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

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

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

Louis the Lucky Duck

If I lived somewhere with a garden like this

I am certain I would never want to leave. Versailles is worth the visit for this tiny corner of the royal gardens alone. I'm not even including the fountains and the hidden speakers in the walls of shrubbery that play classical music and the perfectly white marble statues and the vividly colored flowers. Heck, I'm not even talking about the parks that extend outside of the initial manicured gardens. I refer merely to what is included in this picture here. I would be content with this for a lifetime.

It boggles the mind to think that this once belonged to a single man. To be fair, he was the leader of an entire nation, but, hey, Obama is the leader of one of the most powerful nations in the world, and he doesn't have a garden like this.

Let's continue with our pretty pictures tour, shall we?

The Royal Gate - Read: the second of two gates leading to the château

The chapel

Strange Japanese statue in front of overly ornate door

The Hall of Mirrors, part 1

The Hall of Mirrors, part 2

I spent a fair amount of time being herded through room after room after room of absolute magnificence by the crowds of people.

Originally, I had planned upon heading out to Versailles early that morning with several others on the program so that we could beat the crowd and have the château to ourselves. However, the previous night of partying in Paris (during which I nearly caused a fight at a discothèque, as you may recall) and my complete inability to get out of bed in a timely manner meant that there was no way in this life or in any other that I would be catching the 8:19 am train out to Versailles. Nope. Nuh uh. It just was not in the cards for me. (I later learned that some people had managed to get up and get on the early train - Bravo, I say!)

Instead, I caught the 10:19 am train and arrived about 45 minutes later at the train station. I had done some research on how to get there a day or two before, so I knew that getting there was quite simple: take the RER to the end of the line, get off, walk a little bit, and then begin drooling over the pretty. What I failed to remember to do in my research, though, was to figure out that little walking bit. I had, of course, looked at the train station on the map to gain a sense of how far away it was from the actual château, but upon seeing that it was roughly a five minute walk or less, and there did not seem to any tricky twists or turns, I did not do any further exploration of this map. Thus, when I arrived at the station, I was completely lost. I had been under the impression that all I needed to do was walk out of the station, look around, spot Versailles, and begin marching toward it. I had also been under the impression that the train station would not be surrounded by buildings but would instead be right on the edge of the Versailles property. This was not the case. The station is in the town, about a block away from the palace, and the one is not visible from the other. 

Thankfully, just about everyone else on the train with me had the same destination in mind, so it took me about a microsecond to figure out that I merely needed to follow the mob of fellow tourists to reach my goal. From there, it became a matter of standing in lines to gain access to the museum and parks. I was fortunate enough to miss the really large crowds, which showed up about half an hour after I did, but I still had to wait about 45 minutes total (30 to get my ticket and another 15 to enter the grounds proper) before I could actually begin exploring to my heart's content.

I spent about an hour and a half strolling through the place on my own, spending as much or as little time as I wanted in each room. There were always people around, though, and I thus felt obliged to not linger too long in one place - it somehow seemed rude in my eyes.

My favorite room, without a doubt, was the Hall of Mirrors. I spent more time there than anywhere else in the interior of the château. It is also probably the largest room open to visitors in the building, so it lends reason to my directly proportionally increased amount of time spent there. I love sunlight and being surrounded by natural light, so this room was like a dream come true. Upon my arrival, the sky, with its clouds a darker grey than I had ever seen in the sky, had been threatening to pour down on everyone unfortunate enough to be caught waiting in line, which had included me. Luckily, though, by the time I reached the Hall of Mirrors, the rain clouds had, for the most part, gone off to unleash their drenching fury elsewhere, leaving behind happy fluffy clouds and intermittent patches of sun. This meant that the room was fantastically bright and lovely. The light flooded in through the grand windows and the golden statues holding aloft the magnificent candelabras gleamed.

Pictured: Gleaming golden statues holding aloft magnificent candelabras

Louis XIV probably never realized just how freaking lucky he was to wake up in this bed:

Pictured: A bed (literally) fit for a king.

and then walk out though his bedchamber into the Hall of Mirrors before throwing open the windows and gazing out over his magnificent gardens every morning. (I imagine that this is what he did every morning, weather permitting, because I certainly would have.)

WHICH REMINDS ME.

The gardens. Hands down the most amazing place I have ever been to. I spent more time meandering through those gardens and parks than I did inside any of the residences.

After my trip to the palace of Versailles, I ate a quick lunch of a provençal sandwich on foccacia bread, which was an excellent combination, along with "un coca" (I'm pretty sure that you can no longer go anywhere without running into Coca-Cola) and a slice of apple pie at the local café at the museum. I then decided that it was high time I took advantage of the "passeport" ticket that I had purchased which allowed me to visit not only the gardens and parks, but the adjacent properties that had once belonged to other members of the royal family, including Marie Antoinette. On my journey through the royal chambers of Louis XIV, I had, of course, glimpsed the greenery that was to come, but it was still nothing compared to the real thing.

The first thing I noticed as I entered what really amounts to a gargantuan backyard was the faint vibrations of classical music drifting through the air. I wondered to myself where this music could be coming from because it seemed as though an actual orchestra might be just around the corner or down the next flight of stairs. I discovered, to a bizarre melange of dismay and joy that there was no grand orchestra set up in the gardens, playing for my listening pleasure, but, instead, that there were small but powerful speakers hidden away in the giant walls of shrubbery such as the ones pictured below.

A shrubbery that Mom would be proud of

 This meant that the classical music was everywhere you went in the gardens. It did not extend as far as the parks, which are actually open to the public, but the gardens are massive enough that you can spend hours there, moving from fountain to fountain and from musical piece to musical piece. There exist a plethora of alcoves and pathways which play their own specific pieces of music - which is fantastic if you want to hop from piece to piece, but can also be aggravating when you are on the verge of recognizing a piece only to have it turn into something else as you head 'round the corner.

Now, initially, I headed off to the left of the property, where the plants were all perfectly manicured into small swirls of green, punctuated with flowers such as these:

However, I soon headed back for the main path that sloped down from the château. I believe it was then that I first noticed the pure white marble statues lining the central walkway. My inner art history nerd began to hyperventilate from the sheer number of new works to examine - only this time, I could examine them out in broad daylight instead of in moderately lit museums. Again, the question crept into my mind as to whether Louis XIV ever truly realized how totally awesome his life at Versailles had to have been. I mean, the dude has a copy of the Laocoon sculpture, which is one of the most legit pieces of art ever. On a scale of one to holy-crap-they-just-don't-do-art-like-that-anymore, the Laocoon is divine magnificence. In fact, I don't even think Medusa could turn people into stone with the same sort of realism and ideal proportions as the Laocoon. Anyway. My nerd is showing.

What I am trying to say is that walking down through the main gallery to the Apollo fountain is such a treat: gorgeous flowers, epic classical music, and plenty of classical statues with fig leaves over their nether regions to keep this a family affair.

I took my time moving through the gardens, but did not do too much to stray from the central path because I had a sneaking suspicion that one wrong turn, and it would suddenly be worse than the third task of the Triwizard Tournament: walls of shrubbery closing in around me, a sphinx with some annoying riddle, and one wrong decision to touch some cool looking object, and suddenly I'm in a graveyard, watching Ralph Finnes prance around evilly, and trying not to make fun of his lack of a nose.

Thankfully, it appears that stuff only happens in England so I did not have to see any Dark Lords regain a corporeal form.

I did, however, manage to get ever so slightly lost. On my way over to the domain of Marie Antoinette, I managed to completely overshoot my target entrance by taking the wrong tree-lined path. The map I had with me was not very helpful, either, because it was rather difficult to approximate my location relative to the giant canal running through the grand park. So I ended up travelling backwards through the Trianon and the domain of Marie Antoinette. It probably did not make much of a difference, though, because both places were somewhat boring. The Trianon was spectacular in that each room was perfectly color coordinated, but by then my interests in the interiors of buildings had ever so slightly waned.

Eventually, I headed back toward the direction of Versailles, again overshooting my destination such that I was back at the opposite end of the gardens from the Apollo fountain at a set of three fountains to the right of the Versailles establishment.

Lucky for me, though, I had arrived just in time for the fountains to turn on. Earlier that afternoon, they had been quiet, but now they were alive and made the place all the more amazing to my impressionable young mind. Now I was content to wander and lose myself in the mazes of plants, following only my instinct and the sound of falling water. I saw some pretty darn cool stuff.

Yeah it's pretty darn cool

This is even cooler

The fountain that took the cake, though, had to be the mirror fountain with "jets d'eau" that danced in perfectly synchronized time to pieces of classical music. I happened upon this fountain just about half an hour before the gardens closed for the day and figured this was too cool to pass up. So I completely ignored the "keep off the grass" sign, took a seat on the grass, and began watching the water show. I was severely distracted by the pretty for a good quarter of an hour.

Imagine that you can also hear a piano sonata or two right now. Then feel like one classy dude.

I managed to accomplish a goal of mine that day: stay at a museum until closing. After the piece that I was listening to (which might have been German, now that I think about it, but who knows) had finished, the show was over, the fountains were shut off, and everyone was ushered out of the garden by a gentle female voice that kindly informed us in three languages that the palace was closing and everyone needed to GTFO. I made my way back through the rows and rows of plants to the first terrace of manicured green and proceeded to follow the mass exodus out through the gates, casting strange glances at the people who were still trying to get inside the gardens even though visiting hours had clearly ended for the day.

Versailles was absolutely worth the money I had to spend to see everything. I wore myself out so much trying to catch a glimpse of as much as I could that I napped between stops on the train ride back.

All in all, wandering around a royal estate on one's own for a day and never quite knowing where you are going but always knowing exactly where you are is, in my opinion, the best way to see Versailles. Just go and explore. There will always be something to take your breath away.