3.97

Our post sippin' photo (we had smoothies again).

Say "bonjour" to Aubin.

Today was another goodbye-- my final language date with Aubin.

We chatted about our upcoming exams, torture as an inefficient means to an end, and why the French think Americans only eat copious amounts of greasy "MacDo". We exchanged bisous and email addresses as we said goodbye, and we plan to keep in touch. As I was walking away from the cafe, I felt as if I should have met Aubin along the way, not at the end of everything.

I took three tests today, two of which were steps from impossible. The third was MI:4.

Natalie handed back our theatre exams in class. I got a 12.5/20. This, in American averaging, would be a D-.

I am not a D- student. I am not even a D+ or a C or a B student. I am Katie Gant and I have A written all over me. Or, at least I thought I did until freshman year of college. That year, my transcript was forever smeered by an honors professor who clearly didn't know that when he gave me my first B, my tiny world temporarily imploded. Tears were not enough for my all-consuming grief. I wrote furious emails to this professor-who-wil-not-be-named that I never sent, lamenting his unfairness and daring to give me, Katie Gant, a B.

Luckily, the French grading system different than the American grading system, and my 12.5 is more like a B+. But, the point to all this babbling in this: I am different now.

I have been thinking about what I have learned and how I have changed since coming to France, and in the way of grades, I think I have undoubtedly changed for the better. That is not to say I won't always try my best, but that is to say that when someone casually says "Don't worry, its just a grade." to reassure me after a tough test or difficult homework assignment, I will actually agree with them instead of nodding my head "yes", but secretly thinking "no, no, no, NO!".

My world is fully intact and I am not in the midst of my own personal Armageddon because I got a 12.5. Maybe, I'm a petit peu plus francais, or maybe, France has taught me that there is a grand difference between earning a grade and living one.

What I've been doing lately (as I definitely haven't been studying for finals)-- in pictures

I took this picture Friday morning at the market. It is a huge hunk of dried meat. Annie and I simultaneously said "Gross!". I keep returning to the market day after to"stall shop". I wander the colorful produce, listen to the rapidly babbling French farmers, and wish that I had made more recipes with vegetables and fruit and honey and spices and cheese and baguette and basically any ingredient French.

Annie and I enjoying the goodbye BBQ on Friday.

Annie and Karinne doing the same thing.

We celebrated Karinne's 21st birthday party Friday night. This is the only picture I took during the evening (that's Allison), but I think it captures the mood of the event nicely.

I went to the beach in Marseille on Saturday. It was lovely-- I fell asleep as the Mediterranean wind messed my hair.

Look how clear that water is. A few of my friends ventured in, but I was not brave enough to face the cold. I dipped my toe in and exclaimed "No!" as I spread out my towel and tuned my iPod to my favorite sleepy listening-- Harry Potter on tape.

The group packing up to go. There is Greta, Jill, Danni's feet, Allison, and Annie.

I took this picture yesterday of one of the most known fountains in Aix-- The Four Dolphins.

Karinne, Haley, and I planned to go on an Aix photo shoot, but the weather didn't necessarily behave. Its so funny that I have pictures of me standing in front of the Sagrada Famille in Barcelona and Notre Dame in Paris-- but I don't have pictures of me in front of Aix's tiny, but none-the-less monumental landmarks. Well, now I have one pictures I suppose.

I can check Book in a Bar off the list of things to do before I leave. We played scrabble, and [insert gasp] I bought ANOTHER book. If it looks like I'm crying when I see my family at the airport on Sunday, it won't be because I'm glad to see them, it will be because security made me throw some books away because my carry on was too heavy. Just kidding family!

The most wondeful sight in the world-- a cup of tea at Book in a Bar. I feel soothed just looking at it.

Maybe, just maybe...

... I've been avoiding writing my blog because I would have to write about leaving.

Sunday, I packed. Now my apartment looks miserably empty, and my two giant suitcases are haughtily sitting at the foot of my bed, taunting me because I actually have to carry/drag/kick them a mile to the bus stop on Sunday.

Friday, I went to a goodbye BBQ.

Yesterday, I passed out 18 magnets in class that featured the word "Oklahoma!" along with sauntering cowboys, grazing buffaloes, and jumping river bass as remember me! gifts to my classmates. Natalie loved hers.

Sunday, I made a list of the things I have to do in Aix before I leave.

1. Go have a cafe at Les Deux Garcons-- the hippest, most expensive cafe on the Cours Mirabeau-- and people watch.
2. Go to Book in a Bar and complete my mission of tasting every tea on their menu.
3. Have a picnic in Parc de la Torse.
4. Slowly appreciate one last nutella crepe from Crepe a Go-Go
5. Jump in the Rotonde Fountain.

Number 5 might be tricky. And, if I buy one more book while I'm doing number 2, they officially won't let me come back to America, as I will be over the book weight limit (I have about 12 stuffed in my bag right now).

Now, I'm off to study. And mourn. I have six finals this week.

Sippin' Smoothies With My Best Bud Aubin

So, maybe he isn't my "Best Bud", but after two rendez-vous, I think we are taking steps in the bff direction.

Yesterday, Aubin and I met on the Cours Mirabeau and had a lovely Frenglish chat while we enjoyed raspberry/banana smoothies. Aubin is allergic to pollen and is suffering terribly from the Spring bloom, so we made a lovely pair coughing and blowing ours noses together.

Aubin asked me if Miami was in California. I said no, but that Oklahoma has a town called Miama (Don't worry-- I added the appropriate twang). I tried to explain how archeologists created the plaster casts of those poor souls who died in Pompeii, which involved few words and many hand motions (I mimed a volcano exploding, people covering their faces in fright, and an archeologist injecting plaster into a hole-- which any charades professional would admit is a hard thing to do). Maybe, just maybe, he understood what I was trying to explain. Or maybe, he thinks I'm a petit peu folle, and just nods his head and smiles to appease me.

Today, I took wonderous gulps of fresh Aix air while leisuringly strolling to class in the sunshine. Karinne noticed a hint of color returning to my cheeks, and Natalie even said I looked better (If Natalie says it, you know it must be true).

I was missing home so much today I drew an Oklahoma on my hand, counted down the days in my planner until I fly home, and generally wished that I could have a QT hot dog and large coffee instead of my compulsory baguette and frozen vegetable mix. Oh... only 10 days, and I will say "au revoir" to suculent tarts, constant second-guessing, and cobblestone streets and "howdy" to chocolate chip cookies (they don't have brown sugar in France), a language I know how to explain a volcanic eurption in, and an endless expanse of highways.

Sicky: Part II

I made it to class-- barely.

I threw my cacophonous phone across the room when my alarm went off this morning, forcing the poor thing into what I fear is a permanent sleep mode. For those of you who don't know me well, I live by one general rule when it comes to waking up in the morning:

1. Never, EVER, no matter how many precious few minutes of sleep you may have received, snooze your alarm.

I guess I have a gift for waking up early, and I have always managed a life sans snooze. I even harbor an ever so tiny grudge against those who do, stupidly priding myself on my morning wakefulness.

Anyway.. back to the point, which is that you know I am not feeling like myself if I snooze. The sickness is getting to me-- especially my nerves. I'm trying to appreciate my final days in France. I want to smell the spring air. I want to revel in the glorious sunshine at Parc de la Torse. I don't want to walk at superspeed to my apartment after class, yearning for my beautiful bed with every step. I don't want to scare my teachers and elicit multiple "Pauvre, pauvre Katie"'s from Natalie. I don't want to scare poor pedestrians in the rue with my hacking-- their lingering glares seem to say, "You don't cough like a French person either!".

This bronchitis better run its course, and it better run it quick. My phone's life hangs in the balance... as well as my lungs... and maybe even a bit of my sanity.

Sicky

I have bronchitis.

I finally forced myself to visit the doctor, as I was dreading the half-French, half-mimed conversation I was surely going to have (I could just imagine myself pointing at my throat, coughing, and making a sad face). Luckily, he spoke English, sparing me the charades, and luckily, he loaded me up with four different prescriptions.

Hopefully, I'll be feeling better soon. Until then, I plan to sleep twelve hours a night, watch Toy Story on YouTube (oh how I miss American television!), and not study for my finals.

Finally... pictures!

The new links at Cork and Lismore, Rome I and II, Capri, and Dublin!

My Case of the Flu

Wednesday was our sight seeing day in Dublin. Although we saw the city lights Tuesday night in Dublin when Kevin and Kit (essentially, Karinne’s cousins—too much family tree-age to explain) took us out, we wanted to see more than the interior of pubs and clubs.

To say the least, we were tired. We danced until the bars shut down at 3:00 in the morning Tuesday, and arrived home in time for bed at 4:00. Karinne came into my room Wednesday morning at 9:30 and asked if I was ready to see Dublin. I angrily grumbled/coughed “Yessssss” while attempting to throw a pillow at her.

But, despite a severe case of the yawns and my persistent cold that I caught in Rome, the city was great. We saw the beautiful campus at Trinity College, shopped Grafton Street, and attempted to listen to nightsong at Christ Church (it was cancelled due to the spring holidays).

When we signed up for a tour of Dublin Castle, my cough had reached annoying heights. I was diagnosed with asthma in eighth grade when I got a cold that never seemed to wane, and ever since then, my cough has taken on a distinct seal-like quality. Anyone who has ever heard water go down my wrong pipe knows what I am talking about. It is loud and barking.

We were touring around the castle, and I was trying to stifle the noise of my coughs in my coat sleeve when I heard the lady next to me murmur to her traveling companion, “That girl definitely has the swine flu.”

I giggled when I heard this, and Karinne smiled at me as well, as we both know that my cough simply sounds worse than it is. But this lady was convinced. Every time I coughed during the hour-long tour, she visibly winced, then covered her face in an attempt to block her mouth from my supposedly swiney germs. She even made a point to stand as far away from me as possible, even leaning away from me despite the twenty feet that stood between us.

After the tour, I decided a stop at the pharmacy was possibly a necessary thing to do, and after I took some medicine, my cough was much improved and much less frightening to the other tourists around me.

We made tomato soup and grilled cheese for dinner in Clontarf (my favorite sick food), and I took some cough medicine that completely knocked me out. I slept deeply and dreamed of rolling hills, grazing cows, and seemingly endless expanses of green.

Karinne's Family Tree

I think I need to explain our reason for visiting Ireland, as we had originally planned to skip over to Greece after Italy and tour Athens and Santorini. But, while traveling in Europe is cheap, we didn’t factor in the costs of museums (why can’t they all be free like in England?), eating at least two times a day (we can always skip breakfast or have Linner/Dunch), and the souvenir must-haves that seem to come with every trip (I think I really do need that pencil shaped like a baguette after all). After looking at the cost of traveling to Greece, we decided to give Eileen a call.

Eileen is Karinne’s grandmother. She immigrated to California from Ireland when she was 18, leaving her two sisters, Cait (pronounced like Cotch) and Anne, as well the rest of her family.

Fast-forward fifty years, and Cait still lives in Dublin. Her daughter, Eleanor, lives around the corner from her mother and is married with two boys.

When Eileen heard that Karinne and her friends (that would be me and Haley) were looking for a place to go on a budget, she suggested we visit her family in Ireland. We, of course, immediately took her up on the offer (I remember us jumping up and down together in my kitchen, screaming “Ireland, here we come!!!”), and Eileen arranged everything for us.

We stayed in Cait’s house in Dublin, as she was away on holiday to New Zealand visiting her son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter who live there. It was a lovely home in a charming district of Dublin called Clontarf. We felt so grand staying in our very own Irish home and making delicious Irish brown bread buttered with you-could-eat-it-with-a-spoon Irish butter every morning before catching the bus into Dublin.

Karinne’s family was spectacular. Eleanor not only picked us up from the airport, but also stocked Cait’s house with food and cooked us lunches and breakfasts. She arranged our bus to Cork (more details to come), and had champagne and tarts to bid us farewell when we left Saturday.

Karinne’s Irish family felt like my Irish family, and truly made me appreciate the small, but tremendously welcoming country.

Three Simple Reasons to Visit Italy

I didn’t want to leave. Haley and I dragged ourselves to the train station Tuesday morning, wanting to soak up every glorious Italian minute before we departed for Ireland. The weather mimicked our mood, and the sky opened up and thoroughly drenched the Roman landscape on our bus ride to the airport.

I can’t exactly explain why I fell in love with Italy, but here is an attempt. The three reasons I loved Italy:

3. The People

2. The Food

1. The People

You have to go. Skip Venice—as it is hooky in comparison. See Florence, see Naples, see Pompeii, see Capri, see Rome. They are more than my feeble words can try to explain.

The List: Rome's Top 10

As I couldn’t bring myself to do anything more than lay on my squeaky bunk bed and repeatedly exclaim to Haley, “Is it really possible for anyone’s feet to hurt this bad?!”, I didn’t keep up on the blog while in Rome. So, as the Irish sun sets, bringing more clouds and more rain to keep this country eternally green, I’m going to recount my entirely different Roman adventures with a top 10 list.

10. The Roman Forum and Palatine Hill

After Pompeii, the ruins in Rome were a bit of a let down. The sprawling city with loudly honking car horns and souvenir stands selling Arch of Titus napkin holders also prevented me from taking a large step back a few thousand years in time and imagining how the Romans lived.

But, it was still worth the visit.

9. The Pantheon

Haley and I suddenly stumbled upon this treasure while wandering the old quarter of the city in the pouring rain. Maybe I liked it because it put a roof over my head and gave my umbrella some time to recover, but whatever the case, it was cool.

8. The Trevi Fountain

Crowded, but an unexpected treat in the midst of the city. We threw pennies over our shoulders and made wishes. I won’t tell you what I wished for, as it might spoil the wish, but it has to do with Europe and time and sadness.

7. Colosseum

Although a forty-year-old Roman tried to put the moves on me while I was admiring the exhibit on the Flavian family (“You think history is interesting? I know all about history—we could go discuss it over a coffee if you would like.”), the Colosseum was still spectacular.

The amazement came in imagining the gruesome gladiator fights and animal slayings that took place thousands of years ago, and Haley and I made several circles around the arena in silence as our imaginations raged with thoughts of ancient Rome.

6. Gelato

Any stand. Any store. Any flavor. Always delicious. Mom—the coconut tastes exactly like Mice’s coconut cake. I got it three times.

5. The Spanish Steps

I could have sat all day and admired the Piazza de Spagna while inhaling the fresh spring smell of the azaleas. Although it was packed with tourists doing the same thing I was (taking pictures of themselves climbing the infamous steps), I still really enjoyed taking a break from the walking and watching chic Italian women stroll by carrying shopping bags with labels like Chanel and Dolce and Gabanna, as the upscale shopping district is in the piazza.

4. The Sistine Chapel

It was beautiful. I wish I could have spread out a blanket in the midst of the crowd, laid down, and simply stared. I could have looked for hours and not grown tired. I could have looked for hours and continued to appreciate new scenes and new subtleties in Michelangelo’s work.

Pictures weren’t allowed, so naturally, I would quickly pull my camera out of a pocket, snap a quick photo, than discreetly replaced the forbidden device before a guard came to tell me off.

3. St. Peter’s Basilica

Mouth Open. Neck tilted ninety degrees. Repeated “Woooowwwww.”

It truly is unlike any Basilica I have visited before because of the unmistakable grandeur. It is as if you can feel the influence of the Catholic Church over the centuries in the gold leafing and bronze statues and enormous dome and the sheer size of the place.

Michelangelo’s Pieta was breath taking. I pushed my way to the barrier, and commenced to plant myself directly in front of the masterpiece and soak it up while countless tourists took pictures around me. Their camera flashes didn’t distract me though, as I was completely absorbed.

2. Its Small!

Cities on a map always look so much more daunting than they actually are. Rome is walkable, and learning that a city that I have learned so much about in school is not as big in space as it is in reputation was nice.

1. Chianti Hostel

I know—its silly for a hostel, a word that congers up images of cold showers, crowded rooms with snoring boys, and a constant babbling of foreign languages, to have been my favorite part of Rome, but me and Haley’s hostel was phenomenal. The staff was unbelievably kind, and planned our days out for us so we could see it all. They cooked us dinner and really tried to get to know us. I think I will always remember Igor (from Russia) and Scott (from Britain).