In Which Aristophanes Takes a Tumble

You may have noticed that I’ve been noticeably absent from my blog lately, and I feel dreadful about it. I promised you tons and tons of new posts (and believe me, there is plenty to write about), and yet I have not delivered on any of them. I feel as rotten as a politician.

But I have an excuse.

Well, several excuses, really, but there is one big one that totally takes the cake. Beyond the whole “I’m busy” excuse (which, ironically, seems to be the same excuse that keeps interfering in my love life) – involving moves across oceans and countries, working reunions and partying with Wellesley alums, getting a driver’s license, getting in touch with old friends, and just trying to be available for a family which really does need their daughter’s help – there is something much deeper at work here.

Aristophanes, my beloved computer, broke. Again.



This is not the first time that my dear, sweet, amazing, sexy laptop took a tumble. The last major problem led to a new motherboard and new memory. This time around, though, it seems that the love of my life was out for blood: the hard drive failed.

In all honestly, I knew this was coming. Aristophanes had been dropping warnings left and right. Files were corrupting, the bios and Windows were taking a long time to boot, and things just weren’t running as smoothly as they once had. I should have had the foresight to back up all of my files. Yeah, shoulda, woulda, coulda. The point is, in a bout of impressive laziness and astounding forgetfulness, I failed to back up my computer with my (literally) thousands of images from France. Not to mention my music, my writing (which is mostly backed up, actually), and some important documents for school and life in general.

I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to cry over a piece of technology before.

Most of my life flashed before my eyes as I thought of the gigabytes upon gigabytes that might potentially be lost forever. I managed to get a new hard drive through Dell that was covered under my warranty, and my family bought a copy of Windows 7 for me to install on my computer, so I soon had most things up and running again. However, I still hadn’t made any attempts to recover the data on the dead drive. I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to salvage anything and that so many memories would be lost to hard drive heaven (or hell, I suppose).

In the end, though, I pulled my act together, mostly thanks to my dad, and took my hard drive to San Diego PC Help, where they told me that they could do a full recovery of all the data on my drive.

Huzzah!

In the immortal words of Buffy Summers, “We saved the world. I say we party.”

Now, while I have yet to receive all the data from my old hard drive and confirm that everything is indeed there, I am fairly confident that I am going to get my hands on all my important pictures and not lose all the lovely images of my year abroad. I suppose that we shall just have to wait and see, but I am choosing to be optimistic here.

So there you have it. No pictures = no updates. I don’t want to present you with massive amounts of text that, while possibly descriptive and accurate emotional descriptions of my experiences, just wouldn’t do justice to anything without some sort of personal visual aid. Therefore, expect more posts soon, dear reader, for I will eventually have my pictures sitting at my fingertips (backed up about six times), ready to be posted in awe-inspiring posts about Italy, England, and beyond!

Aristophanes has been my loyal companion for three years now, and though she has been a frustrating  and unruly mistress at times, I just can’t imagine giving her up for another model.

…I sound as though I am writing about a transsexual computer from Ancient Greece. Well, I suppose we all have our quirks.

Until the next entry, dear reader.

Bisous,
Rachel

Pour Vous Faire Rire

Incidentally, this is kinda how I feel about life right now. I have about a million obligations chasing after me that must be met before I leave France, and all I can ask myself is why the rum is always gone.

I leave for Corsica tomorrow, and as such, my only full day left in Aix after today will be this coming Friday. My train to the airport leaves early Saturday morning, and, to put my situation in different terms, this time next week, I shall be lounging around on Wellesley's campus, perhaps just waking up in a dorm room in Dower.

It feels so close, yet so very, very far... and all I want to do is run away from my responsibilities and into my bed where I can sleep for a couple weeks.

My life abroad is so HARD.

Oh, Captain Jack, I sometimes think that you and I are such kindred spirits.

More updates shall come soon (and more frequently) once things have calmed down on the France front.

Peace, love, et grosses bises,
Rachel

P.S. This summer, I shall be doubling as writer of my own blog and web mistress for my friend's blog: Alice in Nappyland. This should be a lot of fun. Feel free to check out her blog; it's quite awesome.

In the winter when it drizzles

I hate Paris in the springtime

I hate Paris in the fall 

I hate Paris in the summer when it sizzles

I hate Paris in the winter when it drizzles 

I hate Paris 

Oh why, oh why do I hate Paris?
Because my love is there... 

With his slut girlfriend!

This delightful little ditty is the take-off mantra of our heroine, Kate, in the movie French Kiss, a film about a woman who travels to Paris and eventually to the Côte d'Azur to chase after her fiancé who has left her for another (French) woman. She is accompanied by Kevin Kline's character, a Frenchman named Luc who, though slightly shady, wants nothing more than to own his own vineyard and produce his own wine. They, of course, fall in love and live happily ever after in the south of France, kissing out in the vineyards and cultivating wine.

And this is the song that I think of every time I think of Paris.

It's ironic, though, because I really do like Paris. I remembering being simultaneously over- and underwhelmed by Paris when I was there last August, but my Christmas vacation changed my opinion of the city. It is still sprawling and touristy and full of its fair share of snobs, but there is something downright magical about Paris when it snows.

As well as something sorta whimsical

I arrived mid-morning on the 23rd of December, and with its cold temperature and grey skies, Paris was a little less than welcoming. I had grown accustomed to traveling under mediocre conditions, however, so I dragged my duffel bag to my hostel (just a few short minutes from the Place de la République), checked in (only to be told that rooms were closed until 4pm for cleaning), and then embarked on my whirlwind Christmas vacation.

I was planning on seeing a French musical that evening, so I had a fair amount of time to kill before I needed to find the Palais des Sports, where the spectacle was taking place. I decided to start with a walk along the Champs Elysées. Friends had told me that it was well worth the trip for the lights and decorations alone, not to mention the Christmas market, which was sure to put Aix's market to shame. A short metro ride later, I emerged at the Place de la Concorde, which is at the far southeastern end of the Champs. The sky was an even darker color than when I had arrived only a couple hours before and seemed to threaten a terrible snowstorm. As it was, it was only lightly snowing, enough to coat my jacket in a fine layer of snowflakes, but not enough for it to really stick on the ground, and that was enough for me to appreciate.

The path down the street was fascinating. I happened to walk behind a group of about three American families who were traveling together, and amused myself by eavesdropping on their conversation only to finally speak up when I heard that they were from just outside of Boston. They were very pleasant and wished me a Merry Christmas before we parted ways and continued our separate Christmas excursions. It rather shocked me to see how many tourists were in Paris for Christmas. For me, the remainder of my Parisian romanticism was what had drawn me to this location for the holidays, but I couldn't believe that that same notion had enticed everyone around me to flock to the city of lights at the same time.

For one thing, winter is hardly the best time to see Paris. The trees are dead, the skies are dreary, and the streets are treacherously icy. I first noticed this as I was walking along the Christmas market and happened to stray a little off the concrete and onto the sandy portion of the sidewalk, where the snow had turned the sand almost muddy and the cold had solidified the slush (half-melted from the shoes of so many passers-by) into an icy block that caused me to nearly lose my footing. Luckily, that was also starting to melt thanks to the heavy foot traffic, but I knew that this could not bode well for the rest of the journey.

Eventually, I made it past the Christmas market and to the boutiques and "magasins" that were richly decorated for the holidays.

Sephora was perhaps not the most impressive, but its colorful display was certainly among the more festive 

I ducked inside a few stores to escape the snow and do a little window shopping, but soon my body grew tired of the constant freezing and thawing of limbs as I went from heated store to chilly exterior and back again, so I knew it was probably a good time to find a nice restaurant and relax a little for lunch. I chose a moderately priced Italian place on the Champs and ordered some wine and some hearty pasta to warm me up. I sat in a corner on the second floor of the restaurant, which was extraordinarily busy, while sipping my wine and watching the shoppers come and go down below. It was a very calming meal and the perfect thing to energize me for the rest of the day.

After lunch and a brief consultation of the list I had created of things to see and do, I decided it was time to go Christmas shopping. I had previously picked up some gifts for my family in various other locations in France, but I had not yet managed to find something for my dad, who I feel is always the hardest person to shop for because he usually buys all his own gifts and I am never sure if he already has something or not. This time, however, I was well-prepared: I had consulted my father on possible gift ideas and he had given me one specific guideline. I was to go to the Shakespeare and Company bookstore and purchase a book for him.

Shakespeare and Co has a special place in the hearts of the Oliver family. When my dad was younger, it was one of the places he visited during his travels in Europe. He purchased a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and even met the owner of the establishment, George Whitman, who habitually offered weary travelers he deemed worthy a place to rest for the night up above the bookstore. Whitman's daughter Sylvia now runs the store, and was unfortunately nowhere to be found when I visited, but the literary ambiance, I imagine, has stayed the same ever since my dad first visited in the early 1970s. My first visit to the store came during my initial three weeks in Paris, and came as a bit of a surprise. I had known that it was an English-language bookstore, but I had not imagined it as a sort of haven for Anglophones from around the world. I was actually shocked by the lack of French I heard on the premises. After wandering through the store for about 40 minutes, wondering at the sheer number of books squeezed into the tiny shop, I finally stumbled upon the travel section as well as the Lost Generation section. Feeling rather touristy, I did what I had been dying to do since I had applied for admission to the Wellesley-in-Aix program and purchased an inexpensive copy of A Moveable Feast, my favorite work by Ernest Hemingway.

It was this memoir that made the Shakespeare and Company bookstore famous to the literary world. Originally run by Sylvia Beach and located on rue de l'Odéon, the store became a center for literary culture and a frequent haunt of the writers of the Lost Generation, notably Hemingway, James Joyce, and Ezra Pound. The store closed in 1941 due to the German occupation of Paris and never reopened. After Beach's death in 1962, the bookstore owned by George Whitman on the Left Bank of the Seine changed its name from Le Mistral (likely referring to the strong wind that blows through Provence or the poet Frédéric Mistral) to Shakespeare and Co to honor the original store and its owner. Today, it even looks vaguely as the original store once did and is full of delightful nooks and crannies for its visitors to discover. And it has always remained a sort of mythical place to my family, despite the fact that it is not the original establishment.

My second visit to this store came during this vacation, and as mentioned before, I was a lady with a mission. I had to find something that my dad would appreciate that didn't cost too much and that would be unique enough that it would be clear that I had spent some time ruminating over my many options. At first, I considered a work of fiction, feeling that that would provide the most interesting search, but after nearly 45 minutes of staring at shelf after shelf, I felt even more clueless than I had before and decided that I should look amongst the new arrivals for something more unique. Finally, I found it! The perfect book: The Grand Design by Stephen Hawking and Leonard Mlodinow. Eight years previously, my dad had, through a roundabout sort of way, ensured that I received a copy of A Brief History of Time, and that I actually read it as well. Keep in mind that I was 12 at the time, and that quantum mechanics was really only something I had heard about in the movies. Thus, the purchase of Hawking's latest work seemed to me to come full circle, as it were, in multiple situations. My dad loved the book.

Not long after that adventure, it was finally approaching "l'heure" to head out to the Palais des Sports to see Mozart l'Opéra Rock. My former roommate Nicole and I had discovered this musical last spring via 24-Hour Drop, a file drop on the Wellesley server, and had been obsessed ever since. I had been dying to go see it ever since I had heard that it would be returning to Paris and had even bought my ticket before I even knew that I wanted to spend Christmas in Paris. The musical did not fail my expectations. It even cleared up some of the questions I had about some of the song lyrics by, obviously, giving context to the songs, and then went on to further boost my confidence in the French language once I realized that I was having hardly any difficulties understanding what was being said... or sung for that matter. All in all, it was well worth the 80 or 90 euros I spent on sixth row seats, especially since photography sans flash was allowed.

Results?

Awwww yeeaaahhhhh

Salieri, y u so sexy?

It was a thoroughly enjoyable play. It wasn't Art in the grand sense of the word and may or may not stand the test of time, but it was glitzy and glamorous and loud and fun. And that was all that I could really ask for. Surprisingly, it is also considered to be children-friendly. There were many, many people under the age of 16 in the crowd, and they were clearly enjoying the show. A fair number even knew the words to the songs.

My next day in Paris was spent mostly in the Louvre. But before I managed to spend seven hours staring at Renaissance paintings, I spent the early part of the morning walking past Notre Dame and along the Right Bank of the Seine, past l'Hôtel de Ville and a few blocks further to the broad side of the Louvre, which stretches on for quite a while, but doesn't seem to be nearly as long when one is inside.

Notre Dame got in the spirit of things with a pretty, giant tree to decorate the square

This statue, off to the right of the cathedral, was covered in the freshly fallen snow and looked even more  majestic than usual.

The Hôtel de Ville looked particularly impressive with the snow-dusted roofs and the  ice skating  rink out in front. This was also the first time I had ever seen Paris's city hall, and was not disappointed by a lack of grandeur - quite the opposite.

Eventually, though, I made it to the Louvre, about an hour after its opening, and navigated through the halls with richly decorated ceilings, briefly stopping to say hello to Nike of Samothrace, so that I could immerse myself in Renaissance art and thus study for my impending art history exam back in Aix. I wandered the halls of the great museum, staring at masterpieces of the 15th and 16th centuries, analyzing the religious symbols and searching for some hidden meaning in the carefully applied oil and gold leaf. It was tiring, to say the least. Not to mention that I started to feel as though the paintings were trying to convert me. So much religious iconography, so little time.

Eventually, I took a break from the never-ending rooms of Italian painting and went to grab a bite to eat in the food court down below the Louvre. The food was some sort of pseudo-Middle Eastern cuisine that can be found at any food court in America these days, really, and was only slightly better than average for fast, cheap French food, but that said, I devoured my dish and gulped down the accompanying soda as though they constituted my first meal in a week. I also partook of the free Wi-Fi I found while messing around with my iPod. The McDonald's was too far away to get a good signal, but the Apple store, which by my estimations should have been further away than the McDonald's, was broadcasting a lovely signal that allowed me to check my email and inform my friends of my current location in a subterranean multicultural food court underneath one of the world's greatest museums.

Lunch devoured and stomach satisfied, I returned to my painting perusal and came to the sudden and profound conclusion that late Medieval and early Renaissance artists were incapable of painting anything other than an ugly version of baby Jesus.

Baby Jesus should not look like a 35-year-old midget with a receding hairline who is creeping on Virgin Mary, who, it should be noted, appears to have no chin and an impossibly round cranium.

Nor should baby Jesus look like a Japanese representation of a European man with far too many jelly rolls. For someone as pretty and trim as Mary is in this picture, she ought to know how keep her child from obesity.

I fully understand the concept of spiritual beauty in lieu of physical beauty. In fact, I think it can be very powerful when used properly in art. Case in point: Donatello's statue of Mary Magdalene.

She is emaciated, her clothing is in tatters... there is nothing remarkable or beautiful about her physical appearance. And yet, the fact that she seems to be about to pray and is thus demonstrating her devout faith reveals a sort of inner spiritual beauty that makes the statue more powerful than if she were the Greek ideal of beauty. That is something that I can get behind. I don't really understand where all the ugly baby Jesuses are coming from... most people think that babies are adorable (it depends on the day of the week, for me). Perhaps this was the ideal for the period, though, and perhaps I shouldn't be quick to judge.


The Louvre essentially went on to consume the majority of my day. The one other major destination of my day consisted of a trip to Café Divan near the Place de la Bastille. This particular destination came at the recommendation of a friend, who insisted that I just HAD to try to their hot chocolate. Never one to say no to warm, sugary treats, I decided that hot chocolate was the very thing I needed as I relaxed from a long day of being on my feet. I lost my way at first, which I fully blame on the fact that there are far too many streets leading away from the Place de la Bastille, and finally resorted to using my handy dandy map of Parisian arrondissements to navigate the streets of the city. Eventually, I stumbled into the place looking like the lost tourist that I vaguely was and ordered a hot chocolate.


I did not expect what I received. I received a jar of hot milk and warm chocolate syrup that I was to mix on my own to achieve the desired proportions of each. Needless to say, my hot beverage was rich and thoroughly warming and made the perfect companion as I perused through a couple chapters of A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle, the book I had chosen to read during travel down time which is a necessary read for any Anglophone who has lived in Provence for any significant amount of time.


And so, that was the first half of my vacation in Paris. Unfortunately, my final and last exam of my entire year abroad is waiting to be studied for, so I must away. Merde!


More Parisian tales shall come soon, but for now...


Peace, love, and Saturday morning exams,
Rachel

Oh, look, new things!

Hi, y'all!

Just wanted to let you know that I changed a couple things on the blog. First of all, I updated the description under the header for the the site because I figured that now that it has actually taken shape, the old description didn't quite do the blog justice. The bit at the end about "my time away from home," for example, didn't seem to fit anymore because I have posted from Boston, which has become a second home, and France has certainly become a third home to me at this point. Also, once I return from France, I was thinking I might continue this blog and talk about any other journeys that I might take. So "voyages" really fits more. Not that you, dear reader, particularly care about the description too much, but at least now you know that I have plans to continue the blog after France.

Secondly, and more importantly, I added some links over on the right of the page. The first section, entitled "Blog Heaven" has links to the websites of my friends! Exciting! Be it Blogger, Wordpress, Tumblr, or any other site that hosts the interesting musings and works of my friends, I am happy to link up to it. So, friend, if you are reading this, look over to the right and see that your blog, website, online store or what have you is not there, and you would like it to be, let me know and I shall add it (for only four low, monthly payments of $39.99! Haha). The second section, "Internet Obsessions," presents you with links to websites that provide me with limitless amounts of amusement. Feel free to check them out or to get me hooked on my next great Internet obsession.

That is just about it for now, kids. I've got to go think about studying for a midterm. My next post will be about my Christmas in Paris, and the post following that will detail my travels in Italy during Carnival.

Peace, love, pandas, and midterms breathing down my neck,
Rachel

Less Talking, More Pictures

So I briefly considered writing another monster post about the towns and impressive sights that I have seen, but I realized early on that I didn't have an much to say about these places as I would have liked, and I was getting very tired of having to reference Wikipedia for information. Thus, I decided to do this next entry based on the pictures I took. Each region will be labeled and each picture will be captioned with a little explanation or story. This way, I can share these places before getting back into the monster posts about my holidays in Paris and Italy! Let's dive right in with a trip from last semester.

The Luberon
Deep in the heart of Provence lie three mountain ranges known as the Little, Big, and Oriental Luberon... collectively, they are known much more simply as the Luberon (or Leberon in Provençal, I recently learned). Now, while this sounds like the set-up for a rather lame, and slightly racist, joke or television episode, the truth of the matter is that the Little, Big, and Oriental Luberon mountains are gorgeous. The towns and villages are nothing if not picturesque, sitting high atop the hillsides or laying down low in the Luberon valley. This place is a popular tourist destination for other French citizens as well as British and American tourists who flock to Provence and Côte d'Azur in the summer months. I only had the fortune of visiting this charming location for one day, but my visit was pretty unforgettable.

Château de Lourmarin: The first castle in Provence to be built during the Renaissance. We didn't get to look inside - merely a quick drive by to take pictures.

The Luberon valley, with all its gorgeous greenery.

The rooftops of Bonnieux, a hillside village where, reportedly, John Malkovich owns a home. With a view like that, who wouldn't want to live there? I especially love all the old roof shingles that appear to change color with age.

The Château de Lacoste, one of three homes to the infamous Marquis de Sade in Vaucluse: a medieval castle that his family acquired in the 1600s. Sade renovated the castle in the late 1700s, but it was then looted during the Revolution (that would be the French one). Today, it hosts a grand arts and music festival each year within its ruins and is the second home of Pierre Cardin, a French fashion designer.

Vineyards! There are many, many vineyards in this region, and we passed by field after field of grapevines en route from one destination to the next. The Luberon is quite a good spot to have a small vineyard in the back of your estate if you are like Peter Mayle and decide to leave the boring world of England behind for the culturally intense world of Provence. I highly suggest you read his novel A Year in Provence. I loved it. And for anyone who has ever lived in Provence, you will find yourself frequently chuckling at his spot-on descriptions of the people and the land.

This was my first glimpse of the rocks and cliffs surrounding Roussillon. I couldn't believe it when I saw it. I was so accustomed to the bland, pale color of the mountains that I had seen elsewhere that I was shocked and awed by the brilliant colors of the natural rock formations. Let's look at some more examples, shall we?

This is one of my favorites. I just love the contrast of the green plants with the cliff... and how well the little yellow leaves match their surroundings.

This looks like someone took an abnormally large paintbrush and a had fun.

The day was still young and the sky, though not particularly menacing, still  seemed to threaten more rain to accompany the dew that had yet to evaporate from these fresh, green leaves. The tiny thread of a spider's web was a nice touch to the photo, I felt, even though spiders usually make me run screaming across the room/street/country in terror.

There was no explanation for this door - no sign, no signature that I noted, no notice of any kind to explain this magnificent artwork. But then again, does art need to be explained and titled and categorized? Sometimes it's pieces like this, that you find on garage doors or on metal doors over shops closed for the night, that are some of the most fascinating pieces you will ever see.

The Hôtel de Ville, or so we think. The town was mostly empty on this particular Saturday morning, so it  was difficult to tell. However, when a building it decorated with that many flags, one can usually be certain of its identity as that of the Hôtel de Ville. Possibly the most charming building I have ever seen for such an official place. Also, take note of the color of the building, for the vast majority of buildings in Roussillon are this color as they dug up the stone from nearby quarries.

Portion of a vine hanging over another building not too far from the cliffs that you saw a few pictures ago. I can't be certain (because I can't honestly remember), but this might be part of the 154 year old vine that covered one façade. Even the stems of the vines are in harmony with the mountains.

We stopped for lunch at a five-star restaurant in Gordes, the city that you see here, which was also featured in the movie A Good Year, starring Russell Crowe - worth watching if you are ever in the mood for some southern French scenery and a little Marion Cotillard. Gordes is also mentioned frequently in the works a Peter Mayle, a British author who moved to Vaucluse in the late 1980s and has since written several novels and memoirs set in Provence.

Our entrée, or appetizer as we Americans like to think of it, was a delicious dish made from local mushrooms. I never figured myself to be one for mushrooms. On pizza? Sure. In a pasta sauce? Can't be too bad. On their own? Highly debatable. However, this mushroom in a parsley mousse garnished fresh leaves and a... whatever that was (I have no memory of its name) was mouthwatering to the extreme. Heaven in a mushroom. Oh. My. Goodness.

The "plat," or entrée in the United States (seriously, U.S., WHY U NO CALL COURSES BY RIGHT NAME?), or main course to the rest of the English-speaking world, was delicious, but actually couldn't match the wonderfulness of the mushroom. Guinea hen over risotto with a green onion garnish - a delightful sampling of a poultry I'd never had the opportunity to munch on before.

Dessert: a traditional crème brulée with fruits rouges (that would be the strawberries, raspberries and red currants that you see there) that we actually got to crack with our spoon, just like everyone always dreams of doing. Delicioso. This entire meal, including the champagne apératif and the red and white wines that we tasted, was courtesy of our program director, who special ordered the entire three-course delight. She repeated the story proudly to me several times: how she had called to book the restaurant, how she had not been satisfied with the menu, how she personally got in touch with the chef and asked that THIS is what we be served or she would take our patronage elsewhere, how in the end she got her way as she almost always does. Fantastic.

This is the Abbaye Notre-Dame de Sénanque in the valley below Gordes. It was our last stop for the day and included a guided visit of the abbey by a wonderfully lovely man whose name I am not certain I ever learned unfortunately, but I can tell you that he was one of the most eloquent and kindest of tour guides I have yet had the pleasure of listening to in France. But I digress. This abbey is a Cistercian monastery and its celebrity comes from its lavender fields, of which you can see a small part in the foreground of the photo.

The lavender blooms in June and July, unfortunately, so I don't have any pictures of the gorgeous lavender plants in bloom, but you can google those for yourself and get photos that are more professional than my shots will ever be. Our visit in the late autumn, however, was still lovely, even if it was dark and raining when we finally left the abbey.

This is the cloister, which is supposed to resemble the garden of Eden, i.e. paradise on Earth. This might be the closest any cloister I have seen has ever come. They say that the cloister is Arles is the prettiest cloister in all of Provence, but I don't think that's true. I feel that this one wins, hands down. Not only is this one better maintained, but it has a more attractive and peaceful quality to it.

Another shot of this cloister, from the opposite end, this time at dusk.

Nîmes et le Pont du Gard


Nîmes is a city about an hour and ten minutes west-northwest of Aix-en-Provence and is a popular tourist destination. Similar to Arles, it has an ancient elliptical Roman amphitheater that was once used for medieval housing: families lived inside the arena, whose walls and towers served as ramparts for the tiny community within. The Maison Carrée is also a popular place to see; it was once a small temple to the Roman gods. However, for many people who come to Nîmes, the first thing that comes to mind is the Pont du Gard, a Roman architectural masterpiece that still functions as a bridge but has long ceased to be used as an aqueduct. We came to these locales as part of an Erasmus student excursion that I have mentioned once before in my first post on tiny Provençal towns. Organized by the office of international relations at Université Aix-Marseille 1 and run by a local tour company, this trip at the beginning of the semester is open to all international students and offers us a way to not only explore the region in which we are living, but to meet the people with whom we are inhabiting it. This was the first excursion of any sort with the new students for the spring semester, and I was excited to get to know them a little bit. Turns out, we were all a little too preoccupied with the sights to do lots of bonding. Not that anyone was particularly worse off because of that...

Le Jardin de la Fontaine. This was our first stop on our brief tour of Nîmes. Like many French gardens, white gravel seems to be of the utmost importance. One cannot properly crunch across the garden in dainty shoes while discussing all the latest gossip of who is to marry whom while carrying lacy white parasols to shade one's porcelain skin from the sun without white gravel! Or something like that.

Interior of what is thought to have once been a temple, possibly to Diana, but could have also been a library for all we really know since it doesn't really have the shape of a typical temple from way back when. Can I just remind you once again of how I simply love ruins?

This was right next to the temple in a little courtyard. I wonder what it might have looked like 1800 years ago? That little nook right in the back there looks to be the perfect spot to curl up with a book. Perhaps this was a library after all...

This is the arena of which I spoke earlier. It reminds me very, very much of the arena in Arles. I like how these amphitheaters all look alike to some degree. I suppose it must have been nice for a Roman to travel from city to city and be able to find his or her way easily enough if the forum, temples, arenas and theaters all used the same sort of architecture from one colony to the next.

This is the current coat of arms of Nîmes: a crocodile chained to a palm tree. Despite the palm trees that I saw there, which were most certainly imported, I saw not a single crocodile chained up anywhere. Disappointing? Yeah, kinda.

And here it is! The magnificent Pont du Gard! And, boy, is it big! I haven't the faintest idea why, but I had never imagined it to be quite so large. It spans an entire valley between two hills after all, so how can it not be of epic proportions? I suppose it is just something that you can't put into perspective until you are actually standing right up alongside it.

Just as breathtaking as the aqueduct was the scenery. The Gard River was a gorgeous blue that day and it was as though we had been transported to a different era. There was hardly a modern building to be seen in any direction (excepting, of course, the one house - guardhouse? - that is likely three hundred years old), and as we walked the not-so-well-worn path up one side of the hill and down the other to get to the other side of the aqueduct, I was once again reminded of my love for the outdoors. Ahhhhhhhh. Oh, yes, and it was sunny.

And here is the other side of the bridge - actually a little more magnificent since the sun was shining on it, but who am I to judge sides of architectural feats of magnificence?

Anyone reminded of The Lord of the Rings with this shot? I know I was. I was so ready for Legolas and Aragorn to come dashing out from the trees, fighting Uruk-hai and being awesome. Didn't happen, obviously, but at least it gave my imagination plenty of fodder for hypothetical story ideas.

Peace, love, pandas, and orc-fighting elves,

Rachel

M is for Marseille... and Monaco

I am totally on a roll.


Marseille

I haven't spent nearly as much time in Marseille as I wish I could have up to this point, but I did make a point of going this port city one day with my friend Derek. We were on a mission to find a beach, catch some southern French rays of soleil and chill like only a southern Californian can. We did some sightseeing along the way.

I like to think of Vieux Port as the heart of Marseille. "Vieux port" literally translates to "old port" and now functions as a marina for local boats. What's particularly cool about the Old Port is that it is a natural port and has been used ever since about 600 B.C. when the Phocaeans set up a trading post there. Ever since, Marseille has been a central Mediterranean hub for trade and industry. This is a large city that feels as though it has been subjected to urbanization on a much grander scale than Paris or any other large city in Ye Olde France because it feels urban and industrial. Paris gives off a sense of haughty sophistication whereas Marseille is a strange "mélange" of southern French comfort and hearty industrialization. For lack of a better term, the place feels working class. Riding into Marseille takes one through the banlieues (the "ghettos" on the outskirts of town), where buildings tower above the 4-6 storey height common to many, many buildings in Paris, in Aix, and so on. The paint is peeling from the walls, the pale blue shutters have turned a dank grey, and the graffiti covers every inch of unoccupied territory. Old buses stand on end in junkyards and the red, green and blue tents of the homeless peek out from under the greenery that frames the highway leading into town.

Also, the beaches are not as nice as San Diego beaches. MARSEILLE, I AM DISAPPOINT. But I digress. This is Vieux Port:

Well, the right side of the marina, anyway

This map of the entrance to Vieux Port dates from 1695.

The city of Marseille, ca. 1720

For all you Dumas buffs out there, Marseille is also the site of The Count of Monte Cristo, a very lengthy novel that I could never finish because I kept wondering when Jim Caviezel was going to appear and sweep me off my feet.

I think he's trying to make love to me with his eyes. And I think it's working.

For those of you who don't know the plot, Edmond Dantès, a naive and ridiculously attractive young man with an equally attractive fiancée is wrongly imprisoned  for treason at Château d'If, a prison island off the coast of Marseille, by those whom he supposed to be his friends *cough*Fernand Mondego*cough*. While there, he befriends Dumbledore, who teaches Edmond the ways of the ninja (pass your hand through the water without getting it wet) and educates him in all things badass (namely, literature, philosophy, swordfighting, and other equally lofty pursuits). Eventually Edmond escapes and tracks down the treasure of the isle of Monte Cristo, which is located near Corsica. After the duckling-swan transformation is complete, Edmond slowly takes his revenge upon those who turned his life into a literal hellhole, reunites with the woman he loves, learns he has a son, and lives happily ever after. All while look smoking hot.

I was under the impression that Château d'If was this ridiculously imposing island - as infamous as Alcatraz and as isolated as Azkaban. Nope. Take a look at this picture.

Hey! That girl looks familiar!

See those islands on the right of the photo, not too, too far offshore? The little island in front is the former island prison of Château d'If. I am 90% certain that I have gone snorkeling that far offshore before by starting at the beach and swimming out there at a leisurely pace. I assume, then, that there must be man-destroying rocks and sharks with laser beams attached to their heads encircling the place, because otherwise, assuming one could get out of the château, I can't see how escaping back to shore would really be much a challenge to anyone who knows how to doggy paddle at the very least, especially when the château is just a bit over a mile offshore. I wonder what made this place, at least in my mind, such a formidable prison?

I don't see any laser-beam-carrying sharks. Perhaps they are hiding, waiting to surprise the unsuspecting escapee.

Ah, dangerous ocean currents, you say, Wikipedia? As well as gun embrasures that I am sure were well-armed with hundreds of sharp-shooters just waiting for someone to attempt a daring escape? That is more acceptable. Although, considering the fact that the detainees were mostly political and religious prisoners, I can't imagine that they were the sort of cutthroat criminals itching to get out and get their hands bloody again. In fact, if anything, the detainees would have been white collar criminals more along the lines of Neal Caffrey, who would have schemed their way from a windowless cell to one with a fireplace and a prime view of the Marseille skyline to right out the front door and on to freedom with nothing but their wits, charm, and sizable cajones.

I like to think that all con men look, act, and dress like this man.

Charming white collar criminals aside and former formidable French prisons aside, I couldn't help but compare Marseille to San Diego. I immediately picked up on the same style of beach-front property design that one can find in La Jolla: tall, skinny homes that are much deeper and larger than you originally imagined, packed tightly together across the street from a set of cliffs leading down to the waves and boats below in some parts... and grandiose, sprawling residences hovering above beaches in other places.

And I bet all of these places cost a least a million euros

I can't decide which one I want for my fourth summer home.

 The beach that we went to was a small stretch of sand protected by a line of rocks that ran along the southern edge, creating a double beach of sorts. The water was a bit too frigid for my tastes, so I sunbathed and read up on early Christian history in Byzantium while Derek, the brave soul, went clambering over the rocks and tested the water on both sides of the sand.

We'll always have... whatever the name of this beach is...

Something I am frequently asked, normally by friends of the male persuasion, is whether or not the tales of French beaches are true. Do the women actually run around topless? Is clothing optional? Do French women actually shave? Well, besides having repeated seen French women purchasing shaving gel and razors and razorblades, I can't really answer to French personal hygiene questions, but I am pretty gosh darn certain that, yeah, French women (or, at least, the young French women that my male friends are all drooling over) shave just like American women. As to the optional clothing... from what I understand, most French beaches, unless specified, allow women to go topless. However, full nudity is still saved for nude beaches, of which there are still plenty. Don't expect to come to France looking for gaggles of twenty-something Françaises walking along the shores in naught but an itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikini bottom. It doesn't happen. However, forty- or fifty-something Françaises walking along the shores in itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikini bottoms can be spotted fairly frequently, much to the chagrin of the fantasizing young American men who just can't wait to catch a glimpse of the liberated French women.

If there is one thing that people should know about the French, it is that they are not so different from us. Over the past 30 years or so, they have come to more closely resemble American society. Women shave and wear tops at beaches. With establishments such as McDonald's and Quick Burger (which I maintain taste nasty, but are still common haunts for school children), the hamburger is becoming more apparent in the mid-sections of portions of the French population. A general trend toward a more conservative lifestyle seems to have slowly started to emerge. Oh, and the French can be just as awkward as any American when it comes to (1) dancing, and (2) relationships. There is still so much here that is unique to the country and makes me consider whether I shouldn't spend half my year in San Diego and half my year somewhere on the coasts of France because I love the lifestyle here - the food, the wine, the lavender, the language, the fashion, the history, the art/architecture. And yet, the great looming shadow of lazy U.S. consumerism and gluttony never seems to be too far away...

But back to Marseille. We happened to wander for a bit on our way to the beach, managed to get a little lost, and had a great time. My favorite shot from this whole afternoon excursion is a candid one that I snapped while we were wandering through the city on our way to the beach:

Somewhere between a typical narrow street with pale blue shutters framing all the windows with the provençal sun shining, and a beach-side collection of expensive homes with walls of unusual colors à la southern California, this one little street made me feel completely at home.

Monaco


I first mentioned my weekend in Monaco in this entry, but never really elaborated. Allow me to do so briefly now.

As I mentioned, I went to Monaco as a representative of Wellesley College. I was not fortunate enough to give a formal presentation on what it is like to go to women's college or even what it is like to go to a liberal arts college in the United States versus a larger research university with 20,000 undergraduates and 6,000 graduate students. However, I was available for one-on-one questions after the initial presentations where I could focus more on specific aspects of my school as well as the admissions process for international students, and was very pleased to be able to speak to several young women who seemed especially interested in Wellesley.

The location for this event was in a bank about halfway between the famous casino and the Port Hercule along a street that I came to think of as Rich Person Street because there is a whole string of private wealth management banks, aka places I could likely not even step foot into without being spotted immediately for the poor college student that I am. Some of them also seemed like really good locations for the next Bond movie... or the next episode of Chuck. The entrance to the private banking establishment opens to a grand double staircase in the art nouveau style that simply screams of the wealth of the residents of the tiny principality of Monaco. Our bank was much less ostentatious, but included a friendly and inquisitive security guard that one had to pass in order to actually see anything of any interest within the building.

But what can you expect from a principality whose per capita GDP is over $150,000 (compared to the U.S.'s measly $48,000)?

Any second James Bond is going to pop out from behind that fountain. I just know it.

Everywhere in Monaco felt out of my price range. The casino had a ten euro entry fee, which seemed silly considering how much money people must throw away at that establishment. The Buddha-Bar, which looked like a really good time, was clearly out of our league judging from the clientele dressed to the nines in heels that would make anyone else's nose bleed. The club that we ended up going to charged twenty-two euros for the first beverage since there was no entry fee, and a glass of wine at the brasserie near the casino was roughly five or six euros while a little French coffee was four euros.

I don't think Buddha would approve of your selectiveness, Buddha-Bar.

So, thank goodness for the carnival that was going on down at the harbor. Cheap fair food, fun games, silly rides, and an overall surprisingly well-executed fair. I had the best churros of my entire life in Monaco, and all for four euros! They gave me a bag stuffed full of churros, and it was so much warm, sugary goodness that I demanded that my companion help me eat them - something I don't always do when the food is as good as those churros were. I also enjoyed a specialty of the region called "socca," which is best described as a sort of crêpe made of chickpea flour and often sprinkled with black pepper. It was absolutely magnificent.

Come to meeeeee, socca!!!

FUN

More FUN.

Oh, and can we just talk about the female rock group from Thailand that covered some of my favorite rock songs ever... and did a damn good job of it? Adorable.

Peace, love, pandas, and sunshine,
Rachel