The two i's

Italy and Ireland.

The "i" section of my Europe guidebook will be thoroughly worn by the end of my two week tour.

Here is the plan: Florence to Naples to Rome to Dublin to the Irish countryside, then back to Aix, utterly exhausted, but filled to the brim with homemade Italian pasta, rolling Irish hills, Renaissance art, and most importantly-- unforgettable adventures that I will take with me as long as the urge to see and do and learn rushes through my Europe-lovin' veins.

This weekend, everything seemed to gracefully fall into place. Pack my bags-- check. Book all our hostels-- check. Say a tearful goodbye to Aix-- check. Freak out a bit, then realized that I can totally do this-- check.

I'm ready to go. I'm not ready for my alarm to sound tomorrow morning at 4:25 so Haley and I make our 5:11 train out of Aix, but at least I will be traveling by roomy, high speed train rather than a crowded, seemingly eternal overnight bus.

I will post when I have access to the Internet, which I hope will be often.

I'm nervous. I've never been nervous for a trip like I am nervous for this one.

Lazy Hazy Days of Springtime

I have officially been sneeze-less for 24 hours. Although breathing out of my nose was not an option on my run this morning (meaning I didn't have to say "Pardon!" under my breath when passing pedestrians because my heavy breathing alerted them immediately that somebody was laboriously lumbering up behind them), I feel much better.

Today was lazy. I went running. I went to the market. I had a picnic in the park. I played Scrabble again at Book in a Bar (Greta beat me with a well placed "Uzi"). I made boeuf aux carrots with Annie for dinner, marking the first time in several weeks that we have tackled the French cook book. Now, it is storming Oklahoma style. Thunder. Lightning. Flickering lights. I can take sunshine-less if there if there seems to be a purpose behind it.

Chateau Vendome is about a minute walk from my apartment's heavily grafettied door. The mansion/museum has accompanying gardens that are tres beaux and full of springtime wonder. Tulips in every color. Green, green grass. Tinkling fountains. This afternoon, Greta, Jill, Jesus, and I spread out a blanket in the shade and marveled. Jillian, Jesus, and Greta leaving the park.

This tree in brilliant bloom greets me every time I make a quick run to the grocery store down the road from my apartment. It says "Katie, Spring is here to stay." and waves its flowery branches at me as I pass.

The bean selection at the market. I thought the purple ones looked particularly exotic.

Two guitar players were serenading the marketers as they shopped. I felt like I was in a movie, because their jaunty tunes were the background music to my jaunty French life as I selected the perfect carrots for Annie and I's dinner.

I once wrote about my market Santa, and here he is in all his vegetable glory. He always smiles as he hands me my change and calls me mademoiselle. This in turn always forces an absurd grin onto my face. No one ever looked so happy about three onions as I did today when market Santa gave me my change and yellow onions in a bag.

Tragic Sneezes and Figgy Tea

I haven't been feeling well. I sneezed 8 times in class today, and but the sixth or seventh sneeze, Natalie just laughed at me. Then Jesus sneezed, and she exclaimed, "Jesus! Are you trying to impersonate Katie today?!"

My France and Europe class was canceled, so, I practically skipped to Book in a Bar two hours earlier than usual as per my usual Thursday routine. What a treat. Greta, Jill, and I played a rousing game of Scrabble, where I managed to dominate with the 75 point word "queer".

Now, I keep replaying the sentence I don't have school for two weeks in my head. If only I could say All my travel plans are confirmed and set to go for Italy and Ireland, I would be completely content, and my runny nose and cold headache would not seem like such a tragedy.

Our scrabble board at Book in a Bar plus my teapot of Italian Tea. It tasted like figs.

Jill had all vowels. Tough luck.

Natalie is on the left. She is talking with Amanda and Grace, two girls in my class. This was during out "petit pose", which can range anywhere from 5 to 20 minutes depending on what kind of day Natalie is having. Today, she wasn't feeling well, so we had a 20 minute break in the sunshine.

What a beautiful courtyard we have at IEFEE.

Two things in this picture make me happier than words on this blog can express.
1) Sunshine!
2) Trees with leaves!!

Aubin, my language friend

Last night, I found myself anxiously pacing in front of the tourist office, wringing my hands, and regretting the decisions that had led me there.

Why did I think I wanted a language partner anyway? Its just going to be awkward. What if he is amazing at English, and I stumble through my French the entire conversation.

From our very limited email exchange (after all, I had written him in French and he had replied in English) all I knew was that my new language partner was named Aubin and that he was studying at the Law University in Aix. We planned to get a cafe and talk, him in English and me in French, for about an hour. Pam set us up.

I realized the stupidity of our decision not to swap phone numbers, descriptions (I'll be the girl in the bright yellow jacket!"), or decide on a more specific meeting point after I hesitantly approached a man standing alone and asked if he was my language buddy Aubin. His blank stare made my cheeks burn with embaressment, and I quickly walked to another bench in front of the office, determined not to approach another stranger unless I was positive it was Aubin.

About ten minutes after our designated 7:00 meet time, I was about to pack up and leave when I heard a someone on the phone say many indistinguishable phrases in French, and then, a distinct "CAT-TEEE". I knew this was my man. I approached the man with some spring in my step, proudly stuck out my hand, and said "Are you ready to speak some English?! I'm Katie."

Aubin was great. He is from the Ivory Coast, and moved to France when he was a boy. He is studying law for another year before he takes his exams to graduate. He has a brother and two sisters. He smiled during our entired conversation, and graciously picked up the tab at the end of our hour long exchange, promising that I could pay next time. His English was the equivalent of my French, making it the perfect balance of tiny corrections and "How do you say [insert obscure word]?".

Aubin is my first French friend. It only took three months in France and hundreds of hours of Natalie for me to feel like I can have a friend to whom I only speak French. I can't wait for our next exchange.

Une photo ou deux

I'm feeling rather tired tonight, so here are some photos that I took this past weekend. Enjoy.

The French aren't shy about hanging their undies out for everyone to see.

The Saturday market. It seems to go for stalls and stalls without end. Ginormous eggplants. Succulent berries. Countless carrots. Yum, Yum, Yum.

Its strawberry season. They were all over the market.

Literally-- everywhere.

The meat counter at the outdoor market. Although I'm brave enough to tackle the vegetable and fruit vendors, I'm scared of the meat. "One apple" is much easier to say than "[whatever the conversion is for

The best crepes in town. Nothing is more wonderful than strolling down the Cours Mirabeau with a crepe a GoGo in hand. All the French give you envious looks, wishing they held the Nutella bliss that you do in their hands.

The crepes a gogo lady. She is always there, she never smiles, and her crepes always taste like heaven.

Frioul

The weather: 75. Balmy. Cloudless.

The island: Aqua water. Pebbly beaches. Breathtaking views.

My mood: As high as the clear blue sky.

When I stepped off the boat onto Frioul this afternoon, I let the Mediterranean air blow my homesickness from yesterday out to sea, to be replaced with pure and simple contentment. Frioul was a world away from the noise and bustle of Marseille, where Karinne and I caught the boat, and was so much more than I was expecting.

The island was un petit paradise, populated with countless seagulls determined to show off their harsh vocals and so many varities of wild flowers that the air smelled sweet. Karinne and I walked a rocky path to a small beach to the back of the island, spread out our towels next to a French family, and didn't move for three hours as the sun warmed my wet and tired heart.

It was bliss.

After we felt as if we might have developed at least the hint of a tan line, we hiked to the top of Frioul to explore the island's old fortress and to admire the calanques the island boasts. We wandered aimlessly, going down paths that looked like they might lead somewhere, but often just ended in rocky meadows filled with wild flowers and gusts of wind. I guess that was the somewhere.

Thoroughly and happily exhausted, we caught the boat back, and about an hour in a half later, I was eating dinner in my apartment and realizing that I have more than just a hint of a tanline. Sunburnt again. Oh well, it was completely and utterly worth it.

Une Degustation

I am officially a wine-o. Names like Pauillac and Domaine de la Fourmone actually mean something to me. I can say confidently that 2002 was a horrible year for Bordeaux, as the rains came early, diluting any precious sugar in the grape crop. Robert Foster is my new god. I know the subtle, yet vibrant differences between pinot noir grapes and cabernet sauvignon. I even do the incredibly obnoxious, yet oh-so-pretentious gurgling as I take a sip, letting the wine aerate in my mouth, then slowly swallowing to allow the drink to hit every part of my tongue.

I have converted to the religion of wine. My new faith is all due to one greatly experienced man who described a wine as "transcendental" at the tasting at my apartment last night. Bob is a friend of Pam (the director of Abroadco) and he has been in love with wine since he took his first sip at a dinner party in NYC his junior year of college. Thirty years and many, many bottles later, he is a professor of Classics at the University of Chicago (he is currently on loan to a university in Pisa) and a conisseur of French and Italian wines.

Nine Abroadco students came for the tasting. I had decorated the apartment with fresh flowers and candles, fumbling my way through first time hosting in hopes of impressing my intellectual, wine-loving guest. Of course, the first sentences out of Bob's mouth were 1) You smell lovely. Are you wearing perfume-- it can mix badly with the wine's bouquet? 2) Candles and flowers are such a good idea-- the bouquet thing again. 3) Lovely apartment-- where should I set these precious bottles of ambrosia?

Oh well. I promptly blew out the candles, moved the flowers to another shelf, and the tasting commenced.

We started with a white from Provence. The vineyards of Provence are famous for their roses and heavy-handed reds, but not so much for their whites, and after learning the gurgle and truly tasting the white, I had to agree with Bob when he said, "Eh."

The second was a rose that Bob has personally bottled straight from the cask at a tiny vineyard close to Marseille. Bob advised us to always stick to the cheapest rose, as a 2 euro bottle often tastes the same as a 10 euro bottle. We nodded our heads in agreement, as this is the kind of news poor college students studying abroad always want to hear.

We then moved on to the reds, the "true masterpiece of France" Bob proclaimed jubilently as he excitedly filled our glasses. Three from Provence, one from the Rhone Valley. The wines progressively became more tanic and oaky as we continued. They were all very strong, yet very classic, Bob said, and not for the light of heart.

We finished with my absolute favorite, a white desert wine called "Muscat de Beaumes de Venise". It tasted as if I were drinking honey, but smoother, and with a hint of floral.

I now understand what all the fuss is about, as I truly didn't before. A glass of wine sitting before you is like a mystery that must be solved in three sips or less. Seeing the glass in front of you doesn't contribute to your appreciation of the wine, therefore, you must rely entirely on your sense of smell and taste to decipher subtle flavors. Where does it hit your tongue? What is the finish? Does it taste consistent as it slides down your throat? And then, was it a good year? What combination of grapes were used? Where was it grown, and therefore, what kind of soil were the grapes grown in? There is so much to learn, and it takes years and years to develop a pallet worth buying expensive bottles of wine about.

I had such a great time, and I'm anxious to learn more. Bob was such a character, and the adjectives he used to describe the wine (intelligent, sexy, discreet) turned every bottle into a character as well, whom I got to know over a few sips and swallows.

Quick Update

I find myself at Friday already, completely at a loss as to how it is the weekend already, and a little mad. Only five weeks more. Five weeks more to buy warm baguette fresh from the oven at my local boulangerie, where the woman smiles and says "Merci madame", making me feel as if I have finally fooled someone into thinking I am actually French. Five weeks more to try and discover every hidden street and fountain in Aix. Five weeks more with my friends here, who I now can't imagine my life without. Just five weeks. Zut.

Wednesday night was a treat. Karinne, Allison, and I decided to make the Rugh's a goodbye dinner to thank them for their kindness in including the three of us in their adventures around Provence. It was a lovely, candlelit dinner that included lively conversation about the vast differences between France and America, delicious potato soup and stuffed tomatoes, and plenty of laughter. I loved having Haley's mom over, as her motherly presence reminded me of home and of my mom. Although I often don't write about it, I think of good ole' Oklahoma every day, and do miss it un petit peu.

Last night was Annie's birthday celebration. I curled her hair long, blonde hair and Haley applied copious amounts of black eye liner to her watering, virgin eye lids. As we were walking to the the party, a French boy we walked past let out a "Heeellllloooooo" as his friend whistled. I think that is universal code for: you're looking hot tonight! And she did look beautiful. We had lot of fun, and ended the night dancing with French kids who clearly didn't know the words to the American tunes like I did (one of my great joys is hearing Frenchies mispronounce the words to songs in English, as it makes me feel slightly better about my heavily accented French).

Now, I'm getting ready for a wine tasting about my apartment. I'll let you know how it goes.

You think mayonnaise is something you buy in a jar?

Before I explain the happenings of my class today, here are a few pictures I took of the Aix carnival on Sunday afternoon. I only stayed for a bit, as my mountain-weary legs could barely hold me upright, but I think these pictures capture the mood. It was a smaller carnival than the Venice and Nice equivalents, but it was quaint, just like Aix. The French children were dressed up like American children do at Halloween, and as I admired their costumes I revelled in the smell of fried food and the confetti that filled the air.

A float going down the Cours Mirabeau. It took me awhile to understand that it was a woman seated on a chair. When I did, I turned to Annie and said, "Oh, I get it. Its art."

Confetti floating amongst the trees, that still have yet to leaf! I keep yelling at them with my mind as I run in the park every morning, "Its April! Get leafy already!!!"

A couple strolling outside of my apartment, possibly headed to the festivities just minutes away. Such couples always make my heart smile.

Today, she was at in again. Most of the time, Natalie is reasonably outspoken and fairly flamboyant. But today she was in rare, outrageous form.

It was probably her charcoal dress, which she often wears on Wednesdays (the French often repeat outfits, living by the philosophy that it is better to buy something expensive and wear it often then buy multiple cheap pieces that don't last), but she wore today. It is a jumper-like, cotton ensemble that is the exact opposite of her personality: plain. The classrooms at IEFEE are often overheated, and as a result, every time she wears this particular gray number, her pit stains are enormous. They grow and grow throughout the class period, especially as she gets more and more heated in her explanation of intricate grammar or funny French-isms. I can depend on the gray dress when my concentration slips and I find myself daydreaming, as her pit stains always call me back, forcefully, to reality.

I was starting to notice the beginnings of a darker shade of gray under her arms today when Natalie, as she often does, burst into a random bit of very, very heavily French accented English. She likes to practice when she can, so she'll often say little phrases like, "You understand, non?!" or "This is tres, tres easy. Just think idioT!".

Today, she very timidly and un-Natalie-like said, "Programmation, that's the word in English, oui?" as she was explaining when to use the two different French tenses for the future. She meant the word program. The class burst into laughter, as seeing Natalie falter her way through English makes us feel slightly better about our stumbling French.

Natalie looked surprised, then loudly yelled, "Oh, SHIT!".

As she usually uses the French curse word equivalent of merde! we burst into more fits of giggles, as she had to have been really upset with herself to curse in, of all languages, English. Her outburst officially set the tone for the rest of the class-- ridiculouslness. Here are the highlights (translated for you, of course).

Natalie: "Charlain, you want to have a baby right when you return to the U.S., right?!" Referencing a joke she had with Charlain from last semester where Charlain mistakenly implied such a thing.
Charlain: "NATALIE! Of course not, you are embarassing me."
Natalie: "Ohhhhhh Charlain. I think you do, I think you do. This will be our little secret."

later on in the period while we were working on a grammar exercise...

Natalie: "This is a phrase parents in France often tell their children. Charlain... are you listening?!?!"
Charlain: "Natalie!"

still later in the period, same grammar exercises

Natalie: "Ah, Charlain. You would use this tense to say you were already pregnant, and this one to say you wanted to be."
Charlain (now red in the face): "NATALIE! You frustrate me to no end!"

"You Americans think mayonnaise is something you can buy in a jar?!? You are crazy. Mayonnaise takes work! It should make your wrists soar from whipping up the oil and eggs with a whisk, not from opening a jar."

"Knives. Oh my goodness I have such a fear of knives-- especially sharp Japanese knives. I once saw a man almost cut his finger off, and since then, I've been terrified of the things. When cooking at home, I wear gloves just to be safe."

"You think you hate learning grammar. I PROMISE, I hate it more. But, I suppose it will be useful for your French, so I keep teaching it to you."

I wish every class passed as quickly as today's three hours did. Natalie, oh Natalie. I wish I could express to you how much you have influenced by time here in France for the better, but I'm sure if I were to express such sentiments to my beloved Professor in her native language, I would be the next Charlain, admently denying that I was in love with turnips (called navets in French) or something like that.

Camargue and more mountain

Saturday was amazing. I went horseback riding in the famous marshes of Camargue, filled with flamingos and other wild beasts of flight. I saw a real, provencal style bull fight, which is much more humane and much less bloody than the Spanish style. And, I touched the Mediterranean as I ate a picture lunch in the sand.

All in all, the perfect day trip. Absolutely perfect. Look at my picture blog for the pictures.

Today, I climbed Mount Saint Victoire again. Same path, same rocks, but much less scaling and trail confusion. It was a beautiful day, and I'm glad I did it, but it is also the reason I can barely keep my eyes open, and it is only ten o'clock. Goodnight all, I'll provide more details tomorrow.

Poisson d'Avril and other fishy French happenings

Today is the first of April, otherwise known as Poisson d'Avril. The April Fool's Day equivalent of France, I was expecting to be secretly pinned with a cut-out paper fish by some sneaky classmate as per tradition, but zut alors, no luck!

Otherwise, today was blue. It transitioned between almost raining, then raining throughout the afternoon. Because rain so rarely darkens Aix's door, it was funny to see the local reaction today's Spring shower. Some looked surprised, some ran to hide under cafe awnings, but most simply looked offended, like God should rethink his plans for the weather and run it by the people of southern France before he decides upon a gloomy, blue day next time.

Translation, which is my most boring class after France and Europe, was somewhat redeeming today. We had a worksheet called "Match the Funny Phrases". After reading the title, I knew class was going to be more interesting than usual. Here is what I learned, with the English translation of the French phrase on the left, and the English equivalent of the phrase on the right:

To have the face of drinking-- To have a hangover
He was taking the hand in the sack-- He was caught red-handed
It is good the son of the father-- He's a chip off the old block
He feels sick like a dog-- He felt as sick as a parrot (Apparently, the French think we use this phrase often)
My ear!-- My foot!
She lost the bowl-- She has lost her marbles.
It is cold like a duck-- This is real brass monkey weather!

I thought these were rather aptly described with the worksheets title of "funny". I'm not sure if it is applicable to today's storm, but man-oh-man was there some real brass monkey weather today!

Yippee!

I'm off to Amsterdam with Karinne, Annie, and Greta!

We leave today at 5:15, ride 20 hours to Amsterdam, stay two nights, then take the night bus back Monday to arrive back in Aix at noon on Tuesday.

Lots of busing-- but I think it will be worth it. Maybe the tulips will be in bloom! My pictures will tell!

Revelation

"I hate going to France and Europe," Karinne lamented to me today as we sat in the courtyard of IEFEE, basking in the sun after three hours of grammar with Natalie.

"I never want to go," I mournfully replied, as I too slowly forced myself to stand up and turn my back to the sun.

We were not complaining about the country and continent, we were dreading the class.

France and Europe is taught by a jolly, old professor whom rarely shows up on time (if at all), then proceeds to talk so slowly that I am forced into a coma of sorts in which I alternate between checking what time it is on my cell phone (only another hour!) and twirling my hair (did I use to have this many split ends in America?). He really is a joy-- his class simply is not.

Today, after a full night's sleep, I was fully coherent for his discussion on the education system in the European Union, and something he said actually stuck, and stuck hard. I felt as if a light was shining down from God, finally enlightening me to a French mystery I have been pondering for months.

How is it that the French can simply sit at cafes all day, leisurely sipping cafe au lait and playing cards as they watch the rest of the world pass by? How is it that there are hundreds of "25 euro plat du jour" restaurants in Aix that seem to be in no danger of going under and are always full? How is it that every time I see a French woman on the street, she surely has a Zara bag in tow, demonstrating a day of shopping well done? How is it that every Frenchy can smoke two to three packs a week no problem?

Basically, where do the French get the money to live a life I might describe as a bit luxurious, especially in this economic climate? (Given, most don't have cars and live in apartments that could be described as teeny-tiny.)

I have an answer.

Guess how much university costs for a French student. Just guess.

200 euros a year.

It is so clear now. I can just imagine my mother and father reading this, wondering what kind of coffee they would order if my college tuition was the exquivalent of $270 American dollars a year.

Of course, there are cons to the French education system, which I will discuss in a later blog entry if I feel so inclined, but for now, I'm simply basking in my revelation, as the world seems a bit more balanced than it did before 3:00 this afternoon.

Two Walks: Two Disappointments

My lovely Theta sisters whom I miss dearly sent me a package almost a month ago! I was so excited to see the two postal slips waiting for me when I returned from winter break, telling me I could go pick up my package at the post office in Aix.

But, after a frustrating visit (because of what the lady told me, and because it was in rapid, barely discernible French) I learned my package was being stored at another post office outside of Aix located on a highway that is not reachable by bus. Basically-- the frustrating French postal system could have stored it on the moon and it would have been more accessible to me.

I was finally able to talk to Pam about it this past Monday at lunch. She, being the wonderful director that she is, said she could make the time to go by the office and pick it up for me. We agreed to meet in front of my school today for the hand off.

But, when I saw Pam this morning in front of IEFEE, she looked like I did when I was charged an extra euro for a baguette at a bakery because the woman could tell I was American. She had gone to the post office on Tuesday only to be told they had moved my package back to the office in Aix. She returned my slips to me and said I better go to the office today for fear that they would arbitrarily move the package again.

So, after six hours of endless class, I trekked to the post office, only to learn (after another rapid, barely discernible conversation in French-- this time with a man) that my package has been sent back to Oklahoma.

THE INFERNAL FRENCH POST OFFICES!

So, after a circuit workout with Karinne and Greta during which I sweated out my frustrations with the French postal system, I hastily ate dinner in order to make it to the Olde Bulldog for the weekly Wednesday night language exchange in time.

As I walked to the hamburger joint turning different French phrases around in my head, I was sure my day would turn around after I successfully had a conversation with someone in French (although I was positive such a conversation would entail a lot of hand motions and pointing).

No one was there. Not a single American or French person wanting to improve their second language.

THE INFERNAL STUDENTS OF AIX WHO DON'T WANT TO PRACTICE WITH ME!

Ugh.

I love your toilet.

It is cold here. Uncomfortably cold. I was reminded of January this morning when I opened my shutters, expecting the warm glow of the spring sun on my face, and instead got a blast of frigid wind and droplets of cold rain to boot.

Miming the weather, class was uncomfortable-- uncomfortably boring. After a grueling phonetics test on which I'm sure received an 8 (the American equivalent of a C- or worse), I had to sit through 4 hours of language class with Natalie.

I love Natalie more than words can say. Therefore, I make every possible attempt to stay alert, focused, and attentive during four hours of uninterrupted class. I nod my head when I understand a grammatical point she is trying to explain, ask her the meanings of words I don't yet know, and try to keep a smile on my face for the duration of class.

But every good students has their limits. I was about to reach mine today and discreetly lay my head on my desk when Natalie saved me-- with baguettes and toilets.

As per usual, we were talking about relative pronouns, and landed on a completely different subject-- the double meaning of some French words.

For instance, the word "baguette" has come to mean only one thing to me-- deliciously fresh, oh-so-airy, yet crusty bread that I can buy for 1 euro at any bakery in Aix. But, baguette does not technically connote bread. It literally translates as "a little stick". So, a composer leading an orchestra uses "une baguette" to keep time.

Another word with a double meaning is toilet. "La toilette" is actually a fancy, going-out-on-the-town kind of dress. "Les toilettes" are, as Natalie says, for "le pee-pee".

So, instead of mentally exiting class today, I half-listened to Natalie, and half pictured Mozart leading an orchestra with a giant, French baguette or a poor girl asking her boyfriend if he liked her toilette. Of course, I had a smile on my face. Natalie must have thought I was simply in love with relative pronouns.

Goodbyes are never fun, but Nimes is.

Its officially wallowing time.

There is an episode of Gilmore Girls (the funniest, wittiest, all around best show that use to be on television) where Rory absolutely refuses to wallow after a unexpected break up with her dreamy boyfriend Dean. Lorelai enthusiastically urges Rory to eat ice cream, cry her eyes out, and confront the pain-- or else it will never go away-- but instead, Rory goes to the store to buy mundane, meaningless things, does her homework, and attempts to stay emotionally ignorant with business.

Well, I prefer to wallow Rory style. I have perfected it to an art, as I must say goodbye to Zach six or seven times a year after week long visits, as he goes to school at Cornell and lives on Long Island and I go to school at OU and live in Tulsa (or France!).

My plan of attack is always the same: keep busy. Hang out with friends. Have my mom take me shopping. Watch Gilmore Girls. Clean my room. Re-read a favorite book.

Yesterday was no exception-- especially as a new plan of non-wallowing attack stumbled upon me as I was walking back to my apartment after saying goodbye to Zach at the bus station. I was sniffling a bit, reliving Zach and I's best memories in Aix while contemplating which sponge I would use to clean my shower when I arrived home, when I saw a crowd of students in front of the tourist office waiting for a bus.

Quite suddenly, it dawned on me. There was an organized trip to Nimes, an old Roman city in southern France, scheduled for Sunday. This was my perfect non-wallowing solution. I quickly asked George, an older French man and organizer of the trip, if there were any extra places on the bus for me. He said he didn't think so, but that if there were, I would be the first to get a spot.

Karinne and Haley eventually showed up, already having booked their spots on the bus. I sadly watched them board, hoping that someone had overslept their alarm and would miss out on Nimes so I could avoid any shedding of tears later at my apartment (and the accumulation of hair that I know, but don't know, is the reason my shower won't drain).

Five minutes after the bus was scheduled to leave, George excitedly waved me on the bus. Only one person had not showed. It was a God thing.

So, my shower is still not clean and still resembles a bubblebath after a five minute shower. Instead, I had a wonderful day of sightseeing with my friends.

For once, I think Lorelai was wrong. Yes-- its good to gorge on ice cream and cry you eyes out-- but it is better to go travel across France and stay busy seeing things I know I will remember for years. I like non-wallowing, and I'm sticking to it.

Did Cezanne just paint it, or did he climb it too?

Montagne Sainte-Victoire according to Cezanne.

Trail maps, like most other things in France, are not at all like they are in America.

Case in point: a day hike up Mount Saint Victoire.

The victims of bad French map to American map understanding: Zach, Me, Karinne, and Haley

Hours spent lost: 1.5

Hours hiked: 4

Hours it felt like we hiked: 8

Here is the story.

Zach and I woke up with the crowing roosters to borrow an awesomely detailed trail map from my friend Maggie, then to meet up with Haley and Karinne to take the bus to the foot of the mountain. This is Zach enojoying the bus ride, not knowing that in just hours, he will be wind-swept, slightly wet, and exhausted.

Ahhhh. The view of a quiet lake that spread before us the moment we stepped off the bus. We could see the lake on the map, which led us to believe we had conquered the map and actually knew what we were doing. Wrong.

The peak a.k.a. our ultimate destination. Little did we know that we were seeing the peak from the wrong perspective at this point-- we actually should have been looking at it from the other side. With our destination in sight, we hardly cared what color the trail markers were and that they didn't match the map, as long as we were headed in the general direction of up.

So-- insert your imagination here-- as I have no pictures of what ensued. To our bewilderment, the trail we were following suddenly ended just as we had climbed above the tree line. We could see the peak, but could see no plausible way to get there.

"If we just keep going up from here, it doesn't look that bad," said Haley, pointing at the rock face rising before us.

"Yeah-- its only about 70 verticle degrees up, we could totally do that," replied Zach in a tone that could have been construied as serious or sarcastic.

I took him for serious, and commenced a hands and knees climb up the face for about 500 feet with Karinne, Zach, and Haley in tow behind me. We kept laughing and repeating ourselves ("This definitely isn't the right trail!"), but we kept going too, as going down was not an option after we started up.

Our French savoirs, who I dubbed "couple". They were so kind, and hardly laughed at me as I came stumbling over the ridge, panting, and yelled almost straight down to Karinne, Haley, and Zach with a huge smile on my face, "I see people! I SEE PEOPLE!!". The man of "couple" showed us the blue markers (the trail we should have been following all along), and even offered to guide us the rest of the way to the top.

Zach and I enjoying actually seeing trail markers and feeling as if we knew where we were going.

The view from the very top. Wow. The mountain is only 3,000 feet tall, but it is by far the highest peak of the region.

Trouble was brewing. After eating our picnic lunch, I noticed goosebumps starting to creep up my legs. It may have been the feeling of a storm in the air, or the sudden 20 degre drop in temperature. We soon found ourselves admist the clouds as small droplets of water began hit our faces and the wind made it difficult to fully open my eyes.

Where we had been. Surprising, even though we followed the correct trail all the way down, it was much harder to go down than up. It requires every ounce of concentration to place your feet in such a way so you won't end up on your butt with every steep, rocky step.

This tiny blue marker, on a rock off the main road, indicated the trail we were suppose to take. When we saw it, we laughed, then made fun of the French ("Stupid baguettes! Stupid expensive coffee! Stupid trail maps with stupid itty-bitty markers!") for a solid 5 minutes.

Seemingly like every experience I have here, Mount Saint Victoire was something I'm so glad I did because of the challenges. We only got a little lost, a little wet, and a little tired, but gained so much more in learning and living.

Zach and I promptly napped for 2.5 hours when we got home, and if I can walk tomorrow normally, I'll be surprised.

Le Jour de Saint Patrique

Aix is a college town. Of the 140,000 inhabitants, almost half are students. When I read my guidebook called Go France: On a Budget!, curiously wondering what it would say about Aix, it said, "expect to find drunken debauchery on the weekends, as this is a college town full of bars and nightclubs."

So, when Karinne, Karinne's French roommate Beranger, Jill, Sam, Zach and I wandered to O'Shannon's, an Irish pub where a table is always open, we were suprised to find exactly what the book said "drunken debauchery", but in mass-- and in green.

There were close to 400 students clogging the street surrounding the bar. Some had their faces painted with four-leaf clovers. Some were wearing ridiculous leprachaun hats. Some were trying to jig like the Irish, just in a very French way. All were drinking Guinness enthusiastically-- so enthusiastically I know several stray drops found my coat and shoes, which now need a washing.

I attempted to use the bathroom in the pub, but was told that the line of people I had passed upon entering weren't waiting for the bar, but for the toilets, and that I was looking at about a thirty minute wait. After deducing that toilet paper would surely not be an amenity the bathrooms would possess after a night like this one, I decided to hold it.

After about an hour of pushing through the crowd and having half English, half French conversations with the intoxicated, jigging locals, Zach and I squeezed our way out to return to my wonderfully quiet, never crowded apartment.

Zach now has the terribly wrong impression that every night out in Aix is a night of "drunken debauchery". I keep telling him that is not the case, and that St. Patrick's Day simply brought out the latent Irish in the huge student population of Aix.

It was fun. It was green. If O'Shannons is any indication, I don't think I could handle Dublin on the 17th of March. I'm content with my Aix, forever infilitrated by students who, I would argue, are only "debacherous" on very special occasions.

Zach's Mission to Planet France

Zach is on a quest.

"I really, really only want two simple things," he keeps telling me, with a slight plea in his voice. "A Wall Street Journal to read and a gym so I can lift."

These rather quotidien things would seem simple enough to find in a city that has a newsstand in every charming square and is bursting with strolling Aixois who eat copious amounts of butter while maintaining a jean size I would kill for.

Zach has forgotten one simple fact though: he isn't in American anymore.

All the gyms we come across seem to have a naked or partially naked woman lifting weights on a poster out front. This automatically means Zach won't dare enter-- afraid to find what they advertise amongst his godly bench and saintly free weights.

All the newsstands do not sell his paper of choice. They sell papers in French, German, and Italian. They sell magazines and crossword puzzles and sudoku. We even checked a few bookstores, hoping their international section might contain an old issue. Absolutely no journals amongst the rows and rows of French literature.

Zach's mission has failed-- but maybe, this French culture hazing is good for my solidly American boyfriend.

Annie, thinking of Zach, bought him a copy of the Herald Tribune (the international section of the New York Times) today. He smiled from ear to ear when he showed me the paper after I arrived back from class this afternoon, and commenced to read outloud a hilarious article about Switzerland's problem with nude hikers in the Alps.

For those of you who do not know Zach-- he only needs four things to be truly happy.

1. A gym
2. Wall Street Journal
3. A full stomach
4. Access to his email on his Blackberry

So, maybe after date tonight, he will be half happy, as a 3-course French meal finished with an evening read of the Herald Tribune isn't a bad French compromise.

Zach is here (insert a million exclamation points)

That is all I was going to say really.

We spent today watching movies, walking to Parc de la Torse for a picnic, and practicing Zach's once non-existent, but now semi-existent (he can say "I am" with an American/Spanish accent) French.

I'm so happy!