There are three conditions which often look alike
Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:
Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment
From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference
Which resembles the others as death resembles life,
Being between two lives—unflowering, between
The live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory:
For liberation—not less of love but expanding
Of love beyond desire, and so liberation
From the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country
Begins as attachment to our own field of action
And comes to find that action of little importance
Though never indifferent. History may be servitude,
History may be freedom. See, now they vanish,
The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,
To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern...

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from...

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

"Little Gidding," The Four Quartets, T.S. Eliot

Ball of Arts and Metiers 2008!

Tiraillée

Tonight, as I was walking home from the bus to my home here in the country, I felt sick to my stomach. I've been having moments like this a lot lately - moments where I pause to reflect on how beautiful something is, how I love the way the Christmas decorations look in the city or the stars shining over the fields by my house or the way French sounds when it's spoken, and then I feel a little jolt of panic at the thought that I barely have two weeks left. I do not want to leave.

Yesterday I went to search for the Christmas tree with my host dad, brother, and sister. We found the fattest, ugliest, most oddly shaped tree in the lot, and my dad insisted on buying it. It took four or five of the poor Christmas tree guys to stuff it into a plastic net and then the car while the entire lot watched. "Il est pas beau," said a little boy watching us while sipping his coke. "That's not a pretty tree." My dad pretended to be all offended at this. "It's like going to the pound and saving the ugliest dog there to bring home with you," he said.

Anne-Camille and I smushed ourselves in the backseat with the tree, and when we got home, my host mom shook her head at us. "This is all because I wasn't there to help," she said, as Eric lay on his back beneath the tree and tethered it down with wires to make it stand up, all while yelling at my host brother to keep the fat thing from toppling on him and Vodka the dog delicately stepped on his face to sniff the branches.

Sunday was an interesting day, mainly because we had stayed out until four in the morning the previous night to go to the winter ball at the huge university of engineering in Aix. As far as dancing, I've had better times at some of the clubs in town, but it was mainly just fun toget dressed up and then observe the other French. In one part of the ball, there was a live rock band of students from the university. I cannot even begin to describe the feelin gof how weird ti was to watch a hardcore rock band singer sing in French, and then yell French at the crowd of hopping students. "Vous allez bien ce soir? J'ai dit - vous allez BIEN ce soir??" he screamed into the mike. Literally translated this means - 3You all are doing well this evening? I said - you all are doing WELL this evening??" I do have to say that I think that screaming wildly into microphones comes a little bit more naturally to the Americans.

Today I went to my classes in the morning, then headed to a cafe to theoretically catch up on the piles of homework that are beginning to grow, but instead ended up writing in my journal the whole time. I feel so unmotivated to do any homework - I'd rather hang out with my friends, go out with my language partner, relax with my family, wander around teh city some more. This is going to be a problem for finals next week.

Afterwards I took the bus over to my travail benevole - my community service where I help tutor little kids in their English. For dinner at the house tonight we made crepes at the table, and I contributed by making hot chocolate that a friend sent me in a care package from home.

Nothing grand happened today, but in the evening, as I already said, I just felt so sad. I feel more sad than when i first came to France - for me, this is more of a struggle now than the beginning was - this knowing that I am leaving, just when I've found my niche and my rhythm. I am going to miss hearing French all around me. I love the way it sounds when it's spoken. I feel like I've finally reached a level of comprehension wheere I can be head-over-heels in love with the way it sounds, the expressions, the inflections. Plus, I can't speak English very well anymore. Now I struggle with both French and my native tongue.

Thanksgiving

Thursday I woke up and realized how happy I am here. Not that I haven’t been realizing this all along, but it was just one of those days when I realized how grateful I am, and then I remembered that – oh yeah, it’s Thanksgiving. That’s why I feel grateful, maybe. Even the French really don’t give a rip about Thanksgiving.

“What’s the point?” a French student asked me this weekend. “To eat as much as you possibly can and then get sick afterwards,” I replied. “Oh,” he said, looking extremely confused by this thought. Eating until you feel sick is not a very French thing to do.

Don’t worry, though: I did actually explain the real reason for Thanksgiving, one that doesn’t make Americans sound like fat pigs. “No, really it’s about family,” I said. “And being thankful.”

Anyways. Thursday I was thankful. I headed to my favorite café bookstore in Aix to spend the morning writing and avoiding my homework, since I have no class on Thursdays. I sipped small French café crème, wrote letters to friends I should have written to a long time ago, wrote some of my story, looked through books, and listened in on people’s conversations around me. For a while, I listened to another American (weird!) talking about trying to find a turkey to eat that night. I watched the bookstore cat on the chair next to me violently cough and sneeze, and the little boy whine to his father in French about wanting more chocolate. I thought about where, exactly, I am in the world – like, if I was to put my finger on a globe and find Aix, then examine how far this is from the Pacific Northwest. I am far away, and it’s rare that I actually have an opportunity to think about this, because I’m always going and going and going here.

Last night, Friday, I had four girlfriends over to my house to make a Thanksgiving dinner for my host parents. We successfully made dinner all by ourselves, despite the fact that we had no idea what we were doing.

“How do we eat this?” my host dad asked. “Should we start with the salad and then move through the courses?”

I laughed at his silliness. “Oh, no, no, no, my dear French host father. This is an American meal. That means that you heap all of the food onto the table and once and then proceed to shovel it all into your mouth at once, as quickly as possible. Flavor, style, art don’t matter. The only thing that matters is eating as much as you can, as quickly as you can, and then feeling horrible afterwards as you retire to the sofa to miserably watch football or A Christmas Story for the billionth time.”

“How strange,” my host mom said, “to be eating something so sugary for dinner…are you sure the sweet potatoes aren’t some sort of pudding for dessert?”

It was one of the most enjoyable Thanksgivings I’ve ever had.

November, up until about a week ago, had actually been a rather weary month for me. I still felt content to be in France, but homesickness hit me off and on in waves for the first time since I came here at the beginning of September. I felt a bit more tired than usual, a bit more antisocial at times, wanting to just curl up in a café and write all the time, a bit more worried about trying to control things. I’ve been worried about money off and on, since things are getting thin and I had a lot of traveling incidents this month where I had to unexpectedly shell out twenty or eighty euros to fix it. (Another eighty for another train ticket, even though I already bought one two days ago for the same train? Sure, why not! Just take it! Really – I have no use for money!) For the first time ever, I had a slightly twing-y aching feeling of wanting to go home. I was having trouble; I was slipping mentally/emotionally in and out of Aix to return to Seattle and Linfield.

But, I took a long train ride by myself to Geneva last weekend, to meet Marty Bode and explore the city, to get in one last weekend of traveling before my money really runs out and before I leave. I love taking trains by myself, because I love to space out while staring out the window. I love the long quiet stretch of time where I really have nothing else to do – no interruptions – so I can write. Something clicked back into place last weekend, some sort of gear that had become slightly off this past month, and I felt better. This week, I feel joy again to be living here. I’m looking forward to going back to the States, but also really don’t want to leave France. I actually had a dream last night that took place three weeks from now, and I was leaving, and I was feeling this horrible sense of panic.

When I stop to think about it – it really doesn’t make sense to leave; it’s not fair. I feel horribly, horribly sad. I feel even a little pissed sometimes, that after so much work at becoming French, I'm getting yanked out of it. Here, we have been living very intensely in France all semester, completely submerged in the French life for nearly four months, and we have turned away from American things partly because we were at first told to, and then because we wanted to – limited our internet, limited our contact with family and friends back home, rarely spoke English – and now, voila. Look what’s happened. I’m not American only anymore (well – I am and always will be first and foremost American, since I do not have a tiny bone structure and sound nasally and loud when I speak), but a little French as well, or, at least, a little something different. Look what’s happened – we have established a rhythm here, and we have changed. We have finally slid, not without a lot of struggling first, seamlessly into a place abroad. Now, I don’t want to go back because I don’t know how I will fit in back home anymore. Three weeks left!

Duality

Last week, while speaking English, I asked someone if they wanted to go take a coffee with me. “You mean have a coffee?” she replied, looking at me blankly. “Go have a coffee?” Yes – that. Have a coffee, that’s what I meant. In French, one says prendre un café (literally take a coffee.)

This is such a perfect illustration of the duality I’ve been developing this semester. I am living in two worlds now, or rather – I am living in one world and soon will return to the other, and just the fact that I know I’m going to return soon can be difficult to process sometimes. I’m here in France, but I also feel like I need to keep one foot in the door at all times to keep it open – don’t want it to shut and not be able to get back in again when I need to return to the States! There is a kind of desperation when studying abroad – to make the most of your time and become immersed in the culture, and also to cling tightly to back home so that you won’t be forgotten.

My mom came to visit last week, and it was the strangest feeling, watching my two very separate worlds merge in a surprisingly natural way. Also, I spoke a tiny bit of English for the first time ever with my host family, and this seriously weirded me out. I realized how much language has a hand in the ideas we form about people, the images we have of them in our heads. I felt like I could be completely myself, for once at total ease! Oh, the things I learned while speaking English with them! For instance: I finally learned what my host dad does for a living. I’ve asked him at least two or three times this semester and never quite understood, though I knew it was big and important. I thought he worked with boats. Eric does not work with boats though; he sells robotics to international companies to dissemble nuclear power plants.

On Tuesday, Armistice Day here in France, I didn’t have school and so we woke up early to my host dad running off to search for croissants and pain-au-chocolat and brioche for breakfast. We feasted on them over coffee, and then my host mom took my real mom and me with her to the market in town to buy food for our picnic. We all drove to a little village on the Mediterranean called Saint-Mairie-de-la-Mer, which happens to be my favorite town here in Provence. I think I’ve already mentioned this in another entry, but it’s worth mentioning again. This town has it all – gypsies, pirates, a church, literary folklore, the sea, flamingoes, good coffee. We all huddled in a little café to take some coffee, because it was drizzling outside, and when my mom got up to go to the bathroom, my host parents leaned in and told me how happy they were to meet her. “Now we can send you back home,” they said, “because we know that you will be ok there.” That one little comment meant so much to me. Even though there is such a delicate balance to strike with one’s host family here, between getting to know them – trying to be more than just a boarder – and also not interfering in or interrupting their usual lives, I adore my host family. My experience here without them would have been so much emptier. I definitely feel my foreignness, some days more than others, but despite the delicacy of the balance, and despite my American solitude, I’m slowly finding ways to form a home. This is where the duality gets hard. My home is here, and it is also not.

Yesterday was Saturday and magnificent, because our architecture professor didn’t show up to meet us at the cathedral for our excursion around Aix. Instead we wandered around the market, took a leisurely lunch, and then discovered the most amazing thing ever. Really. When I walked inside, I almost cried because I was so sorry I hadn’t found it sooner in the semester. It is a little book shop/café, frequented by a lot of international students, where one can just sit for hours and read or drink coffee. They had a bulletin board with ways to meet people. They have poetry readings! And other kinds of readings! I am so excited. This is exactly what I had been missing so much from my beloved Seattle and Portland – a place to just sit and write and write and read and drink coffee. I feel like Aix is complete now. I sat there for five hours, all Saturday afternoon, until they closed.

Another example of duality: last week I told Anne-Camille yet again that she needed to come visit me in Seattle, and my host dad said that when I got married, they would all come out for the wedding. “No, no,” said Anne-Camille. “Ansley’s going to get married in Aix!” Yes, to Paul to crepe-man. I could get married in Aix, I thought. Not because I particularly have always wanted to get married in France, but because that way I could come back here.

I feel like I’m trying to hold on even more tightly to the slippery days falling through my fingers, because I have just barely over a month left here. I feel like this semester is ending just as quickly as it started.

(On a side note, I had a charming little adventure in Avignon Friday morning when it was time to see Mom off at the train station, where she was going to take a train to Paris to catch her plane. I got on the train with her briefly, stupidly, to help her find her seat and get settled. When I hurried back to get off, the doors were shut and would not open. Then, the train started moving! Everything seemed to be in slow motion, or not really – because to my horror, the train was beginning to move very quickly. I turned around, panicked, trying to figure out what to do. A guy standing by the doors in between the compartments, seeing me look at him with a wild and desperate expression, looked at me with a mixture of amusement and pity. I rushed back to my mom. “Coucou, maman,” I said. “I’m still here!” Frightened of the ticket inspectors because I obviously did not have a ticket, I hid in the bathroom until the train stopped at Avignon about twenty minutes later. I dashed off. I obtained another ticket for a train back to Aix an hour later, just in time to make my morning class.
“I’ve just been to Avignon this morning!” I declared cheerily, as I stumbled into the American Center looking frazzled and somewhat deranged.
“How was it?” the others asked.
“The train station was very beautiful,” I replied.
I had sat huddled there for over an hour waiting for the next train, my hoodie pulled up to keep my head warm in the frigidly clear morning, feeling very much like the worst kind of train bum.
“How did that happen?” my French Woman Writers professor asked me. “Did you get on the train with your mom? Oh, you must never do that! The train stops way for much too short of a time.”
Yes, yes, thank you. I now am aware of that.
What an adventure. A twenty euro adventure, but an adventure nonetheless.)

Paris

Beau Smoking Man.
Beau Chocolat.Beau Eiffel Tower.

Belle Femme.


Beau Oscar Wilde's grave, which kissing supposedly gives artists good inspiration. I would kiss it all day long if it meant I could become an artist.

Obama

Allez Obama!!!!!!!!!!!

Rain and Selfishness

One more blog before I settle into a LONG night of studying for my midterms. I have millions of them, and I am only halfway through. I am just now realizing how spoiled I am as an English major at Linfield: Midterms? What midterms? You want to write a paper or two for your midterms? Sure, go ahead! Write about anything you want, and everything will be right. Turn in the papers whenever - never, if you want!

I have so much studying to do this week, I've forgotten to be excited for the vacation coming up in just a couple days. I am a little bit stressed, but...c'est la vie. I'm going to Paris Friday, which still sounds so ridiculous to me, because Paris seems more like a fairytale than a reality. Also, I'm going to England afterwards to see Beth, and hopefully go to the Scottish highlands together to search for Nessie, just in time for Halloween! SO fizzily excited all over about this.

This trip feels like a very selfish trip to me. I am studying in France,a very spoiled white girl thing to do, rather than studying in Ecuador or Mexico like some others. I am studying literature and architecture and art - taking a painting class - and writing in cafes and travelling and spending a lot of time thinking. This is why I was really excited to finally do my travail benevole this past week, our weekly community service that is required by the AUCP. I'm working with students at a community center, helping them with their English homework. I love it. I worked with two little boys, ten and thirteen, and we did their homework and went over English lessons and talked in French about American football. The ten year old, as I was leaving, looked at me with sweet eyes and asked if I would be there the next night. I am SO content to be able to work with the students there. It is energizing to me, in a way that Starbucks never will be. I would really like more of it. THIS is how I want to use French. I want to be really really good at it, so I can teach and help and understand my little students when they talk to me about American football.

Anyways, it's raining and storming here now, just as it has been all day, and so I am plopped in front of the fire with my French-dictionary-bible and a riproaringly fascinating study of French cultural patterns to read. There are a couple leaks in the house somewhere that I can hear. The house is all shut up for the night, but I might leave my inner doors open in my room so I can hear the rain.

Bonne nuit. :)

Sister

My relationship with my host sister has been interesting so far - that is, it has been lovely and baffling at the same time. I think a lot of this has to do with the fact that I've never had a sister before, am used to dealing with boys, and also the language problems. Always the language. I could apply this statement to anything. For example:

The other day I had an incident on the bus. I think this occurred because I was spacing out and when I looked out the window again, I didn't have any idea where I was. Also, I didn't understand what the driver was saying to me.

I'm not saying that this actually happened to me - just that it's another example of how the excuse of language difficulties can be applied to an everyday situation. Oh - here's another good one:

Today I ordered a delicious-sounding coffee drink at a new cafe. I was given a "tasse" of coffee, along with a huge, sugary almond croissant that I hadn't asked for. Alright, I'll take the huge sugary pastry surprise. I have no choice - I have to eat it now. I didn't understand what I was ordering. Darn.

Anyways. Back to sisters. Anne-Camille my host sister is fifteen and quite wonderful, but there have definitely been times when I have asked myself, "Ok, is this annoying me because of a language/cultural issue, or because of a sister issue?" For instance, this morning my host parents left the house early and Anne-Camille had to ride the bus with me into the city for school instead of getting a ride from her parents. The bus leaves around 8:40, I told her. So, that means we should probably starting walking over there around 8:30. Ok, she said.

At 8:30, I can hear her in the bathroom doing something with her hair. Anne-Camille, I ask. Are you ready? Almost, she replies.

Five minutes later. Anne-Camille, ready? On y va? Ok, I'm coming! she replies.

A minute before the bus is supposed to arrive, we head out the door. We missed the bus, of course, and had to take the next one, which wasn't until an hour later. I didn't have any classes this morning and had been just planning to study in a cafe for my eight billion mid terms this week, but Anne-Camille was late to her first class. I offered to come in with her and explain the situation to her teacher, using my habitual "I'm so sorry. I'm an American. I had some language difficulties, and that's why my hsot sister missed the bus" excuse but she said it would be fine.

Still, missing the bus this morning together was kind of fun, in a weird sort of way. I feel like Anne-Camille and I are progressing into a relationship that is more like a sister thing than just an American student boarding with another teenage girl thing. While I was mildly annoyed this morning, I also realized that this kind of relationship is nice. We are comfortable together, enough to find little things to get annoyed about but still be ok.

This past Sunday, I went for a small hike and picnic lunch with my host family on the sea. Sunday is getting to be the day where I really try to be home and hang out with them, with nothing else planned, because the rest of the week goes so fast and gets so crazy. I was a little hesitant about the picnic, because the son of my host family was home from his boarding school this weekend, and I didn't want to intrude on their family time,. I think this was the first they had seen him since the end of August. I didn't want to be the annoying American student poking my head in and constantly trying to somehow fit into the conversation. But, it worked out. I hung back when I felt like I needed to and just enjoyed observing, which is something I've learned is very important here - learning to be comfortable with just observing and not feeling bad when you're not directly participating.

This kind of goes along with the fact that it is impossible to compare yourself to anyone else while studying abroad, because, while it is very tempting to do so, the only way to get the most out of the experience is to be completely comfortable in your own skin and seek out your own niches, rather than worrying about everyone else is doing. This is important. If I feel myself falling into the trap of comparing myself with others, I end up stressed.

Anyways, the picnic was excellent; anytime I get to visit the sea here I'm ecstatic, and I love watching how cute European families on Sunday trips to the sea interact.

After the picnic, we got home and I was studying when Anne-Camille came over to me and announced, "I'm going to make some cookies."

"Oo!" I said. "What kind?"

"Yours," she said, referring to the cookies I'd made for them the last weekend.

"Ah," I said. "I think I see what you mean. Shall I help you?"

"Yes, please."

So, we made cookies together, and it was ridiculously fun. My host parents and brother were on the computer trying to fill out a a college application for my brother in Canada, and so in between trying to figure out the stupid conversions for the cookie ingredient measurements, I was running into the office to translate for them. It felt amazing being able to help, instead of just sitting around like a bum, not understanding what's going on and feeling helpless. At one point, the power went off, because we were using too many appliances at once. The house went completely dark, and while my dad and brother fumbled around in the blackness for the fuse box located somewhere outside (my dad sporting a cheeky miner's lamp strapped around his head), Anne-Camille looked at me, gasping, "The cookies! The cookies!" Our cookies were sitting half-baked in the powerless oven. Everything turned out alright, though, because soon the power came back on and we ended up eating most of the dough raw anyway.

Emily and Ansley eat their way through Europe

Life falls into a nice rhythm here: classes, free time to write in my favorite cafe, come home to hang out with my host family each evening, go out on the weekends to explore the country of Provence during the day and the city of Aix in the evenings,and delicious food from all of my new best friends, with a few malentudus thrown in each day just to keep things spicy. I am now friends with the man who sells coffee near the Passage Agard, which is a small alley in Aix that looks like it's from Harry Potter. "Chocolate with your coffee?" he asks each time, like he doesn't already know the answer to this question.

I am also friends with the man who seels cheap paninis with Nutella and bananas close to the AUCP. And, I am starting to become good friends with Paul, the guy who smokes his cigar and runs the crepe stand in the late afternoon/evenings. I like the size of aix very much. Even if I'm not exactly friends with someone, I actually recognize many people on the street every day - the old painter who rides my bus, the twelve-year-old kid who always has a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

Every week, I think I've found my new favorite place or favorite thing to do in France and then find myself constantly surprised and having to rethink things. That is a good way to look at this study abroad experience: a lot of surprises, many marvelous - more often than not marvelous - and a lot of rethinking the way you've previously viewed the world. On the other hand, there is also a lot of remembering ways you used to think about the world and returning back to those things. I am always surprised by the memories that certain places evoke here. This past weekend, we had an AUCP excursion to Le Camargue, where I found myself constantly reminded of the everglades in Florida, where I used to go quite regularly when I was younger.
It's a region close to the Mediterranean, just west a couple hours from Aix. We saw bulls and flamingos (!) and rode a little train around the countryside that sounded ad moved like a dying chain smoker. The other students decided that it reminded us of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride before it was remodeled, but without any exciting piates or singing. There were swamps and estuaries and more palm trees. There was a little bar/restaurant tucked into a grove of palm trees in the middle of the country. Right in the middle of the swampy country, our professor read us a poem from a local French poet. The sky was muggy and blue. I fell in love.

We visited the "collines du sel", hills of salt, where salt is harvested from the sea. Later, we visited a village called Saint-Mairie-de-la-Mer, which was tiny and tucked right into the crook of the sea. We ate more gelato, of course, and had lunch. Emily and I have decided that this semester is going to be called "Emily and Ansley eat their way through Europe." Each day, I tell myself - no more Nutella! No more pain! No more crepes from Paul! But, later, I immediatly and easily convince myself that life isn't really life without being able to eat whatever you want, especially if you happe to be in France. Diets in France? Just not very practical.
In Saint-Mairie-de-la-Mer, we climbed up unto the roof of an old, old church, and looked out over the village and the sea.

Sunday, I ran a 5K race with Hannah and my host dad and my little sister - called Cours de l'Integration Algernon. It was very relxed, non-competitive, with thousands of participants. The goal was to run with the handicapped and raise money for them as well. it took place in Marseille, right in the city along the sea. The good feelings and energy in the air were so tangible. Hannah turned to me at one point and said, "THIS is what it means ot be in France!" She was so right. Just being there in Marseille and running with everyone else, not having to speak French!, made for a very good Sunday morning.

Tha hard parts of studying abroad so far have been feeling detached from home, isolated, out of control, disconnected, especially with things going on in the States like the elections. There are some days that are SO frustrating. The language drives me crazy - I am head over heels in love with French and also driven mad by it at the same time. A few nights ago at dinner, I thought that my little sister said she pushed a handicapped person while she was running the race Sunday.

"Anne-Camille!" I scolded. "Quel horreur!"

"What?" she replied, looking at me in confusion.

That wasn't what she had actually said, of course, and I still don't know what it was she did say.
But, I feel like here in France we are all given everything necessary to be completely happy - like trips to swampy everglade like villages with flamingos and hills of salt and old churches. I mean really, I can't imagine anything better than that.

MId-terms are next week, then vacance! I am off to Paris to visit a cousin, then England to visit Beth.

Jean-Michel

I am amoureuse with all of my French professors here.

Also, I can feel myself changing. Not changing into someone else - rather, back into an older version of what I used to be, when I was six and sixteen. Does that make any sense? I think everyone should still retain a little bit of who they are when they were six and sixteen. Those were good ages.

I broke my camera in a Roman monument Saturday. But , I made up for this tragedy later on by using a Turkish toilet for the first time and feeling extremely proud. Anyways, a few more straggler pictures from my dead camera.

A Brief but Exciting Excursion on the Wrong Bus. And Wine.

A little town in Provence that I am in love with.

The magical ochre forests! This is where we lost Pam, our professor. No, "Pam" is not a French name - she is from England.

Here I am holding up an old Roman bridge all by myself.

Tuesday evening, around seven I got on the bus at the same bus stop I usually use after school, surrounded by punk French middle schoolers who all look like they're about twenty and who all smoke already. The following is an account of my train of thoughts on this bus after I had hopped aboard:

Hey. These people are not my bus people.
This driver is not my bus driver. This route is not my bus route.
Oh. I'm on the wrong bus. Cool. Well, at least I'm hopefully going in the right direction - it feels like I am - and maybe I can find another stop near the house and walk. Oh, wait - no, I'm not going in the right direction. This is interesting. I'm not in the city at all anymore. I'm in a part of the country that I've never been.
Ok. Huh. What to do now.
Yeah. Time to get off this bus.

I got off and was stranded for awhile, but luckily managed to re-find the same bus I had just dismounted, which was then headed back toward the city, and - after smiling cheerily at the same driver I had just bid bonsoir to fifteen minutes before - I rode back to the centre-ville and found the correct bus to go home. If it all sounds slightly ridiculous, that's because it was. Darn the stupid French autobus. Every time, I think I've mastered the system, I go and take the wrong bus into the wrong part of the country and wander around lost again for awhile.

This evening we had our first "Degustation de vin" class - wine-tasting. And yes, we call this school here. I love the French.

I have a new favorite wine. Though normally I prefer red, (perhaps this is because of my hearty Hungarian blood) it is a white wine. It is made from the grape called Muscat noir - no idea what this is in English - but it has a slight orangey color, and it tastes like fall and warm caramel. I know, I know - I sound like a true wine connoisseur. All that vocab I learned this evening put to good work now - it tastes like "fall" and "caramel" and is "orangey." It is apparently similar to a port wine, and comes from the Provence region. Delicious. Someone in the class put it very well: "I just want to go to sleep in this wine." Me too.

We tasted four different kinds of wine. The class got out around seven fifteen, too early to have had dinner yet, and yet lunch for all of us was six or seven hours before. We did not eat anything during the class. The noise level increased considerably as the class went on, and we were all a bit tipsy and giggly as we said goodbye to the professor. When I got home, I eagerly told my host dad that I have a new favorite wine. He told me a couple weeks ago that he is "happy to have someone to drink with", since my host mom isn't too partial to alcohol. He excitedly opened up a random cabinet in the living room, which, I then discovered, is full of wine! Woo! Though I was already lightheaded and in need of food, he poured me another small glass.

"Was it like this?" he asked.
I drank some. More of that caramel orangey loveliness. I finished the glass quickly.
"Yep. Yep. Definitely like that."

It was a good evening.

Some things I miss from the States:
Football (americain.) Tall, syrupy flavored drinks named things like "soy hazelnut mocha" or "pumkin spice latte." Brothers. Being able to easily watch the presidential debates on TV, at times other than three in the morning. Roommate. My notebooks filled with writing and notes. Linfield.

Still, these are just things that I miss, not things that I feel miserable about. Walking home from the bus stop tonight, the fall stars were very marvelous to look at. I was very, very content.

Malentendus

In our classes at the AUCP this past week, we have been discussing "malentendus" - misunderstandings which more specifically involve some mishap with the differences in language or culture. These darn little malentendus pop up all over the place here, like pesky mosquitos that creep into your sleeping bag during the night and leave you scratching a red bump in the morning. One such incident occured this week, when I was eating dinner with my language partner (the AUCP requires us to meet weekly with a local French student, in order to speak one hour in English and one hour in French.) We ordered pizzas, which are quite light and thin and unlike the pizzas in the States. Mine was big, so I jokingly told my partner I would have to take some home for breakfast the next day. I laughed. He looked at me in confusion and smiled perplexedly. When the waiter came, I asked for a doggy bag to take the rest with me.

"I don't know what you are talking about," the waiter said.

I looked sadly at my pizza and realized I woulnd't be able to take it with me. My professor in our Cultural Patterns class said that this situation occured because the French don't have doggy bags. One does not go out to a restaurant for the food; one goes for the experience. It's the atmosphere, rather than the food, that is the most important part. I, the greedy little American used to hoarding my things like a squirrel, did not know this.

Speaking of food: gelato, warm crepes with Nutella, baguettes with chevre (goat cheese) and tartines with fig jam and ham quiche and smooth caramelly chocolate from Switzerland and fresh peaches and apples from the outdoor market and fresh salads with champignons (mushrooms) and pain du chocolat and croissants...

Yesterday was Sunday, and my host family took Emily, Hannah, and me to St. Victoire - the mountain near Aix that frequents many Cezanne paintings. "It's not too hard of a hike," said my host dad. "Just bring water and a pack and good walking shoes." Thus begins another malentendu...

We took off at the foot of the mountain quite cheerfully, walking alongside a lake with the clearest water I've ever seen, which is apparently where our drinking water comes from. In the distance stood a gray, ominous looking rocky crag, rising up to a sharp point high into the sky, where we could see the outline of a cross. "That's incredible!" I said. "That's where we're headed," my host dad said. Emily and Hannah and I looked at each other and giggled nervously. "Ok, right," I said, smiling and nodding. I didn't really udnerstand what he had said, but I've discovered sometimes the best thing to do is to simply smile and nod and scramble to figure out what is actually happening later.

Two hours later, we discovered that, no, really - we're headed to the pointy craggy top of this mountain, up a trail that mainly requires leaping from rock to rock like frogs leaping across lilypads in a pond. Evidently, I had misunderstood the meaning of a lovely Sunday trip to the mountain. The French, by the way, don't believe in switchbacks.

Reaching the summit was so worth it, however. There was a giant cross, and a paritally abandoned, lonely little church, and my host parents had packed a delicious picnic lunch for us of bauguettes and cheese and pâté and fruit and chocolate. My dad busted out a bottle of wine to "celebrate" our victory of reaching the summit. We brought along Vodka, by the way, the little dog, and she nearly crumbled with exhaustion by the time we took a break for lunch at the top. She hopefully sniffed my cup of wine, but I thought that would have been a horrid idea.

The way back down was also quite an adventure, sliding down the rocks and hopping from one to another with very little control over where we landed. My favorite part was when I looked back to see Emily behind me, scooting down a particularly steep descent on her bottom.

This past Saturday, all the museums in Aix were free, because of the Jour de Patrimoine. We visited the art museam and were able to see some of the works of Cezanne, Picasso, and Granet, of whom I'd never heard before. Now I think he is one of my favorite painters! It is so hard to describe the feeling of seeing these famous paintings, studying the settings, and realizing, "Wait a minute...I live here!"

Friday night I went on a glorious bike ride through the country surrounding my house. Afterwards, my host dad came home from work and declared ebulliently, "It's the weekend! Time to party!" We ate dinner together, and I watched France's version of American Idol with my little sister. I haven't laughed so hard in a long time.

This weekend marked the end of our first week of class. We have so much free time here to wander around the city exploring hidden corners, to gaze at the expensive clothing shops longingly, to stroll down the rows of venders on the market days, breathing in the fresh spices. This week, however, was difficult in some ways that the first week wasn't. I felt more tired, a bit more overwhelmed with things, a bit more frustrated with the language and not being able to fully express myself right on the spot, without having to search through a dictionary while my host family waits patiently, or repeating stupidly "Um...uh...um...you know...when you take the thing over to that one place...um...what's it called?..um...shoot." I think the first week was easier in a way because I was still so overjoyed to just be in France. Any interaction I had with someone in French was something to celebrate, no matter how simple. Now, I'm past the simple interactions and really want to just be myself again. I've never before realized how much I rely on words to get to know others and let them get to know me.

Still, I feel like our classes are relating really well to our daily communication necessities. I love all my professors, and I am reminding myself to take one thing at a time. I'm celebrating the little things. For instance, today I figured out how to check my voicemails on my French cellphone. Magnifique!

A La Mer

Something I learned today:

I love hanging up my laundry in the yard to dry. With the Provincial wind blowing, and the sun shining, and that September-y feeling in the air, it's rather perfect.

Finally, here are some photos. My first day here, my host mom and sister took me too Cassis, a little village on the sea. There was a lighthouse, and we had the most delicious gelato.

Aix-en-Provence Finally

So. I'm in France. The keyboard is very different here so please excuse any errors. Also, the computer is also telling me that all these words are spelled wrong.

I arrived here late Saturday night after being picked up by my host dad Eric and little sister Anne Camille, who is fifteen. Short anecdote about the airport adeventures: While using the women's room in Frankfurt, I was washing my hands when an old Italian man burst through the door, screamed <Andiamo!!>>, and abruptly ducked back out again. Startled, I froze in my handwashing for a second. By the way, before this incident, while trying to find the bathroom, which is apparently unmarked, I went into the men's room. A German man stared at me.

My French family, Eric, Anne-Camille, and my maman Mandée, is ridiculously nice. Their house is huge and beautiful and in the country, surrounded by farms and dirt roads lined by trees (there are palm trees here - YAY!!!). They have a dog named Vodka who is my new best friend, because she is the only creature here with whom I don't need to use words. The kitchen, my favorite place in the house because of all the fine cuisine that is made here, has a large chimney and dried herbs hanging from the walls, and plants and wooden furniture. The floors of the house are all cool, Mediterranean style tile. Eric showed me a couple nights ago after dinner (usually around eight or later) the cachette du chocolat - their chocolate stash. He told me to help myself anytime. Last night I added some Seattle's Best chocolates that I had with me, courtesy of Melly. They were all very excited about this, especially Eric.

Sunday night, Eric's nephew, who is my age, came over for dinner. We made crepes. The nephew is from New Caledonia, where they speak French, but is going to school across the street from the AUCP. As he was leaving, he proceeded to give me les bises - a kiss on each cheek. Very unexpected and slightly awkward, but I am getting used to it.

A couple nights ago we watched "Desperate Housewives" together after dinner. Eric said that each Tuesday night, this is the main event. They love it. They eagerly inquired as to whether or not I watch it back home. I don't, but I do like watching it dubbed over in French here. Also, last night sur la télé, there was a special on the news about fat people in New York celebrating fat pride. Peuples Francais: voici les Etats-Unis.

School is wonderful, but so exhausting. We don't start actual classes until next Monday, so this week consists of long days of orientation at the AUCP, meeting our professors, our language partners, the psychology behind trying to assimilate to the French way of life. The other American students - there are twenty-six of us- are all extremely nice. It is refreshing to speak French with them during the day as a break from constantly attempting to speak with the French. I am very proud of Emily, Hannah, and myself. Even though we are buddies from Linfield, and it would be so much easier to slip back into our native tongue, we are speaking French together, outside of class, with the exception of a few phrases here and there when we get frustrated.

Everything here is French. This might sound like an incredibly stupid statement of the obvious, but it is still amazing to me that I am speaking French all the time, from waking to sleeping, to everyone, with absolutely no break. Tiring, but I feel so alive here. Stressed out quite often about very little, simple things, but alive.

Remember a few blogs ago when I said that this trip would be a series of adventures and misadventures? This is true for every single day. My first time trying to take the bus into the city for school, I nearly had a heart atttack. Living in the country, though beautiful, can sometimes be complicated when it comes to transportation. I got on the bus, along with one other passenger, an old adorable French man. We proceeded to barrel explosively down the narrow; winding, tiny streets at rapid speeds, often nearly smashing into a smaller car or a passing French man in loafers riding a bicycle. Oh God, I thought repeatedly, I am going to die. Then, as we got closer to the city, the old man stood up and started waving his arms and yelling something at me. He knew I was American, so he tried to speak English, and this was even harder to understand. All the other passengers stared and knew immediately I was a foreigner. My cheeks turned red. Apparently, my stop was coming up, and I had no idea what to do. The sweet old man practically pushed me off the bus, still yelling at me as the bus rolled away. I realized that I hadn't paid the 1 euro 10. Eric later told me that I was going to go to jail.

So, even the smallest things here are scary adventures. I am celebrating the success of them all, including riding the bus both ways correctly for the first time yesterday. Victoire!!

Time to go. Emily and Hannah and I are meeting on the Cours Mirabeau to do a little shopping. This shall be an adventure, too. I will probably get yelled at or stared at again by another old French man.

A bientot! I will upload photos next time, hopefully.

A Delightfully Sticky Situation

This morning, already feeling very insecure about my grasp of French among the natives, I called my host family's number that I was given by the AUCP. I called early in the morning, since it was about five o'clock in the evening over there. I had a carefully prepared script of how to communicate the essentials (basically - are you meeting me at the right time Saturday so I'm not wandering around Marseille lost and alone? - kind of thing).

It went something like this, only with my garbled French instead of English:

Christine: Allo?
Me: Bonjour, Christine? This is Ansley Clark. I'm an American student through the AUCP, and I believe I'll be living with you this fall.
Christine: Allo?
Me: Bonjour, Christine? This is Ansley Clark, an American student...
Christine: What?
Me: This is Ansley Clark -
Christine: Who?
Me: Ansley Clark. I was given your name by the AUCP. They told me to contact you before my arrival to make sure everything is ok.
Christine: I have no idea what you're talking about....
Me: Uh....
Christine: Who are you with?
Me: The American University Center of Provence.
Christine: I haven't heard about this...I am moving back to America next week.
Me: Oh.

So, I apologized to her, called the AUCP, went through a very confusing conversation with the program director Lilli where she seemed certain this could not be so, waited for Lilli to call Christine then call me back, found out that Christine is in fact moving next week, and that Lilli had hadn't any idea regarding any of this either. "I hand-picked these families myself," she said. "We have a contract with them. I have no idea how this could happen."

The entire time I was thinking, Oh, Lord, please just let there be someone to pick me up when I land in France Saturday night.

So, by divine intervention, I now have a new host family who signed up last minute - like, last night. They are supposedly a "very loving family," which lessens my nerves a bit. The AUCP was extremely nice and helpful about the whole thing, and now I just feel silly for calling a French woman out of the blue who had no idea what I talking about.

I have a feeling this is the prologue to a whole book of similarly confusing and absurd adventures this fall. It will be called Ansley's Marvelous Escapades in France: The experiences of a cheerful, but naiive American girl among the French. The Prologue is titled "A Delightfully Sticky Situation."

The tragedy that is life

So today Ian, Hunter, Mom and I went to the brand spanking new Panda Express in Gig Harbor for dinner. I've never felt more overstimulated and overwhelmed by bright colors and equally colorful heaps of food and people behind the counter shouting things frantically at us like, "fried rice or chow mein???" We all timidly collected our food and slinked out the back door to escape with our dinner outside. I felt buzzed.

Speaking of buzzed, I have felt buzzed all day. I have a to-do list with tasks to check off, and it seems like instead of making neat little checks, I keep adding more things to do. This evening, frustrated, I threw the list aside in a fit of displeasure and pet my dog instead. It felt good to sit for awhile and do nothing but stare at the white wall with her.

Also while out, Ian and I decided that Starbucks and Target together make a complete protein. It's embarrassing that we think this way.

And...I can't remember who said it, but I came across this quote while looking over my notes from the study abroad orientation weekend at Linfield last spring:

[On what clothing to pack for France]: Only children wear bright colors, and if adults do, they are considered immature and do not understand the tragedy that is life.

All this, after I just bought a brand new bright flashy red cardigan. Ohhh, I'm excited. :)