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

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

A Quick One While I'm Away

Hello friends!

So, good news and bad news.

GOOD NEWS: I'm updating!!! Huzzah!

BAD NEWS: This is a really short update.

I have been really, really, magnificently behind schedule on updating because I've been really, really, magnificently busy as of late. I think it finally trickled through my skull that I am still a university student, and now that classes are nearing their end, I have suddenly realized that, oh, crap, I have a lot of work to do. And, of course, since I am a perfectionist at heart, it has to be as perfect as my current level of French will allow.

Alrighty, but enough excuses. Let me update you on the essentials. Some travelling has been done. I went to Monaco to represent Wellesley at a presentation about attending college in the United States. Monaco is fantastic, really expensive, and full of never-ending hills. There are so many uphill climbs, in fact, that Monaco installed public elevators for people to get around. No friggin' joke.

Why did they think it would be a good idea to put a city on the side of a mountain?

And then, with the Wellesley-in-Aix peeps, I got to see a good bit of the Luberon, which is gorgeous. We drove through Bonnieux, which a lovely hillside village across the valley from the former residence of the Marquis de Sade, ate lunch in Gordes at a five star hotel and restaurant, took a brisk walk through Roussillon, which is one of the most astounding locations in the world, and were privy to a guided tour of the Abbaye de Sénanque, which you might know for being that old-looking abbey with the fields upon fields of lavender surrounding it.

The rooftops of Bonnieux

Potato chips: Gourmet food for visitors of Gordes

Purdy flowers (and my shockingly blue glove) in Roussillon

One of the first good glimpses of the Abbaye de Sénanque

Otherwise, I've been living in Aix, enjoying the company of friends. We've had parties and dinners and movie nights and various activities all throughout Aix just about every weekend, and it's been great! It's fun to see such a mix of Americans, French, Australians, Germans, and so on! One of my favorite activities of late was the "Festival Tous Courts," the annual international short film festival in Aix-en-Provence. My friend Cédric and I went to see the winners of the festival. In all, we saw eight (possibly nine... I might have forgotten one when reviewing them) films, and my favorite was probably "J'attends une femme," an imparting of wisdom from mother to daughter as the mother reaches the end of her pregnancy. The mother shares stories, brutally honest facts and opinions, general advice, and often humorous anecdotes of what it will be like to be born and to grow and to learn and to live as a woman.

Since we are now in the month of December, it is very clearly Christmas season. And France definitely knows  how to celebrate this fact. On Cours Mirabeau, they've got a daily Christmas market with hand-crafted items, cute little souvenirs and knick-knacks, specialties of the region or season (calissons, vin chaud, churros, pretzels, etc.), and a second merry-go-round specifically for the season. Pretty darn cool. I got some Christmas shopping done there, and indulged myself a little bit by purchasing a real, hand-painted Venetian mask. Now, I absolutely have no reason whatsoever to NOT go to Venice, especially since one of my vacations in the spring semester happens to fall on the same dates of the Carnivale de Venezia. So ridiculously excited for Venice.

I'm also excited for spending Christmas in Paris. Everything is settled on that account, which is comforting. This is the first Christmas that I can think of that will be spent away from home, which is particularly upsetting since I have not been home in so long, but I try to not let it get me down too much because, hey, I am spending Christmas in Paris. This is something that I have been dreaming of doing for years, and considering the fact that Paris has been getting a lot of snow recently, it looks like I might even be able to have an actual white Christmas in Paris. How lovely!

Well, I can hear the piles of homework calling, so I think I had better tend to them before they start screaming at me. I promise to continue with the entries about the various cities I've visited, and to tell you all about my holidays once I get through exams.

Peace, love, and chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Rachel

Postcards from Tiny Towns, Part 1

I have been fortunate enough ever since my arrival in Aix-en-Provence to do a little travelling around the region, both with groups of international students and on my own. As a result, I have seen some absolutely breathtaking sights and have officially decided that France is my third home... after San Diego and Boston, of course. This entry is going to be, essentially, a two-parter. This first part is going to be dedicated to the various tiny tours I passed though and visited throughout my journeys. The second part will chronicle larger towns where I might or might not have spent a little more time, depending on the situation. From the beginning!

Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer


I came to this small city during a tour of three different, but culturally prominent, cities in Provence with other international students. I spent all of two hours here, but I had fun nevertheless and am of the mind that anywhere with a beach is a fabulous place to live.

Nevermind that this is a continent and an ocean away from San Diego - this felt like home.

While there, I stopped by the église des Saintes Maries, which is now a pilgrimage destination for Roma who gather yearly in this town to celebrate Saint Sarah. She receives even more attention than the three Marys for whom the town is named, and, to top it all off, Sarah was supposedly the dark-skinned Egyptian servant of the three Marys in one account, a charitable Gypsy woman in another, and the daughter of Jesus and Mary Magdalene in a third. Anyway you look at it, she must have had a pretty interesting life, and at one point definitely appeared to have lived in the Camargue, the marshy delta of the Rhône.

Pictured: One mysterious woman

Eventually, she was adopted as the saint of the Roma, and now people from far and wide come to visit her shrine Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, where she supposedly lived with the Three Marys.

Gratuitous photo of votive candles

This place becomes more interesting the more I read about it. Supposedly, it has a population of about 2500 (so, roughly one very overstuffed Wellesley College) that swells to 50,000 during the summer holidays. In other words, the population is twenty times as large in the summer. That is like turning Wellesley into two UCSD campuses. Where do they put these 48,000 people, I wonder? Does everyone and their brother have a nice summer cottage in SMDLM where they escape to in the month of August? The main industry is, not surprisingly, tourism, with agriculture coming in a secure second thanks to the surrounding Camargue, so I assume everyone must lie around on the beach in the summer and write postcards to all the suckers stuck at home while thanking Saint Sarah for being awesome.

Haha, suckaaahhhhs!!!

Les Baux-de-Provence


Which is more impressive:

the battering ram

the catapults

or the castle ruins of this commune tucked away in the mountains of the Bouches-du-Rhône department in Provence?

Well, consider this: The lords of Baux were powerful medieval feudal lords who spent years vying for control of Provence. Even once they had been deposed in the 12th century, the court at the Château des Baux-de-Provence continued to be famous for its culture and chivalry. In 1632, its Protestant owners led an unsuccessful revolt against the very Catholic crown, and Cardinal Richelieu, better known as Tim Curry, ordered that the place be dismantled. What you see there today is a result of that dismantling.

These days, nothing as badass as having the wrath of Tim Curry rain down upon you happens in Les Baux, but there are plenty of tourist shops and a multitude of olive groves in the valley below that render the commune one of the most picturesque towns ever.

And with some of the best tapenade around

Oh, and they have catapult reenactments every day in the summer.

My memories of this town are mostly a blur of tiny winding streets uphill and a series of highly eloquent comments such as "whoa" and "awesome" that I traded with my friend Clare as we climbed the heights of the castle. I certainly didn't see any catapult reenactments. But as I looked out over what should really be considered a village hidden away in the mountains, I found myself wondering, and not for the first time since August 21, what it might be like to set up residence in a small city in France. Sure, it may depend on tourism and olives for its business, but Les Baux is still gorgeous and old and people lower down from the summit had outdoor swimming pools, and dammit, now I don't know where in France I'd like to have my summer home.

Cassis

When I think of Cassis, I think of two things, rocky beaches and Milka cows.

And with good reason.

Another French commune, Cassis is known mostly for its cliffs and the "calanques," or sheltered inlets, that run between there and Marseille, which is just a bit to the west.

I visited this village with the other students in my program as part of an organized weekend excursion that WIA puts together every now and again so that we don't forget how freakishly pretty France is.

As if we needed reminding.

Upon our arrival in Cassis, we were taken on a boat tour of the calanques, which lasted about an hour or so, and had to be one of the most amusing boat rides in the world. Being the impressionable, eager 20 years old that we all are, as soon as we stepped foot onto the tour boat, we raced to the seating up front, as close to the bow as possible. After all, what is a trip around the Mediterranean coast if you can't have a good view? The ride started out smoothly enough as we edge out around the lighthouse ("le phare") and out of the bay into the Mediterranean proper. But this was when the wind, which had been whipping out steadily since our arrival, came into play like Nymphadora Tonks in a Swarovski boutique - that is to say, in a rather ungraceful manner.

The wind, of course, helped to make the water of the sea choppier than usual, and the little boat that we were on was truly doing its best to not submerge us all in the chilly saltwater. So, predictably, we were all frequently sprayed with sea water every time the boat dipped over a wave. This meant that I was having the time of my life, grinning gleefully from ear to ear, giggling joyously at each new splash of water, even when one or two managed to catch me off guard and send little drops of water down my shirt. Some of us on the trip were less than completely satisfied with the cold water splashing down on us, but they rallied their spirits and made the best of the situation. Which really wasn't hard to do because all one had to do was look five feet in front of their nose and forget that anything else existed.

Summer Home 1 of 26 in France

The calanques, with their calmer waters, fantastically white and rocky cliffs, and impressive hiking paths, made for an excellent welcome to the tiny city. And the water itself!

Never have I seen water so blue, so clear, so pristine in my life! One could look down and see the blue, iridescent fish swimming alongside the boat. Snorkeling, in warmer months, would actually be an a sightseeing adventure, and not a test of one's eyesight in low light. The last time I had seen water than even approached this clarity was when I was fifteen and went snorkeling for a day a ways off the coast of Mexico near this rocky mound that jutted out of the ocean. Even that couldn't quite live up to this, though, and this was right off shore! So, of course, I had to go swimming.

Why can't all water look like this?

Fast-forward half an hour later, after examining the logistics of changing into one's bathing suit at a French beach where bare breasts are alright, but baring all in front of people I have to live with and see on a regular basis is mortifying at best. I dipped my feet into the water. A tad chilly, but totally doable, I told myself, and at a friend's urging, fully submerged my body in the water.

Bad idea. I began to gasp for the air that jettisoned itself from my lungs upon the realization of just how cold the water really was and scurried back out to the edge of the water where I could sit and let the water wash over me and slowly acclimate me to my new, wet surroundings. Finally, I swam out to join my friends and discovered a whole new level of buoyancy. I don't think I had ever floated so effortlessly in my life - I could literally just sit in the water and do no work whatsoever and remain afloat. It was fantastic, even if on the chilly side.

These rocks have no idea how good they've got things

Some time later, after I had laid out in the sun for a bit and dried off and changed back into appropriate attire and had my fill of some delicious gelato, a significantly sized group of us noticed a man dressed in a purple cow suit some meters down the beach from where we were resting.

Enter the Milka cow.

Is that useful for saving lives or are you just happy to see me?

They were filming a commercial of the Milka cow and a attractive man in a matching purple Speedo running down the beach together Baywatch style. In French.

Day = made.

Tootles for now. Peace, love, and purple cows!

--Rachel