “Have you met any cute French guys yet?” “Is it time for you to come home yet?”
     A word used to express a specific time. “I’m glad I don’t have to leave yet.”
     A small yet mighty word with so many different possibilities. Implication, intention, hope, time. A true Renaissance word. 

Zut 

The feeling that creeps in when you realize how little time you have remaining to explore. How did the time escape so quickly? Did I lose time somehow? No, I didn’t lose it. I was busy, so busy that I didn’t have time to realize how fast the weeks were passing. I was busy exploring new places. I was busy getting lost. I was busy finding myself. Zut. Bittersweet. Time crunch. Come on, there’s no time to lose. 




Note: This essay was inspired by Dinty W. Moore's essay Son of Mr. Green Jeans: An Essay on Fatherhood, Alphabetically Arranged and was written for my Creative Writing and the Intercultural Experience class. 

Lyon, Luberon, Avignon, Andorra and more!

Alors, here’s the latest installment of my European adventures. The weekend after Clara visited was busy, as per usual. The afternoon of March 21, I went to an IAU wine tasting that was focused on Bordeaux wines. The next day, I got up early, took the train to Lyon and met up with my friend Mélanie. During April of my junior year of high school, a group of students from St. Étienne, France, a town near Lyon, came to Chicago and stayed for a week in Lee’s Summit (it actually ended up being more like two weeks because they were stranded after the Icelandic volcano Eyjafjallajökull erupted, effectively grounding all trans-atlantic flights for about a week). Anyway, Mélanie stayed with my family during her time in Lee’s Summit, and then that June a group of us from Lee’s Summit went to France, did touristy things in Paris and the Loire Valley and then stayed with our French friends in St. Étienne for a week. 

Mélanie and I in Lawrence

A group of the French kids and their American hosts before they left- the first time, I believe.

So, with me being about an hour and a half from Lyon by TGV, we decided to meet up there so we could see one another again. The first thing we did was take the funicular up to see the Basilica Notre Dame de Fourvière, a large, colorful church that sits on a hill that overlooks Lyon. After that, we wandered around a bit trying to find one of the many traboules in the Vieux Lyon area. A traboule is essentially a covered passageway or hallway that go in between streets, through buildings, etc. I believe, if I correctly understood my host mom, they were created initially because of the silk industry in Lyon. The traboules were used to transport the silk across the city. I also believe they were used by the Resistance during WWII. Anyway, after walking all over and asking several people for directions, we finally found one small traboule that led to a courtyard. The building off of the courtyard looked like it was now an art studio or gallery. 

Mélanie and I by Notre Dame de Fourvière with the Saône river in the background. 

We ate lunch at a good bouchon Lyonnais and then went to some other parts of the city. We were both wanting to go to the Musée Lumière, about the Lumière brothers who were the creators of modern cinema, however we didn’t think we would have enough time before the museum closed and before we had to head back to the train station to catch our trains. So instead we decided to go to the Parc Tête D’or, which my host mom had told me was a nice park. After we got off the tram, we still had to walk quite a ways to get to the park entrance. Before we got there, it started pouring. We both had umbrellas, but we were still drenched within seconds. I was having flashbacks to Venice night one and could feel my boots filling with water. Mélanie and I both looked at each other, and we decided it was better to turn back, catch the tram back to the train station, get a warm drink and wait indoors for our trains. So, that’s what we did.
My poor boots were soaked for at least a solid two days after I got back, and as a result smell pretty funky now. They sure have served me well this semester, but I can’t wait to be able to throw them away. After I got back from Italy and England, I had to glue the sole of one of the heels and a bit of one of the toes back on. Needless to say, they’re pretty beat. I would buy new ones here, but on the few occasions that I’ve mustered up the courage to ask shop owners if they have any size 42 shoes (a US size 11) they all have the same reaction: they gasp and look down at my feet like I’m some sort of physical anomaly or that they’re certain I’m saying the wrong number and then solemnly shake their heads no. Right. But anyway, since my parents are coming to visit SOON during my spring break, my mom is bringing me new, non-smelly, completely intact boots and I couldn’t be more excited — both to see them and to pitch my old shoes. 

Anyway, sorry for the boot tangent. At Gare Part Dieu we got Starbucks — the first and only time I’ve had it in France — and tried to dry off and warm up. We left saying à plus tard (see you later) because who knows when I’ll be back in France or she’ll be back in the States. It was so nice to see her after four years and talk to her about my experiences in France, and how things here compare to things in the US. Overall, despite the sudden torrential downpour, I had a lovely day seeing Lyon and catching up with an old friend. 

The following day there was an IAU-wide trip  to the Luberon Valley. The Luberon is just north of Aix and is an absolutely beautiful area of Provence. We started the day by going to the Abbey of Silvacane, one of three Cistercian Abbeys in Provence that was built during the 12th century. 

Abbey of Silvacane

Next, we went to the town of Lourmarin. There is a large chateau that is up on a hill and we ate our picnic lunch in a field below it. It was such a cute, small village. Exactly what I picture when I think of Provencal France. It was the first day of France’s mayoral elections, so we stopped by the city hall to see France’s voting process. They have two rounds of elections and the second round was the following Sunday. This year’s was interesting because by and large across France towns voted for Front National mayors, which is on the extreme right side of France’s political spectrum. I listened to the news on the radio with my host mom and she was telling me they were saying that towns that had had liberal mayors for over 50 years had voted in a Front National mayor this time. From what I’ve gathered, I believe this wide spread shift to the right is due to the French’s dissatisfaction with the President, François Hollande. I think for the French, electing these reactionary mayors is a way of demonstrating to Hollande their discontent. Although, please note I know basically nothing about French politics. This is only speculation from what I’ve heard my host mom say. Regardless of the reason, it’s definitely an interesting change.  

The château in Lourmarin 

After we ate lunch and explored the village, we went to the cemetery in Lourmarin and saw Albert Camus’ grave. We drove through more charming, scenic villages before arriving in Roussillon. Evidently, Roussillon was home/ hideout to writer Samuel Beckett during the German occupation during WWII. The town used to (maybe still does?) mine ochre. We got to explore on old ochre quary/park. It was really pretty with the large, redish-orange sandy-rock formations. 

Albert Camus' grave

Hanging in an ochre quarry. 

The following weekend, I had more day trips in store. Friday the 28th, my France during the Occupation class took a trip to Les Milles and Marseille. Les Milles is just outside of Aix and was a French-run internment camp during WWII. During the phony war, before the German occupation and the division of France into the occupied and unoccupied zones, it held enemies of the state. That is, mainly those of German nationality because they were citizens of a belligerent country. After the German occupation in 1940, the camp was used by Vichy to hold “undesirables” — namely, Jewish people. Most were transported from Les Milles to Drancy, a camp near Paris, before being deported to Auschwitz. Needless to say, this was a pretty heavy place to visit. 

Les Milles

Some of the sleeping quarters in Les Milles

Souvenir (Remember) written on the wall by a person interred at Les Milles

Chacun peut réagir, chacun peut résister, chacun à sa manière.
Each can react, each can resiste, each in his own way.

Boxcar to remember the deportation

After that, we went to Marseille and saw various sites associated with the occupation and the resistance, including the different offices of Varrian Fry. Fry was an American who went to Marseille to help evacuate Jewish and anti-Nazi refugees from France. 

Cute giraffe statue in Marseille that has nothing to do with the occupation or resistance

The following day, I had another class trip with my Provencal History class and Mediterranean Civilization class to Avignon. First, we visited the Palais des Papes (Papal Palace), which was where the various Popes lived, beginning with Clement V, from 1309-1409. After touring that, we quickly went to an archaeological museum and then had lunch. After that, we went to the Musée du Petit Palais, an art museum that features Provencial and Italian pre-renaissance and renaissance paintings. To end our visit to Avignon, we walked on the Pont d’Avignon, which partially spans the Rhone River. Yes, partially. Part of it was destroyed at some point in time, and they didn’t see any point in rebuilding it. 

Palais des Papes

Palais des Papes

Guerrier de Vachères statue

This angel looks like she got caught stuffing her face.

Virgin Mary giving everyone the stink eye. 

Pont d'Avignon

That Sunday, two of my friends and I went with my host mom to Cassis, a nearby town that is right on the Mediterranean. It was a little cooler than expected and quite windy, but it was still very pretty to walk around. I can’t wait to go back when it’s warmer! 

Giant waves breaking against the lighthouse

Me and my host mom

Genna, me and Abby

The first weekend in April, I left France and visited my friend Clara in Andorra. Thursday afternoon, I took the train to Toulouse, where I then caught the bus to Andorra. On the way there, there were only six of us on the bus, including the driver. It’s about a three and a half hour bus ride through the Pyrenees, however it was dark for the majority of the ride. It was raining most of the way there, and at one point it started snowing like crazy! I was mildly concerned riding on the dark, twisty, switchback-y, snow-packed road, especially after we passed a car that was pulled over with its emergency flashers on, but our bus driver was a pro, and got us to the bus station in Andorra la Vella right on schedule. 

My first full day in Andorra, Clara and I hung out. She took me to a grocery store where I could see the rows and rows of cheap chocolate. And obviously I had to buy a giant Toblerone. That evening we took a walk on a trail that began behind Clara’s apartment and then we went out and had tapas, including patatas bravas, which I was stoked about. 

Cute bridge we crossed on our walk

Clara and I on our walk

Tapas! Yum!

Saturday morning, we got up early and took a bus up to Naturlandia, an outdoor park area. They have lots of different activities, but we just did the tobotronc, which is a really long (I think like 5 km?) alpine slide. It was really fun, and then after that, we hung out in the lodge area until it was time to catch the bus back down the mountain. 

Clara and I on the tobotronc

Going up the tobotronc

Next, we went and rented harnesses and helmets and embarked to do a via ferrata route, which is Italian for iron road. It’s like rock climbing, but there is a steel cable you clip into, and at certain points there are iron staples in the rocks to climb. After finally finding where the via ferrata began — the man at the store where we rented our equipment told us it was an easy route — we were off. It didn’t seem too bad at first. Part of it was just walking on mostly flat ground on the edge of a cliff/hill. Then, we got to a part where we were standing right next to a rushing creek. There was a sign marking that the path continued upward. There was a cable to clip into and staples, but they were up pretty high. After we both tried and failed to figure out how to get up and clip in,  we looked around to see if there was another way to go. We knew it couldn’t go directly into the cascading creek/ waterfall, but then, we saw on the other side of the creek where another cable began. We tried to go that way, but after getting completely drenched by the waterfall-creek, we decided we were too wet and our shoes were too slippery to continue, so we turned back around and descended to flat, solid ground. Despite underestimating the difficulty of the via ferrata, it was a lot of fun. As we were leaving, we finally found a sign with a map of the route, that also had warnings not to do it if you had not had previous mountain experience… whoops. 

View from where we started the Via Ferrata

Clara and I with our gear on. (Note: I'm embarrassed by how crooked my helmet is…)

So far, so good!

Casually climbing a mountain.

This is where we got stuck. Note the creek that cascades down on the left.

Sunday morning before I had to leave, Clara, her roommate Annie and I went for a hike up to a small church, which also has a via ferrata route that leads to it. After huffing and puffing our way to the top (I would like to blame the elevation for that…) we sat out on a rock that overlooked Andorra.

I'm discovering Europe has a thing for churches perched up on mountains. 

Me and Clara at the top.

Beautiful view

Me, Annie and Clara

That afternoon, I caught the bus back to Toulouse which ended up running behind schedule. I was sweating it the entire way there because my train was scheduled to leave at 6:51, 21 minutes after the bus was scheduled to arrive. The bus pulled into the station at 6:51 and I was on the verge of tears. I hurried into the train station, looked up at the departures board and saw that my train was running 30 minutes BEHIND schedule. I breathed the biggest sigh of relief because I was about 98% positive that I was on the last train to Aix that evening. So, not only was I not stranded in Toulouse, but I also had enough time to get a slice of pizza and an escargot aux raisins (aka pain aux raisins, aka bread, not actual snails) for dinner. I finally made it back to Aix late Sunday night. 

Escargot aux rasins, named so because of its shape, not because it contains snails. Which it doesn't.

This coming weekend is the first weekend I’ve had here where I don’t have any real, concrete plans. I’ll probably just hang around Aix and enjoy the lovely spring weather that is finally settling in. On verra. The following week is my spring break and my parents are coming to France to visit, which I am so excited for! Anyway, that is all for now… 

Bisous!

Adventures in Venice, England and Aix

Oh la la, where to begin. First of all, sorry it’s been so long since my last post. I’ve been so busy — always another place to explore! So, I’ll try to make this like my last blog post and give a recap of all the fun and exciting things I’ve been up to. 

I started my winter break by taking an overnight bus to Venice. It was 8 + hours on a charter bus that had next to no leg room, and that was with the seats upright. Needless to say, my legs occupied the aisle for the majority of the trip. Our hotel was outside of Venice, so we had to take the vaporetto, or water taxi, into Venice itself. On the first day the second we stepped off the vaporetto it started raining. Of course I forgot to pack my umbrella, so my first purchase in Italy was a lovely plaid umbrella that’s in almost all of my photos. As luck would have it, I also forgot my newly purchase umbrella in the hotel when we left Venice two days later. It rained for the majority of that first day, and that night before we left to go back to our hotel it starting storming — lightning, thunder and a bit of hail even. By the time we returned to our hotel we were all cold and soaking wet and wondering why we chose to go to Venice in the first place. 

Exhibit A: Plaid Umbrella

Exhibit B: Focused in on my umbrella in the corner with a fuzzy St. Mark's Basilica in the background

The next day it rained a bit in the morning but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the day before. We also got to a less touristy part of the city which was cool to explore. Also, the cheap, delicious pizza and gelato was an instant plus in my book. Also, since it was Carnival, we all bought masks to wear, which was a lot of fun. 

All of us with our masks!

It might be rainy, but I'm a happy girl with my brioche-gelato sandwich. 

Our final day in Venice was absolutely beautiful. It was sunny, I had more gelato, and I took a gondola ride, which was really cool. I mean, I couldn’t go all the way to Venice and then say I never rode in a gondola, right? Did you know that, according to our gondolier (and Wikipedia) the city of Venice is made up of 118 islands? I definitely believe that, because we would be walking down a street and then all of a sudden we would realize it dead-ended at a canal, so we’d have to turn around and find a bridge to cross. Apart from the never-ending rain from the first day, I had a great time in Venice. It also made me realize how much French I know (and how little Italian…) because I kept trying to use French when communicating. 

Me on the gondola ride!

Monday evening, March 3rd we got back on the bus. They played the movie Hancock— let me tell ya, Will Smith sounds weird as a French guy — and then, just as we were all wanting to go to sleep, or at least try, the lady in charge of the the tour group decided to play what I’ve decided is the strangest French movie ever called Brice. We returned to Aix early Tuesday morning, I made my way home from the bus station, and proceeded to nap for about five hours. Then I had to repack my bag for England. 

Getting from Aix to England — Canterbury to be specific — was a mess. I missed the shuttle I was planning on taking to the airport by just a few minutes, but luckily they come every half hour. Once at the airport, it took forever for everyone to board, so my flight left late — typical of Ryanair, I’ve since learned. Then, the plane started to descend for landing and all of a sudden it felt like we were going back up in elevation. Needless to say, that freaked me out. A few minutes later, the pilot came over the PA system and mumbled something about there being an issue with the runway and they had to inspect it, so we had been circling and waiting for the all clear from air traffic control. Once we were given the ok to land, it was the hardest landing I’d ever experienced. I’m pretty sure I heard everyone on board gasp as we slammed into the runway. Kudos, Ryanair. 

The flight delays put me behind schedule and I had to run to the train station to buy my tickets— after waiting in the ridiculously slow non-European Union passport line. Thankfully, the immigration officer who checked my passport and landing card was nice and gave me perfect directions to the train station. Having looked at my watch a billion times while I was waiting in line, I knew I had 10-15 minutes to make my train, which was the last train to Canterbury that evening, or else I would have to wait until the next day. He told me it was about a five minute walk to the train station, so I did that awkward half run/ half walk thing. 

I made it to the ticket booth and asked the man if I could buy tickets there. In an ever-so-British fashion he replied, “Well, the ticket booth would be a good place to start…” as he looked over his shoulder to the wall behind him that said TICKETS in large, red letters. Right. So I bought my ticket, which consisted of three transfers. Train to underground to train to bus, with an ETA in Canterbury at 1:50 am. The man behind the ticket booth asked if that was alright. Yes, perfect, I said. 

After clumsily paying for my ticket (it was my first time paying in person using my fancy new credit card with the chip in it, not the magnetic strip that you slide… I couldn’t figure out how to put it in the card reader machine. The man kept telling me to flatten my card out and I kept looking at it and thinking What does he mean? It’s not bent at all? When in reality he meant I needed to put my card parallel to the machine. Life is hard sometimes) I ran down to my platform where my train was already waiting. Just a couple minutes later, the doors shut and the train was off. 

I miraculously made all of my connections and felt like the winner of the Amazing Race (minus the wonderful cash prize…) when I made it to Canterbury. Along my way, in each of the various train stations I was in, I asked anybody I could find for directions. One man behind an information desk sassily informed me that I was looking for St. Pancras, not Pancreas which is something completely different (if you’re keeping count, that’s two sarcastic British responses within about 45 minutes). But after his snippy comment he helped me out and gave me good directions. Honestly, throughout my entire time in England I was surprised by and thankful for how helpful and polite everyone was. 

So I made it to Canterbury right around 2 am and my friend Katniss who I worked with at Camp Oakledge came and picked me up. She was kind enough to let me stay at her house, feed me and entertain me while I was in England, which I am so incredibly grateful for. 

A picture of Katniss from camp representing her British pride when Prince George was born

Wednesday and Thursday I hung around Canterbury and saw the sights there, like the Canterbury Cathedral, and walked around the pretty downtown area. Friday I went into London and met my friend Kate who is also at IAU this semester at the British Museum. After looking around there for a while, we got on a train to Leavesden to go to the Harry Potter studio tour. 

Canterbury Cathedral

Inside of the Canterbury Cathedral

Inside of the Canterbury Cathedral

Canterbury Castle

St. Augustine's Abbey

The Rosetta Stone

Some of the sculptures from the Parthenon, AKA the Elgin Marbles

The tour was really cool— a Harry Potter nerd like me’s dream come true. We got to walk around the Great Hall, look at different sets, costumes, props, hear and read secrets behind the movie magic, drink butterbeer, and we even met an extra from the films. 

Hanging in the Great Hall

About to go see Dumbledore! 

Casual selfie in the Mirror of Erised

Having a mug of butterbeer with Kate!

Catching the Knight Bus

About to buy ourselves some quality quidditch gear at Diagon Alley

Visiting the Hogwarts Castle, no big deal

Saturday Katniss and I went back to London where we met another friend from camp, Kiesh. We saw the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace (or at least as much as we could see with the giant crowds…) and then walked all over the city seeing Big Ben, Parliament, the Tower Bridge, Camden Market, Covent Garden, Leicester Square, and on and on. Thanks to Keish I have some prime photos from all of these prime photo opportunities. That evening when Katniss and I got back to Canterbury, we went out with her housemates to a pub before I had to leave the next day. 

The changing of the guards

The man behind Katniss and I is just about to yell at us to keep moving

Keish and I in front of Westminster Abbey

Look kids, Big Ben, Parliament!

Obligatory phonebooth pic

I absolutely loved visiting England and being able to see some familiar faces, and as I already said Katniss was a wonderful hostess. I definitely plan on going back to England. Not this semester, but soon, hopefully. Aside from the chaotic time I had getting from the airport to Canterbury, there was no downside to my time there— other than the dollar to pound conversion rate… eek.

So I returned to Aix Sunday, March 9th. It was a strange feeling, because it was like I was returning home in a way. Returning to my temporary home (don’t worry Mom and Dad). 

The following weekend I was able to see another familiar face as Clara, a friend from Truman who’s an English teaching assistant in Andorra this year, came to visit me in Aix. Clara went to IAU summer of 2011, so it was a sort of homecoming for her as well. 

Happy to be reunited

Clara was thrilled to get to eat doner kebab again!

It was absolutely beautiful weather that weekend and we spent a lot of time outdoors. On Friday we went to an area that Paul Cézanne used to paint Mount St Victoire from. The spot was beautiful and it was a sunny, clear day so we were able to easily see Cézanne’s muse in the distance. 

Taken from the spot where Cézanne would paint Mt. St. Victoire

After a late morning from hitting the Aix nightlife the night before, we went to the different markets on Saturday morning. I’m lucky because Aix has so many open air markets. There’s a food market and a flower market that run everyday (except maybe Sundays? I’m not positive on that…) and then we met a friend of Clara’s who also went to IAU in 2011 and got some gelato on Cours Mirabeau, the main street in Aix. Later, we went to Cézanne’s atelier, or studio where he painted his still lifes. (lives? What’s the plural of still life?) 

Clara and Becca enjoying some delicious gelato

On Sunday, to round out our Cézanne-themed weekend, we went to Mount Sainte Victorie with plans to make it to the summit. As I said in my last blog post, I had already climbed most of the mountain a few weeks before, but didn’t make it to the top because we were worried we would miss our bus back to Aix. So, this time, Clara and I were determined to make it all the way to the Croix de Provence at the top. 

On our way to the summit

After a long, sweaty couple of hours, we were finally victorious in conquering St. Victoire (see what I did there?) After we made it to the bottom and consulting the map posted, we discovered we hiked approximately 14 kilometers which is about 8.7 miles. Wowzers. If I remember correctly, it took us about three hours to go up and two hours to descend, with lots of breaks and time to eat our lunch outside of the church near the summit. 

Outside the church near the top

Almost there!

Feeling like we're on top of the world at the top of Mount St. Victoire

This guy was tight-rope walking just near the summit!

Clara and I were both in need of more water with our lunch and we assumed (incorrectly) there would be a sink or water fountain around the church. There was not — France in general isn’t a fan of water fountains or public restrooms — but there was a large cistern that two separate people showed us and said we could use. One man told us it collected rain water so it was fine to drink. We stood there debating if we should drink it or not since there was a sign that said “eau non potable” (non-potable water) but our thirst outweighed our better judgement and we refilled our water bottles. Thankfully, everything with the water turned out to be fine and we began our descent happily hydrated. 

The round, low stone structure is the cistern that we got our questionable, but safe water from

On the way down we realized we would miss the 4:30 bus we were trying to make and, since it was Sunday, we would have to wait around until the 6:30 bus. We got to the stop — which is really just a sign on the side of the road — around 5 or 5:30 and began to wait. Another couple who had been hiking St. Victoire showed up and waited with us. Clara and I had plans to go to her old host family’s house for dinner that evening. The 6:30 bus would make us late- not to mention we were pretty gross from climbing the mountain. Clara called her former host and apologized that we would be both late and smelly. A few minutes later, as we were waiting, a lady pulled her small French car over and asked if we were heading to Aix. The four of us were absolutely thrilled that she was kind enough to stop to pick us up. So again, against my better judgement, Clara and I and the older couple from Montreal all piled in the French woman’s car. 

We profusely thanked our kind stranger as she dropped us off. Because of her we had enough time to change out of our sweaty hiking gear before heading over to Clara’s former hosts. It was so kind of them to also extend the invitation to me for dinner and it was really cool to be able to eat dinner with another French family. We ate raclettes, which is a delicious cheese you put in a fancy raclette machine that melts it, then you put the melty, stringy cheese over baked potatoes and eat it with charcuterie. Delicious. 

The following weekend I went to Lyon and the Luberon valley, followed by going back to Marseille and to Avignon this past weekend, but as this post is already super long (sorry!), I’ll save those two weekends for my next post!

Bisous!