Jacob's · Journal

I actually plan on posting a few times throughout the summer. I have memories I want to put down before they fade away beyond my reach. When will this happen? No idea, but keep your eyes pealed for updates like: "My Frisbee Weekend!" and "I'm the best sister my sister ever had" and "Highlights of the Family Vacation" a.k.a. "Beats the shit out of a pain chocolat!"

As I write this update I am soaring high above the clouds (but not as high as John or Jimi or Janis ever were) and on my way back to a magical place where rude waiters and waitresses are rare, stores stay open even after the sun goes down, and people smile in the street; a place where the past is forsaken for the glories of tomorrow, television, internet, and cell phones govern the people like a royal family, and time is money. As I stood on the stairs getting onto the airplane I realized that I was really leaving France. I was getting on this plane and it was going to Spain or Germany or England or the Czech Republic or even southern France. This wasn’t a tour bus going around Paris. This was THE plane home. While the adventure of getting my ticket was as eventful as it possibly could have been it never really sunk in that I was leaving France. It wasn’t at all as I had envisioned it.

Before I originally came to France I imagined my departure from France being driven to the train station by my beautiful, Mediterranean-skinned, mysterious, dark-haired, cultured, French (maybe Italian) woman friend who had kept me company for the last month or so with well wishing texts pouring in from my friends (ranging from Austrian and Turkish and everywhere in between) saying things like “Bon Voyage” and “I’m going to miss you!!” or even “I love you! See you soon!” We’d arrive at the train station with my bags, carried by my manservant Walter, and Mathilde would weep bitterly on my shoulder one moment and kiss me passionately the next while the train conductor (a good friend of mine) would say that he really should get this train going and ask if I could please get on pretty soon. I would smile and give him a look that would say “Women in love? What can you do?” and he would understand. The train would pull away from the station with people sitting on the hills on either side of the track waving in, the tears silently streaming down their faces. However, everybody would be smiling a little because they knew that I’d be back and probably for a good long stay this time.

Sometime in the middle of my spring break I had a new vision of departing France that would pop up from time to time. It was me laughing manically as I ran onto the plane shouting something along the lines of “I’M GOING HOME! Back to America where there are showers and takeout pizza! Internet and a car for me to drive! Oh sweet, holy Jesus in the sky, INTERNET PAST 6PM!” I would be pushing aside children and old people alike shouting “Let’s get this freaking plane in the air!!”

I would say my departure was just about smack dab in the middle of those two. I went to the airport with Mom, Dad, and Kelly, but Mom and Dad shortly split off to catch their flight (due to a technical difficulty I couldn’t fly to the states with Mom and Dad) so really I was there at the airport with my sister… I stood on those stairs today and felt a sense of loss, I truly did. While France wasn’t home she had definitely become familiar and even welcome and acceptable. The last three weeks with the family has helped me to, in a way, cope with the loss of losing her. She really showed me that she actually could really have that romantic side that is portrayed in films, books, and other realizations of her. I ate cheese with bread and sat with the setting sun on my face playing cards with my family and felt quite happy in a country that had thwarted happiness more often than it had produced it. I had successful and worthwhile interactions with a people I had, in a sense, grown to mistrust. I met some very genuinely nice people and that made me feel better. I don’t want to give you the impression that everybody in France is mean because that word isn’t fair. The French are something else and people stab at it with ugly words like “rude” and “mean” but those just don’t cut it. The only word to describe the French would have to be “French.” Nothing else will do.

I’ve come to the conclusion however, that I should be going home this day. I feel this way because this has been one of the best plane rides I’ve ever had. As I checked in the woman asked me if I wanted an exit row, so here I sit typing this with my legs bent allowing my laptop on my lap, my seat reclined (nobody’s behind me), and my knees are about TEN inches from the seat in front of me. INCREDIBLE! We had a good lunch (and a slice of pizza for a snack!), I have a kindly Irishman keeping me company, the kindly stewardess has kept my cup filled with water for the whole flight, and they even showed an episode of my favorite TV during the flight. The flight went by pretty quickly but I know I’m pretty emotional(?) from leaving France because some mediocre Disney movie made me tear up a bit. I’m looking forward to being home and I feel very, very confident that one day I will happily set foot on French soil this time ready for Her… ha!

I made the decision to teach because when I teach somebody something it brings me (and usually them) great pleasure in doing so. It’s all summed up in that moment when my “student” gets a grasp on what the concept being taught. That moment of Eureka! I made the decision to study language alongside teaching because I enjoy people. I like to communicate with people, ask them questions, get to know them, and learn about that person and a society as a whole. We were took a taxi home tonight and it drove me nuts that I couldn’t ask the driver about his little guiding, direction-giving, toy-mabobber on the dash because I don’t speak any Spanish! I was pushing the baby carriage through the crowd and I couldn’t say excuse me or I’m sorry! Very frustrating. Being in Spain and thus being, in a sense, crippled by my inability to communicate has really made me appreciate my French abilities, as limited as they are, in a whole new way. The Spanish, in general, seem to be a kind and welcoming people; they’re quick to smile or lend a helping hand (a woman on the bus, of her own accord, helped get mom and dad back to the hotel). The servers at all our restaurants have been kind and patient (even with dad’s questionable gesturing [I wish you could have seen him trying to negotiate getting tomato juice in his beer]).

We’ve been in Barcelona since early Wednesday afternoon and have been enjoying ourselves quite nicely. We keep joking about our American vacation in Europe (“The Nuxolls do Europe” we keep saying) because we rented a car and then drove all over Europe! Dad complains from the backseat about the tolls “What are we in New Jersey??” while mom tries to run down Italian women with the car. The car is a blessing, really, because it avoids what dad affectionately calls “the bag drag.” I have 2 heavy suitcases (that mysteriously gain weight as mom stops at markets of the regular and flea variety in each city purchasing ceramic chickens and Spanish cups) and mom, dad, and Kelly each have their own sizeable suitcase as well so when those suitcases can sit in the car instead of being drug up and down busy streets, on and off trains/planes, and in and out of hotels it saves us a lot of trouble. Mom and Kelly take turns driving while I valiantly, successfully, and triumphantly guide us from city to city. Barcelona has been an extra treat because Kelly’s very wonderful Austrian friends (Anna and Hooky [phonetically spelled]) live here and visiting a city is always much more wonderful when you have somebody to show you around and in a way, show you the city from an inhabitant’s point of view. Last night we were all so beat that while Kelly ate dinner and caught up with Anna (after we all visited her and schnootzled her new baby) mom, dad, and I found a little takeout restaurant and retreated back to the hotel where we watched the French presidential debate and ate hamburgers, grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, and potatoes. Along with a good amount of other students from my institute, I’ve been closely watching the French presidential election. The president will be elected this Sunday so I’m pretty excited to see how it’s going to turn out. In fact, a good majority of the civilized world is watching this election because whoever wins is really going to shake France up which will probably have an impact on the EU and thus the world. It amuses me that I’m so interested in the politics here in France but have never really been interested in U.S. politics. I would LOVE to vote here for the French president but Kelly had to call me twice and send me a few nasty emails to make sure I went and voted in 2004. She’ll probably have to go through something similar to get me to vote next year. This morning we woke up and hit the ground running. We found breakfast, ate, and were on our way to downtown Barcelona only an hour after opening our eyes. I was impressed (and also stinky and dirty because Kelly rolled me straight out of bed without a shower. I had to beg her to let me go back to the hotel to brush my teeth after breakfast) that we were moving so quickly. We arrived down town (via the city bus, my fav) and discussed where we wanted to go and ended up choosing the Picasso museum. The museum was pretty neat. It was a sort of biography through his works. They had little blurbs on the walls in between paintings talking about his life and works, but the neatest thing was seeing how he evolved as a painter. Afterwards we met Anna for lunch and more baby schnootzling. A frantic bathroom search later we decided that it was time to split up. Ma and Pa were headed back to the hotel while Kelly and I took mom’s credit card and went shopping. A good time was had by all. The evening ended with all of us (the Nuxoll family with Anna, Hooky, and the little one) eating in a tasty Spanish restaurant. We ate Tapas, which is (so I’m told) a traditional Spanish meal which is made up of a series of tiny little plates with all sorts of different dishes on it. It’s for those who can’t decide what they want when “OH! It all looks so GOOD!” It’s sort of like eating hors d’oeuvres for 2 hours while drinking sangria. It was a really nice evening. The 6 (and a half) of us chatted and ate and that’s when I really started to think about language (as Hooky switched seamlessly from English to Spanish to English to German to English). I also did some really great people watching today to the point that I wanted to approach a few people and ask them questions about who they were and why they were doing what they were doing. Barcelona is a bustling city with all sorts of different nationalities buzzing around doing their thing. I heard Spanish, English, French, Italian, German, and at least one Asian today. All those in the Picasso museum alone. Just incredible. The plan seems to be (as much as the Nuxoll’s can have a plan) is to stay in Barcelona until Saturday when we will either fly or train to Paris. I can never be sure because I don’t particularly care what we do as long as I get fed. It’s just groovy to be in Europe with my family. Alright, it’s 12:40 and I have to sleep til’ 10 tomorrow. I don’t want to be tired for that.

Adios!

There's another update below :)

It turns out that it wasn’t just our little village that was so beautiful, it was the entire “department” of Luberon (France separates itself into departments which are, for lack of a better comparison, kind of like states). Our house was a home base for a series of day trips (all perfectly navigated) that were each amazing in their own way. We went and saw “little Colorado” which was really just a reddish-orange sandstone. It was neat, but I wouldn’t really describe it as “little Colorado.” I might drive by and say “Isn’t that dirt pretty? Kind of reminds me of Colorado… but not really.” However, we walked around the area and enjoyed each other’s company. Other days we picked small villages on the map (using guide books to help us) and explored them and the surrounding areas. We dedicated a day to Aix-en-Provence which was an enjoyable trip. Well, that’s not completely true. The city seemed pretty neat, and the guide book described it really well, and I was interested in seeing it because I’d heard good things. We jumped in the car and The Captain (me) quickly found the quickest route to Aix and led us straight there without a single problem. However, as soon as we get off the roads my road map becomes rather useless and consequently when I step out of the car my status is reduced from Captain Navigator to Corporal Translator (less prestigious and leading role but unfortunately a necessary one). We knew we needed to find some big fountain in the center of town and Kelly chose a random direction which happened to be the exact opposite direction of the fountain. We were all gathered around the tiny, guide book map when mom spotted a Frenchman walking by. I could see him eyeing us with a look that said “Oh God, please don’t ask me for directions.” Kelly called out to him but surprisingly he gave an “I knew it” smile and helped us out. I think he was glad that he could do it in French and was thus pretty nice. With his directions we walked to the fountain, had some lunch, and people watched. Mom saw that there was a train that went around the city and talked about the sites to see. There’s one of these trains in Avignon. It crawls around town blocking traffic (both pedestrians and cars/buses) filled with lazy tourists gawking out from the windows. I made a feeble attempt to express the hatred everybody had for this train hoping she would realize that it was a bad idea. However she went over and checked the price. God had smiled upon me this day because the train was unreasonably expensive. We weren’t going to use it. Kelly and mom went off to find water while dad and I sat on the bench shooting the breeze and watching the people go by. We noticed that mom was there with Kelly, waving at us to come over. They were standing next to an odd-looking vehicle. It looked like a golf-cart-truck. Turns out, that’s exactly what it was. I realized then that God was indeed smiling on me that day but only because He’d played a funny joke on me. Mother had found something even worse than the train. An electric car that makes a little tour of Aix but there’s no one to point out what’s what. The driver doesn’t say a word, there’s no speaker talking in garbled, electronic French, not even a pamphlet. But, at 2 Euros for all 4 of us, the price was right. We climbed in and waited while our driver (a young woman of about 23) radioed in to say that she had customers. Just as she finished an older man, limping heavily on a crutch-cane came over and had a brief conversation with her. He apparently was asking for directions to get someplace but she just told him to get in because she was going that way anyways. She helped him get in the car (she dropped him off about 10 minutes into the trip) and the 5 of us buzzed off up tiny alleys and side roads going by beautiful old buildings that held no meaning for us because we had no one to tell us what they were. I can’t express to you the shame I felt riding in this THING. I suggested that we ask her if she had a permanent marker so we could all right “asshole” on our foreheads. I have to say that I held our driver in the highest regard for doing this as a job. What a terrible way to spend your day. We saw a few other electronic toursist-carts and it seemed that they were all driven by young French people (approximately 21 years in age) and the lot of them seemed to be making the most of it. Later in the day we briefly split up with the plan to “meet at the museum.” Mom and Kelly wanted to do a bit of shopping and the men, of course, didn’t. This is Kelly’s favorite trick. We walk by shop windows and she slows down and licks the windows as we walk by. After a few licks she decides that it’s time to go in and do some serious browsing at which point she encourages dad and me, with a lot of vague hand waving, to go entertain ourselves while she and mom do what they do. I would like to stop here and briefly defend myself by saying that I have no problem going shopping, but I DO have a problem with stopping every 15 minutes to shop while we have a destination in mind. If we have no destination then there’s no real problem (assuming the shopping isn’t done in excess) but stopping all the time causes problems. Case and point: Aix. Mother showed us where we were headed on the map and gave me the directions “keep going this way until you see [insert complicated French street name here] and turn left. It should be right there.” Seemed simple enough. Now, I’ve lived with my mother long enough that I should KNOW better than to believe anything my mother says is simple. Dad and I did exactly what she said, but after a ways I realized that we had missed it, gone the wrong way, or something else wrong/stupid. I should have known better than to think it was MY fault. Dad and I waited on a corner not far from where we split up thinking that SURELY mother and Kelly would come walking out any time now. Yep… aaaaaaaaaany time now. Fifteen minutes later I went to a bus stop about 50 feet from where we were and realized our (mom’s) error which would later turn out to be a directional error based on false information. We were doomed from the get-go. We realized that we weren’t going to find this museum and so, as the Nuxoll family always does, dad and I returned to the last place we saw them. Fifteen minutes later, mom and Kelly returned to us and then led us to the museum (where they had been waiting) which was a whopping 300 feet from where we were, but up a different street than originally believed. Oh, mom. Fortunately, I was the navigator for the trip home and we drove straight there safe and sound.

On Friday we went to La Ciotat which is a GOREGOUS little city just southeast of Toulon (southeastern corner of France). Kelly had met a French couple two summers ago in Orofino, Idaho (for those of you not from Idaho it’s just another small, Idaho town) and they live in La Ciotat so Kelly called them and they invited us down. Throughout the whole week Kelly and I (mostly Kelly) have been practicing French manners with mom and dad and I think after the evening Kelly and I gave mom and dad about a B+ for the evening. There were a few errors but nothing grave and hopefully some sort of house swapping arrangement can be made. The true test will be when the couple comes out to Orofino this summer (they come every summer because the husband likes to go trout fishing) and they will probably stay a night or two with mom and dad. We’ll all cross our fingers for that. Yves and Fabienne (the French couple) were extremely nice and invited all of us to stay in their house and Yves even mentioned talking to a British friend of his to see if he (the Brit) had an opening in some sort of bilingual work. I’m hopeful that good will come from the meeting.

We spent the majority of Saturday driving across the southern portion of France headed towards Lourdes. France isn’t that wide; you could easily drive from one side to the other in one day. However, we took advantage of the fact that we were in southern France and we stopped a couple times in quaint little French villages and thus we had to step 2 hours short of our destination in Carcasonne. We were cruising along around 6:45 headed towards a reservation in Lourdes when we kind of realized that we were all kind of tired, hungry, had to pee, we all just sort of had road fatigue in general. We rolled into Carcasonne and it was just starting to get dark (one might even say it was dusk) and at this point, mom was driving. Kelly isn’t crazy about driving and mom isn’t crazy about riding and so mom started driving about halfway through the day. The thing about mom driving is that she drives like a pansy. She calls it defensive driving, but we all know better. I understand why, and usually it isn’t a problem, but a lot of times as the navigator (the Captain!) you need a driver you can count on, somebody that will do exactly as you say without knowing why and without understanding. Mother is not this driver. I would give her directions and sometimes she would listen and sometimes she wouldn’t. Once she felt like she was on the right track she would basically ignore me and my commands and ask me to do things like “open my chocolate” or “turn down that music!” or some other meaningless NON-captain job. We were looking for a hotel in Carcasonne (one in Kelly’s guide book) and I only had the little, crappy map in the book and was just figuring out where the place was when all of a sudden mom whips off the road into a little parking lot. “What the hell did you do that for?!” I shouted as I unclenched my hand from the door handle. “I thought it was a good idea if we collected ourselves for a moment.” I assure you, this is not a driver a navigator puts their confidence in. She and Kelly went to ask for directions while I drank water and rubbed the bridge of my nose trying to nurse the headache that had suddenly sprouted. We finally found the hotel but it was booked. We tried another one but it was booked too. Kelly decided to call a place a bit out of town while dad, mom, and I went to the restaurant. We did that and when Kelly met up with us she had booked us a room. We ate a nice dinner and then realized that we weren’t sure how to get to our hotel. Of course we didn’t. We (I) asked the (cute) waitress how to get to Preixan and she gave us some vague, (cute) French directions and we headed on our way. It took us awhile and a little guesswork (we literally had no map only the name of a city and a compass direction [I was going by a star that I knew usually hangs out in the western sky]) but we found our hotel. It wasn’t even really a hotel; it was much more like a hostel. It was quite acceptable however and I made friends with some Brits that were well into their cups by the time we arrived. One of them kept trying to give me a salmon sandwich… The next morning we drove into the old city (where I stayed in the hostel) and found some breakfast, looked around with the other 5000 tourists there and then headed on our way to Lourdes. I won’t say much about Lourdes. It was pretty incredible in a very special way. The Nuxolls had a good time. We slept in a hotel by the train station/truck route, mom almost hit an older Italian woman with the car, and mom and dad won a rubber for the first time in 4 days. After some debate of whether or not we should go to Barcelona or Biarritz we decided to go to Biarritz, just north of the Spanish border and spent a rainy day there. In fact, we found out that it was supposed to rain in that area all week long. After a bit of debate we decided to skirt around the southern side of the Pyrenees and make our way to Barcelona and nicer weather. Of course, none of us checked the weather report for Barcelona, but we’re all hopeful. When we woke up in Biarritz this morning (waking to the sound of rain) we realized that we hadn’t really seen much of Biarritz so as we drove out of town we randomly followed a sign that said “to old port.” We parked and jumped out but Kelly wanted an umbrella so we popped into a gift store right next to the car where Kelly bought an umbrella and mom and dad bought matching hats. We spied a bridge that connected the mainland to a rocky outcropping and we went that way but just as we got onto the rocks, the sky REALLY opened up and not even mom and dad’s 5 euro, semi-water-resistant hats could stand up to the might of mother nature. We began to scamper back to the car and after we all sat down in the car, wet and tired of Biarritz’ bull, mom said “I’m wet. Can I take my pants off?” I love my family. Tonight we are in Spain enjoying a three star hotel (and all the luxuries it brings such as internet) at the price of a 1.5 star hotel. Dad’s pretty pumped about that. Tomorrow: Barcelona (but mom and dad may be going on a plane to London… but they don’t know that yet).

I’ve been experiencing a state of surrealism since… oh, I would say the 11th. It started when my BEST friend from my time in Colorado came to visit me. He and I were extremely close in 5th and 6th grade but halfway through the year I moved to Idaho and we were separated. He came to visit me the very next summer for a couple weeks and that was the last time I’d seen him. Nine years since I’d seen him. We stayed in touch pretty well for the first year, but as John says “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy makin other plans.” Meaning, we basically lost touch. I called maybe three times in high school, the last time being junior year. Anyways, I tracked him down through some friends and Facebook last spring and we almost saw each other last summer, but due to some complications it didn’t quite happen. I heard from a mutual friend that he was abroad in Austria this semester so I quickly shot him an email and we began making plans to meet up. We had some shady plans and I wasn’t sure it was going to happen until he sent me an email the Tuesday after Easter entitled “I’m coming.” Sure enough, he was headed my way. He got here Wednesday afternoon and we spent the next 36 hours reminiscing, catching up, and trying to figure out if we were still as compatible as we were all those years ago. I think we were both very pleased to find out that we still were and consequently the 36 hours were spent with a lot of laughter and good times in general. I put Steven on the train early Friday morning and then just after lunch I got on a train myself to go to the frisbee tournament up in Fontenay. I know I gave a somewhat mysterious, non-descriptive post about what happened that weekend, and while I can’t remember EXACTLY what I wrote (I don’t have internet access at this moment) I’ll do my best to (briefly?) recount the weekend’s events. But, not at this exact moment. I’m talking about why I’m caught in a state of surrealism. The frisbee weekend was much needed and I had a really good time. Frisbee isn’t the biggest part of my life back home but it’s definitely a big part and it’s something I’ve really been missing here. It was nice to have a taste. Walking onto the fields that very first Saturday morning of the tournament was refreshing and I could feel a sort of content-ness deep in my heart. When I got back, it was finals week. It was the end of the semester here in France. THE END! How did that happen so fast?! On top of all that, the fam was to arrive on Thursday. Lordy, Lord. It was tricky to buckle down and get done that which needed to get done, but I did what I had to do without too much trouble. Thursday afternoon came and without TOO much trouble (just one late train and some kick ass directions from me) Kelly and my folks walked into the top floor of my school. I took them to the hotel, checked them in, and then we went to an outdoor café and drank coffee/tea and played bridge. Perfect. When the sun went down we went to a restaurant and had some dinner. Having my family here is extremely strange for me. Looking across the table and seeing my dad’s face with the ancient walls of Avignon behind him is all but inconceivable. It’s been a few days and I’m still not used to it. It’s kind of neat to be leading my folks around. Kelly’s French is just as good as mine, if not better, and the two of us keep the group along just fine. Mom and dad usually don’t go anywhere without either Kelly or I nearby. In fact, when we drove to Avignon to our little house here it was Kelly who drove and I sat in the front seat, unanimously declared as “Captain Navigator” or just “The Captain” for short. Mom quietly looked out the window while dad amused himself with a running commentary of negativity: “This doesn’t look like the highway.” “We’re not going to get there until 8:30…” “Are you sure you know how to read that map?” “What’s [insert butchered French word here]?” I kept waiting for him to fall asleep but no dice. Granted, Kelly and I had a bit of… I wouldn’t call it trouble per se, but we definitely took advantage of the roundabouts by doing two, three, and sometimes four laps to make sure we were going the correct direction. We also definitely took a few ‘alternative’ routes that gave mom a lot of good scenery to look at. I made friends with an old French man with a pretty thick accent. Kelly made me ask him for directions (even though I knew right where we were and where we were going) and I had to ask him four times if he could help us and finally showed him the map and he put two and two together. Anyways, he made some vague motions with his hands and talked in a language which sounded similar to French (I’ve studied French you know) but I can’t be sure. When he had finished talking I thanked him and shook his hand when he offered it to me. When I got back in the car and Kelly asked me what he said I just said “he confirmed what I thought. Just follow the signs.” She bought it. {What, Kelly? I got us here, didn’t I?} Anyways, when we actually arrived at the house (simultaneously 15 minutes early and almost 1.5 hours late) we stepped out of the car into a world like none I have ever known. When you see a movie where somebody dies, and you see them in heaven wandering around soft, green grass with the sounds of birds singing softly in the background and the sun blazing brightly in the stunningly azure sky… that depiction of heaven is inspired by southern France in spring. It’s breathtakingly beautiful here. I wandered off into the woods and followed a crick along a semi-maintained path just taking everything in. Seeing, listening, smelling (I could smell all the grass and I even put my nose to a tree that looked particularly yummy), and feeling the grass on my flip-flopped feet and the sun on my shoulders and face. I’ve experienced nature’s beauty at the top of giant mountains and under the sea, but there’s nothing quite like this.

There's no way I have the time to write a full update, but I may be able to Wednesday if I'm not too busy bashing my head into the wall studying for my Lit exam. The last one was annoyingly/surprisingly difficult (how do you study for a test based on a class that teaches abstract ideas and other non-concrete things?) and I'm going to try to nip this one in the butt. I'll give you some brief phrases that have to do with highlights from the weekend, you make your own story up, and you can see if you're right after I post. Here's a little hint. I have 6 blisters on my feet, 2 of the blood variety, my left shoulder is mysteriously in pain, it hurts to walk and when I breathe deeply, and I had a fantastic weekend.

Thank God my first train was 2 minutes late
French people who already knew my name
Minibus ride
My skills tipping the scales???
Groovy hotel
Pressure, pressure, pressure. 2-0 day 1
Sunburn
Extreme hunger followed by extreme tastiness
Exhausted sleep
Pain. So much pain.
Pressure, pressure, pressure. Break. 1-1 day 2
Minibus ride
Allergic reaction
Squished notebooks
Car ride
Sleeping bag on hard wooden floor
Early, French morning

Wish me luck on my exams...
You know how we say "break a leg" to wish somebody luck? The French wish shit for luck. Only the French would wish shit on somebody and think they were being nice.

Sorry for the severe lack of updates. This isn't even really going to be one. I'm about to go catch my train for my long-awaited frisbee weekend. I'm a little mad at myself because I left a couple pseudo-important things at my place and because I live 92388375293857 kilometers from town I can't just run to my place and get it. Very frustrating. Anyways, my best friend from Colorado came to visit me for a couple days and I spent every free moment with him and thus haven't updated. Next week is finals week. I may find a free moment next wednesday(?) to write about the weekend. See you then!

The update below is only for Saturday. Not a whole lot happened on Sunday and Monday (Easter Monday was a free day). Easter mass was packed, we sang 2 extra songs at the very beginning, and other than that it was the exact same mass. We were out in 55 minutes. Amazing. I took a monster nap (3.5 hours) and definitely ate the equivalent of a chocolate bunny and a half (out of Enzo's GIANT bowl of chocolate). I figured it was payment because I actually "babysat" him for about 30 minutes. We went outside and played with the neighbor children. It was kind of interesting, actually, because (unsurprisingly) children play the same. I keep "discovering" that people are people. Anyways, Monday I woke up to the usual screaming alarm clock and decided that it would be impossible for me to stay in the house for the day. I walked into town and buzzed up at Jenna's and we basically did the same walk I did on Saturday. This time I sat in the shade of the house with Jenna talking for a couple-few hours. Got a little sunburn, it was nice. Shortly after I got home around 8 (keep in mind the buses were on the Sunday schedule on Monday and so I'd been walking all day) I received a phone call from a recent French lady friend asking if I was coming out with Matt (my faithful wingman) and the French lady friend's room mate. Now, I had a paper due the next day (today), was exhausted from walking 10+ kilometers, and hadn't had dinner... I let her know that I'd be there with bells on. 3 kilometers into town later, I was at the bar enjoying the company of 2 lovely French ladies and Matt. An agreeable end (at 3:00AM) to an otherwise boring weekend. In fact, I could literally say that my weekend was poopy. As Jenna and I were walking through the streets (chatting in English) a surly Frenchman gave us a sly smile and then farted loudly. Obviously out of spite. Very charming.

As I sit here on this cool Sunday evening I can feel my legs tingling as my muscles begin to realize that they can relax. The walking-filled weekend is over. It ended with me running to the main bus stop in Centre-Ville only to find it empty of buses and thus walking home. I don’t think I even wrote about where I was going this weekend. In fact, I owe you the end of the weekend before, don’t I? A thousand pardons. This puts me in a bit of a pickle, doesn’t it? Where should I start writing from? Do I put down the memories are still fresh and dancing in my head or finish what I started? It’s silly that I write that because you’d never know. I could write one or the other and put them up in the proper order! However, that’s just not my style. I think I’ll pay what I owe and then write the rest. I only hope I can hear myself think over the rumblings of my empty stomach.

Let’s see… I believe I had finished the story of Thursday night and was telling you about my weekend skiing in the Alps! I believe this is review but… Xavier is the son of a French family that hosts students every semester and he’s currently in a very serious relationship with a girl that was a student at IAU and stayed at Xavier’s place. Xavier’s family has a cabin in the Alps and they’re nice enough to let IAU students use it every semester. There were 11 of us total who went. Eight students from IAU (9 girls, Roman, and myself), Xavier and Sarah (Sarah being the girlfriend), and finally Alison who is an American friend of Sarah’s (and who is an alumni from St. Catherine’s! so we hit it off very well right away) piled into two cars and made the four hour trek to the cabin. It was a relatively painless car ride. I was in the front seat the whole ride (there and back) and most people in the back just slept while Xavier and I chatted and talked about what the various stuff was along the way (Xavier is a history major). We pulled up to the cabin as the sun was setting and put everything inside and a few of us went back into town to get supplies for the weekend: Breakfast cereals, coffee and tea, eggs, bread (a few baguettes and a couple loaves), a case of beer, bottle of wine, bottles of hard cider, meat and cheese (for roclette!!!), and toilet paper. That night was a delicious dinner (made by Xavier’s mom and deposited in the oven, ready to be cooked) and watching The Princess Bride on my laptop with everybody crammed onto my bed. The plan was to be headed out the door to ski somewhere between 9 and 9:30. A group of college students… led by a Frenchman… we were on the hill at about noon. Well, I woke up at 8:30 because Xavier had gotten up and was cleaning up the cabin a bit and setting out breakfast stuff (bowls, cereals, mugs for coffee, etc), and I was sitting there wiggling my toes, waking myself up at a leisurely pace, and I realized that I was hungry for something in particular. I had a craving. I had a fever and the only cure was French toast. One of my favorite things in the whole world is the realization and fulfillment of a craving. We had bought eggs and bread… I presented the idea of French toast to Xavier and he said it was alright if I wanted to whip some up. Friends, I used every egg and slice of bread in that cabin. I could hear groans of delight from the kitchen as people consumed French toast. The problem with cooking for a host of people is the possibility of there not being enough for the cook. Luckily, there were 5 pieces leftover and I consumed each piece as if there were no other pieces of French toast in my life. Each bite was a sunrise, a first kiss, a moonlit walk, a bedtime story from dad, that first present Christmas morning… They had this amazing honey at the cabin. Some sort of caramelized, extra-sweet, stuff… I don’t know exactly what it was but I can assure you, it was like eating happiness. I mixed it with Nutella for a couple pieces… I just ate dinner and I’m salivating thinking about it. Anyways, people ate very well and I received several pats on the back for my brilliant thinking. We put our gear on (Xavier had no snow pants that fit me so I skied in jeans) packed ourselves into the car and cruised up the mountain. The mountains were surprisingly bear of snow and the whole ride to the ski course I couldn’t help but wonder if there would all of a sudden be snow around the next bend… maybe this one… but, no. We walked to the rental place and I could see the hill and while there was snow on it I couldn’t help but be skeptical. Xavier seemed confident, however, so I put my faith in him. We rented skis and poles, bought a lift ticket, and trudged our way to the snow. Literally, the only place there was snow was on the runs. It was nuts! We did a couple runs on the bunny hill (more like ferocious, rabid badger hill) with the 3-4 girls that had never skied before the rest of us headed over to the chair lift for some real skiing. I must confess that I was scared. I’m a social skier. I don’t wake up and think about going skiing, but if a friend calls me to let me know the gang is going skiing, then you can count me in. That being said, nobody has called me to go skiing since my junior year of high school. Consequently, I haven’t had waxed, wooden boards buckled to my feet in four years. And now, I’m going skiing in the Alps? I learned how to ski in junior high and went a good number of times every winter until my junior year. I can get down the hill just fine. But… the Alps?! The runs on the badger hill didn’t do a whole lot for my confidence, but I realized that I could still ski just fine. We dropped off at a quaint little section and we all zipped down to another t-bar that took us up a little higher. Roman and I were waiting for everybody to get off the t-bar and he looked up at the gondola’s going to the very top of the hill. “I can’t wait to hit that up.” “Beg your pardon? We’re going up there? Maybe we should, you know, take a couple more warm-up runs…” “No way, man! That’s where the good stuff is.” Sure enough, we climbed into the gondola (my first time in a gondola) and took off to the top. It was like riding on a rollercoaster and going up the first hill except for two major differences. First of all, there wasn’t that ticking noise as the track pulls the cars up to the top of the hill. Second of all, when you’re going up on a rollercoaster, you know you’re going to get the shit scared out of you, you may get a little queasy, but all in all you’re getting off that roller coaster in one piece. I couldn’t guarantee that I was getting off this ride. We popped out of the gondola and put our skis back on, admiring the view of the Alps and looking at the little ants at the bottom of the hill. “I could stay up here all day,” I said. We took off down the hill and I did just fine. It was tough and definitely took all my concentration to make it down. It also took all my will power to get back into that damn gondola and go back up again. There were no incidents skiing, and everybody had a good time. I didn’t even fall down once! I was pleased (and also dry). That night was Roclette and I ate slowly until everybody else had eaten their fill and then I let loose my appetite upon that dinner… nobody was spared. Xavier and I ate half the cheese by ourselves, no problem. It must have been 30 slices of roclette cheese. Roman kept putting fresh slices in the melter and on my plate. It was an almost constant flow of cheese on my plate. Meat, potatoes, bread, cheese, and cider were all cascading down my throat into my grateful stomach. After dinner, we sat around the table laughing and drinking enjoying the good tired that was a long, eventful day. The next day was pretty quiet. There was a nature walk (which I skipped to do homework) and a lot of lying around. A couple hardcore ladies went skiing again but for the most part people just relaxed. We drove home and called it a weekend. I had a very nice weekend and it was really great to become better acquainted with people from the institute. It’s always a weird/neat experience to get to really get to know somebody you already know. Alison and I bonded really well. It was one of those meetings where you can almost feel the click when you meet. Don’t worry, she’s got a boyfriend.

Okay, this weekend!

Earlier last week, a girl at the institute, Carly, came up to me and asked me if I’d be interested in going on a little trip this weekend with she and Hannah. I asked her what the occasion was and she told me that the Art History class (a very solid majority of the students) was going to Paris for the weekend and that they were leaving Friday morning. The institute was to be closed Friday. Well, I thought that sounded like a good idea. Visiting two new cities and not being home for the weekend. She made all the arrangements and all I had to do was show up at the train station at 9:40 to catch out 10:00 train. Nooooo problem. I show up promptly at 9:40 (seriously, I did) and I’m standing there, eyeing the bakery, waiting for Carly and Hannah when Carly taps me on the shoulder. We share brief pleasantries and she says “Our train has been cancelled.” “Beg your pardon?” Turns out, there was a strike! I wrote down exactly what the electronic board said, but I must have dropped the piece of paper because I can’t find it tonight. If I remember correctly, the electronic board said that because of “socio-political reasons” almost all trains to/from Montpellier (EXACTLY where we were going) were cancelled. We were to catch a bus to a nearby city and then a train from there to Montpellier. I felt like starting off the trip with a cancelled train was a pretty poor omen, but Carly is very optimistic and bubbly and my feelings of doubt didn’t last too long. We made it to Montpellier around 11:30 and when we popped out of the train station took a quick gander at the map. After briefly studying the map I decided that I would be in charge of navigation. 10 minutes later we were a teensy bit lost. We were in a park, but damned if we could find it on the map. In my defense, it was one of those bullshit maps with a kooky scale. The train station looked to be about a 10 minute walk to the city when, in fact, it was basically IN the city. It was ¾ of an inch away from the city! ¾ of an inch on a map is a long ways. We figured it out, but not before I was badly humbled. The map screwed us up a couple times but in the end we figured it out. In fact, it was kind of nice because we came into the city from a different angle and stumbled across a really groovy park and entered into the city through a giant, beautiful gate. Montpellier is a pretty cool city. It’s somehow managed to balance the old with the new. I think a good chunk of that is the lack of city walls and a small (unnecessary) monorail system. The three of us talked to the woman at the tourism office who gave us, no kidding, 8 different pieces of papers ranging from maps to bus plans to bicycle rental prices. With out prizes, we went searching for lunch. I suggested bread, fruit, and cheese and the girls liked that idea. We found a grocery story, a bakery, and a fromagerie (cheese store) all right next to each other. I don’t believe in fate, but I do enjoy a serendipitous coincidence. We bought a big baguette, a few chunks of cheese, a piece of fruit each, and a giant water bottle. The price for lunch was less than $2.50. As we ate, we looked at our different pieces of papers, trying to decide what to do, when we realized that whatever we did, we’d like to ditch our backpacks at the hotel. It was about 2.5 inches (on the crappy map) from our current location which ended up being a whopping 8 minute walk. We had booked a double because the difference between a double and a triple was pretty ridiculous and we just weren’t going to stand for that. The girls checked in and let me in the side door, through the garage. It worked pretty well, actually. We pushed the two beds together and made a giant bed. Being the gentleman I am, I slept in the crack. We set our bags down, took off our shoes, used the bathroom, and in the true spirit of adventure, lied down and took a two hour nap. When we woke, feeling very refreshed thank you very much, we realized that we were hungry. Specifically, hungry for Chinese. We went back into town and ate a tasty little Chinese dinner and decided that we would go to a movie and afterwards to a bar to mingle with the locals. Montpellier is sort of a college town and so as we walked to the theater (we had already selected a movie earlier) Carly asked a group of smoking youths (you know, young people who set themselves on fire) if they had a recommendation for a bar. They gave us some complicated directions and a few bar names and, in general, were very pleasant. We went to the movie (La Môme) which was a biography about Edith Piaf (very famous French singer) which was quite good. We popped out of the theater at about 9:30 and decided we wanted chocolate (I’ve discovered that when I’m around women, my desire for chocolate raises dramatically). We went to a café and enjoyed hot chocolate and discussed whether or not we wanted to go into a bar, have a mediocre time trying to mingle, and leave smelling like smoke. We opted to go back to the hotel and play cards. We got there and instinctively, the three of us put on our pajama’s, brushed our teeth, and climbed into bed. We laid there chatting for about an hour, watched some television, and ended up passing out before midnight.

The next morning we caught the train to Carcasonne. I redeemed myself for getting us lost yesterday because the girls had no idea which way the train station was and I definitely walked us perfectly to the front doors. We got there and our train was delayed 15 minutes. Not a big deal, no connecting vehicles, but still kind of annoying. When we bought tickets, the train was almost full so we couldn’t get seats next to each other. Usually when I ride the train with friends, we all jump in a compartment together, or sit in seats close to each other. However, as the train pulled up, we could see it was pretty full. We decided it would be better to go to our separate seats. I don’t know why, but I assumed that the French ignored the car/seat number much like I usually do, and took seats where they wanted (only really paying attention to which class they’re in). With this assumption, I figured some uppity Frenchman would be sitting in my seat and so I opted to stand for a good portion of the voyage (they have an area after the door onto the train and before the door onto the compartment where people can stand, put their luggage, etc). However, after one stop, a lot of people got off the train and I decided that I would scavenge myself a seat. As I walked into the compartment itself, I first checked to see if my seat was open. Not only was it open, but it was right next to a cute French woman. What luck! She had put her bag in my seat and I asked her to move it with a smile that said “Your bag is in my seat but that’s okay because you’re very cute” and she removed it with a smile that said “You’re not French, but that’s okay because I think you’re cute.” I sat down and we did the awkward thing where each person is trying to get comfortable without being inconsiderate to their neighbor. We shifted bags and negotiated the armrest; the whole while sharing a little grin between us. Then, a man came and told her that she was in his seat. I then had to get up, let the cute girl out, let the fat man sit down and watch as she walked away to find her real seat. I gave the fat man a glare and then realized that the woman sitting kitty corner from me had a cat! No pun intended there, seriously, she was kitty corner to me. I’m allergic to cats! This situation had deteriorated rapidly from what I had hoped to be an enjoyable train ride. I was on the verge of despair when I realized the pretty, young woman sitting across the aisle from me was reading a book in English. An Anglophone! I decided to interrupt her reading and strike up a conversation. I took the standard route of finding out whether she was American, British, Australian, etc and found out that the woman I had struck up a conversation with was Julie from Georgia. We exchanged brief pleasantries of our respective states (she’d never been to Idaho, but I had nice things to say about Georgia) and then I moved seamlessly into the topic of her book and she not-so-casually dropped the fact that the book was sent to her from the States by her boyfriend. I should’ve stuck with the cat. Julie was pleasant company, but after about 15 minutes of chit-chat I really was tired of talking to her and started desperately hoping that the cat would attack me so that I could have a reason to excuse myself. No such luck. I had trapped myself in a conversation. The painful chit-chat continued for another 10 minutes until Carcasonne mercifully pulled up into view. I stood up (I could see a little further down the cute French girl with her ipod in), shook her hand, picked up my backpack, and went to the door. Thank goodness, all of us got off successfully, and started our journey into Carcasonne around 11:00. Carcasonne is split into two different cities. New city and Old city. Old city is the touristy place and New city is where people live. We walked through new city, bought a little breakfast from a bakery (we were a little late getting up and didn’t have time for breakfast in Montpellier) and made our way to Old City. Carcasonne is quite lovely (both new and old city) and it was kind of neat how they had split the two. The view of the old city, while walking up to it, was pretty groovy (Carly and Hannah stopped and took pictures). Carly had this guide book by Rick Somethingorother she kept looking at that was just full of information. We would discuss where to eat or what to see and she’d say: “Well, Rick says…” Granted, the book was useful, but I prefer to enjoy my own, personal experience. We wandered around Old City a bit, and found out from the tourism office when the tours were. It’s funny how being a tour guide has put me off tours. Carly really wanted to go, I really didn’t want to go, and Hannah wasn’t interested in going. However, Carly felt bad about going off by herself and it took Hannah and me awhile to convince her that it was okay. Her tour was at 2 and since it was noon, we decided it was about time for lunch. Carly let us know what Rick recommended, and we headed off looking for lunch. We were strolling along and we were stopped by a woman in a cloak who was standing in front of the Torture Museum. I was intrigued. Sidenote! Whenever you’re (you being me or any IAU student or presumably anybody bilingual) in a touristy place they immediately assume that you’re an ignorant asshole who only speaks English. I’ve worked pretty hard to bring my French up to the level it’s at and I’d like to use it, damnit. Also, when they speak to you in English, they condescend to you like you’re an ignorant asshole who only speaks English. Sometimes, it’s quite funny/annoying because my French is better than their English. For example, the woman at the tourist office in Old City didn’t even ask if we spoke French, only told us when tours in English were, and was basically infuriatingly condescending. HOWEVER, as a transition from this sidenote back into the day’s events, the woman in the cloak asked us if we spoke French! We were proud to say that we did. She let us know about the torture museum, the haunted house down the way, and finally of a nice little restaurant just around the corner. She had a flyer for each and the menu looked good to us (as did the price). We went around the corner and I was looking at the menu, trying to make the right decision, when Hannah and Carly said “is that it? I think it is” and pointed to the restaurant. Granted, we hadn’t 100% decided on it and wanted to look at it, make sure it wasn’t grungy and nasty, and receive other, general visual stimuli so we looked like a bunch of average tourists. In front of the restaurant is a woman, wearing a stupid hat, who has been hired to catch hungry, stupid-looking tourists and encourage them to come in and eat, or check out the torture museum around the corner (apparently the restaurant and the museum are in cahoots). The woman spoke French, Spanish, and English and when she saw us she was quick to condescend. She walked up to us and gave a little schpiel about the restaurant, the whole time giving us that smile. However, the place looked good so we went in. We ate a true French lunch with 4 courses spanned over an hour and a half and then realized that we had to scamper if Carly was going to catch her tour. Both girls had to make wee and so I stepped outside to wait for them. There I was standing next to the woman in the stupid hat. Awkward silence. She asked me if I liked the meal and I said I did. Awkward silence. She spoke some quick Spanish to some people walking by (it was impressive that she could pick out instantly who was what nationality) and handed them a flyer. She looked at me and asked me something in Spanish. Awkward silence. Then we both laughed because I’m sure I had a very confused look on my face and she realized she had done a very normal thing people do when they’re thinking in multiple languages. She asked me the question again (“Do you like the city so far?”) in English and I replied in French that I thought it was very nice. She started a bit. “Parlez-vous Français?” she asked. “Mais, oui.” We spoke a bit about the city and what I was doing in France and when the girls came out she greeted them in French and the four of us talked for another minute until we excused ourselves on account of the time. As much as I hate being condescended to in my own language by foreigners, I equally love surprising them by speaking to them in their own language. We quickly checked into our hostel (situated in Old City) and while Carly went on her tour, Hannah and I walked into New City and bought groceries for dinner that night. The hostel had a kitchen! I had suggested soup and sandwiches (a tasty, cheap dinner) and that sounded dynamite to the girls. Hannah and I spent a whopping 12 dollars at the grocery story which would later feed all of us to maximum capacity with leftovers for the next day. Being at the hostel was pretty neat, it was my first one. There were people from all over and it was neat to see how different/the same people are. I won’t go into too much detail, but I’ll give an example. At breakfast, I sat down at a table and there was German, Spanish, Portuguese, and French being spoken in the little cafeteria in the hostel. If I hadn’t been by myself, English would have been heard as well. There were the young and the old, men and women, dark folk and light folk all living together and sharing basic supplies. It was pretty neat. After dinner, I taught Carly and Hannah how to swing dance a bit and then the three of us went for a walk to look at Old City at night (as suggested by Rick). It was pretty cool, actually, because it was lit up by giant floodlights around the outer perimeter. Kudos to Rick. We got back to the walls and wandered around, and re-entered the city through a creepy, dark, “secret” passage through the wall. Then we climbed up on the walls and chatted a bit, played with our giant shadows on the wall, and just generally acted like kids. By the time we got back to the hostel I was exhausted from doing so much walking, dancing, and cheese consumption. I slept like a log. I woke up and looked out the window and saw a castle. Kind of a cool experience. The day, however, was pretty miserable. Cold, windy, and occasional ice-cold rain awaited any who wanted to sight see. I decided I would stay inside and do my homework. Carly was optimistic and kept trying to go outside only to return shortly after cold and bummed. We did homework, played some hearts, and ended up going to the train station a bit early (which was good because we took a wrong turn that tacked an additional 15 minutes to the walk to the train station). The three of us snoozed soundly on the train and it pulled into Avignon at 6:13 (exactly 2 minutes before my bus is scheduled to leave). I jumped off, ran to Place Pie, and discovered there weren’t any buses. However, Alison was at a café in Place Pie having some beers with her boyfriend’s parents and she called me over, introduced me, and after a bit of chatting I took off for my long walk home. So that was my weekend(s). They were both pretty groovy and I’m glad I did both trips. I hope I can make it through the week. It’s always hard to get back to work after such fun times. Wish me luck! Enjoy your week! xo Jacob

I don't like it when work piles up like that! Staying up late and getting up early to do homework. Boo! I can't complain too much about it because I definitely decided to go skiing with the knowledge that I should've dedicated the weekend to my literature paper. In my defense, I did do a bit of work at the cabin instead of going for a nature walk. You know how I feel about nature! I was glad I did because when I got home that night I wasn't in the mood to do homework and so by having done a little I was able to make a compromise with myself. Anyways, that's boring information. I'll start with some good stuff.

Thursday was pretty amusing. It was some sort of dinner here at the institute for all the students and their families. I was very hopeful that Sylvie would come and bring along the little one, but the day before she told me that she was going to a political rally. She also, more or less, told me not to tell anybody. The French are very private and that goes double for politics and religion. I expected the dinner to be awkward because none of the students are truly fluent and we're supposed to mingle and... I don't know, I was expecting awkwardness. However, the call of time away from the house was too much (not to mention an extra hour of internet!) Some of you may remember the French Potluck that was Lili's birthday. The dish of the day was quiche. Luisa told me it was the potluck dish of the French. Now, I know that she was right. Lots and lots and lots of quiches. Some good, most were mediocre. Dinner conversation was alright. I met my speaking teacher's husband who was from MN (my speaking teacher lived in the twin cities for 15 years) but he couldn't get over the mental block that he was fifteen years my senior. Word passed through the students that there was to be a rendezvous at the Red Lion (Bar). And, APPARENTLY, the translation professor was going to be there. I don't have his class, but I hear it's very hard, people learn a lot, and Jay himself is supposed to be pretty cool/incredible. Intrigued, I decided that because I'd already missed the bus on account of dinner, that I would go out too. The students left in little waves in relation to how close their host(s) were to the institute. I had no host, so I was in the first wave. The Red Lion was a pretty good time. Jay was pretty cool. He knew the Tsaconas family and had a different insight into their lifestyle. He's been living here for almost 10 years and even has a French wife. It was also good that he was there because I was flirting with Laura's exchange partner and kept asking Jay for certain words. Clumsy was one... *sigh* It was a little disconcerting because she kept laughing at my sentences. I could only hope she thought I was cute and not an idiot. Parker and I walked her home (the three of us were the last to leave the Red Lion at about 1AM... me having to catch the 7:30 bus to get to highschool by 8). To be continued tomorrow! And the weekend too! SORRY!

I'm SWAMPED today so I can't put up my weekend post. It's gonna be a decent one. I forgot my key one night and I definitely just spent the weekend with some friends skiing in the ALPS!! I expect to write about it Tuesday afternoon!

I’m writing this entry from my room at Sylvie’s house with my headphones plugged in (listening to a new, very chill band I like quite a bit), in my sweats and a comfy t-shirt, and a little bit of a sunburn on my face. That is to say, at this moment, I am surfing on the top of the crest. Forget Friday and Saturday, they were mediocre and nothing is really worth mentioning for either one. Well, I take that back. Saturday night we ate croque monsieurs. Hot damn they were good. If you don’t know what they are, go ahead and Google it. I woke up Saturday, showered, got dressed, etc, etc with the intent of going into Centre-Ville to do a bit of grocery shopping for the frisbee tournament today. However, I saw those croque monsieurs on the stove, all ready to be made and I stopped dead in my tracks. I mentioned them to Yann (Sylvie had gone somewhere for a few hours and left the men [sans Philippe] at the house) who informed me that they were for lunch. Well that changed everything. How can I eat croque monsieurs if I’m in Centre-Ville? You’re right, I can’t. So, I put my feet up and turned on MTV and waited for Sylvie to return to whip those puppies up. Long afternoon short, they were for dinner and so I waited all afternoon for lunch to happen and ended up not eating all day except for a bowl of cereal and dinner. But, in retrospect, I survived and those monsieurs were TASTY. I would’ve hated to miss them. Okay, so Leigh and I had planned for me to be waiting at 6:30 at a corner halfway between her house and mine that was also in the general direction of Centre-Ville so that her host mom could pick me up and drop Leigh and me off at the train station in order to catch the 6:55 train. I packed my bags Saturday night and set my alarm for 6:05. Wake up, bathroom, teeth brushing, gone… should leave me just enough time to get to that corner. Why do I never, ever learn? I ended up running to the corner (and was still a little late) but Leigh’s host mom was so nice it didn’t matter at all. Leigh and I had already purchased tickets and so all we had to do was wait for Erin and her friend Courtney to show up. Don’t worry, they did, and we all jumped on the train to Arles (I spoke of Arles in an earlier entry) and from there we would catch a bus to Saintes-Mairies sur la mer where the tournament was. Alright, first step done. We got to Arles without a hitch. Found a bus schedule… taped in the window of the tourism office… 8:55 from the Gare. Okay, we’re supposed to be there at 9 but, really, no problem. Erin calls the captain of the team putting on the tourney and lets him know we’re coming but a little late. Let’s see, it’s 7:30 let’s go to a boulangerie and snag a little breakfast. For fear of missing the bus we decided to head back around 8:20 or so. We’re sitting at the stop, enjoying the cool, morning air of an early spring when we realize that there’s a bus behind us pulling away. I run to the bus (who, surprisingly, stopped) and ask the conductor if he’s going to Saintes-Mairies. In fact, he isn’t. And, not only is HE not going to Saintes-Mairies, the only bus he knows of that is departs at 12:30. Small mouthed oh. This is distressing news. An hour late… could be worse… but arriving a couple hours before the tournament ends… Okay, problem solving skills are being put to the test. Erin calls the captain again and asks if there’s anybody that could pick them up. He says he’ll make some phone calls. A few minutes later he calls back about a guy, Olivier, that’s close-ish to Arles and can pick us up. A half hour later he gets to the train station. Olivier steps out of the car and unfolds himself. The man is huge! He’s at least 2 inches taller than me. I’m impressed. I feel that the height of the average French man is about 5’8” and, oddly, the height of the average woman may be about the same. Could be the boots though. Anyways, Olivier is very nice and hands us the ipod for song selection. Mom, I don’t want you to read the next paragraph. More specifically, YOU don’t want to read the next paragraph. I’m serious, don’t.
We climbed into his car and he made sure that we all buckled up. Erin had a bit of trouble with her seatbelt in the backseat but he didn’t leave until she was securely fastened in her seat. Olivier navigated his way through the tiny, walled city of Arles chatting amiably about this and that, lots of get-to-know you stuff. “What part of the states are you from?” “What are you studying in Avignon” yadda yadda yadda. Then we got on the two lane highway (just like home!), jamming along to the music Courtney’s choosing, and making good time because Olivier is going pretty fast. The man was an awful driver. I would’ve felt safer in a driver’s ed car. He tailgated every car he caught up to, but he was never there for long because he passed everybody. On one straightaway, he passed about 10 cars. Another time he was popping out to pass when a car came around the corner and he had to pop back into the right lane but not without being less than 6 inches from the car in front of us. You could hear the air in the car being sucked away by the four foreigners. To credit Olivier, he never passed on a blind corner and he had enough opportunities to do so, and he got us there quickly… and I guess safely…
As we pulled into Saint-Mairies I immediately began looking for the sea. I wanted that first look, and I wanted it badly. However, every time I try to do this I can never see the ocean/sea. There’s always a building, or a line of trees, or a wall or some crap that blocks my view. Has this happened to you? We pulled in next to the tourism office to ask directions to the beach and the moment he turned the car off I was out of the car and up on the seawall looking out at the Mediterranean. It was just like I wanted it to be. Big. Blue. Beautiful. All that we’d done was instantly worth that moment. The waves splashing onto the beach and rocks, the boats in the water, and even the horizon all filled me with unspeakable joy. In French, when you want to say you miss something or somebody, you do it a little backwards. When you structure the sentence, the subject is the thing you’re missing. Say, for example, your dog. Then, you use the verb “manquer” which means ‘to be absent from’ or ‘to be lacking’ along with the proper pronoun. Thus, “mon chien me manque.” My dog is absent from me, directly translated. It’s a bit confusing, but I think it’s sometimes quite accurate about how I feel. Thus, at that moment, I realized that the ocean had been absent from me. L’océan me manquait. Anyways, that’s enough of that garbage. The beach we wanted was down the road so we jumped back into the car and drove about a half mile to our beach. Again, we popped out of the car like sardines and I climbed up onto the wall again and in addition to the beauty of the sea, I saw frisbees. Oh, God, I saw frisbees. I ran to them. I threw my belongings down onto some sort of open wooden structure, kicked off my shoes, and changed into my sporty clothes faster than Superman changes into his costume. I was playing catch on the beach in France. The sun was beating down on me and I could hear the waves crashing over one another behind me. Erin threw one over my head and into the ocean and I ran after it like a puppy. I would’ve indulged in a little dip but the water was fuh-reezing, and I didn’t want to be wet (and salty) right before I started running (not if I wanted to walk like a regular human being the rest of the week).
The tournament was starting and La Mistral (that was our team name) was playing in one of the opening games! There was Erin, Leigh (girl from the institute who plays soccer and thus naturally picked up Ultimate), a couple guys who Erin had talked to before and agreed to play with us, and me (Erin’s friend Courtney was official photographer… I think she took a couple photos during the first game). Four on the field and a substitute. Not perfect, but very agreeable. In fact, I think every team had 5 players… maybe one with 6. Not important. The first team beat us pretty readily, but I didn’t even care. I was playing FRISBEE! There’s really no need for me to go into too much detail about each game but I’ll try to give you a brief overview. We ended up winning two games and losing three. Because it was on the beach there was tons of diving from everybody. I would guess an average of 30 dives (total from both teams) per game. That’s a lot. I met a girl from MN, Missy is her name, that goes to school at Duluth, plays ultimate there, and she knew a good number of the girls on our team. We exchanged contact info and she invited me to crash at her place in Montpelier (she also invited me to hitchhike with her and a friend to Barcelona but I don’t know if I’m too keen on that) anytime I wanted and I plan on hitting that up for sure. Free place to stay? Sold! I had a lot of fun playing frisbee in general, and met some neat people. Frisbee in France could be described as Frisbee lite. It looks the same, has the same name, buuuuut doesn’t quite taste the same. The team that ended up winning the tournament is apparently one of the best teams in France, but I assure you that our team back home would cut them to ribbons. However! They definitely asked me to play with them at the end of April and I definitely plan on hitting that up. I was hoping other teams would ask me to play, but that didn’t happen. Not to toot my horn (but I’m totally going to) but I definitely turned some heads. A guy from the team who took second at the tournament played catch with me for awhile and afterwards convinced his buddy to get up and throw us discs so we could jump for them. I kicked his ass. He later suggested that I get on the France Ultimate forum and put my name and contact info out there. Erin said that whenever teams see an American looking for a team to play with, they jump all over him/her. Something else that amused me was that the French stopped for an unnecessarily long lunch (another reason it’s Frisbee lite). At a regular frisbee tournament, you play about 5 games and have a bye in there somewhere that you can go and get some bananas, PB&J’s, and water from the tournament tent. Stop for lunch? Psh. After lunch, La Mistral we had left behind caught up with us and the last 3 games were pretty miserable. By the time we left, the wind had blown sand all over/into our stuff.
I was already in a VERY good mood and feeling very good about myself and decided that I wasn’t going to buy a ticket from Arles to Avignon. In the three times I’d been on the Arles/Avignon train, I’d never had anybody ask me for my ticket. Granted, it’s less than 5 Euros, but that’s 2-3 pastries from the boulangerie! Leigh wasn’t going to either, but I could just see her conscience eating her up while we waited for the train. A few minutes before the train got there she popped up and bought a ticket. The four of us got on the train (by the way, we caught a ride from somebody else back to Arles and that trip was uneventful) and sat down. A cute, young woman sat down across from us with her little leashed dog. That was one cute dog, and he definitely came over to our side of the car and all four of us took a good turn petting him. The French have dogs all over, as I think I’ve mentioned, but it’s not really okay to pet a stranger’s dog. I don’t know why, but it just isn’t. However, this cutie seemed okay with us going to town and even loosened the leash so he could get to all of us. And, you’re darn right nobody checked my ticket. Take that, France! Jacob: 3. Leigh’s host mom came to pick us up, and I came back home and took about a 15 minute douche (it took me that long to remove the majority of the sand from my body [although I’m sure I’m going to be finding it on me for the rest of the week]). Dinner was tasty and I’m tired, but that wonderful tired after a good day. I daresay this is the best day I’ve had since I’ve been here. That being said, I’m going to bed before my computer explodes or something.

Just wanted to drop you all a line, let you know that I'm still doing well here in France. I found out today that this GORGEOUS weather we're having (70 and sunny) is going to end on Monday. However, I'm making the most of it with my frisbee beach tournament on Sunday. That being said, I'm off to play frisbee now with my friends. I hope you all have a wonderful Friday.

-Slept in a bit.
-Had to pick up stuff before going to the institute and actually didn't forget A) to do it or B) the items I needed to pick up
-History class was interesting
-left early! (to get to my conversation class)
-My conversation class went SO well. I was very pleased
-Lunch was very, very delicious
-My Pol class was cancelled and I had no idea
-Thus, played cards with Corrine
-Which means I bought French cards! Very cool things
-Watched a very funny movie in Oralité (le Placard)
-And, to top it off, a gorgeous day

All that being said, and with the way I'm feeling, I'm going to go ahead and award myself a point. I can't even remember how many points France has, but now I know I'm at 2. Take that, France! ... please don't kick my ass...

…Saturday was pretty uneventful. I woke up at 2:30 when Enzo started his post-nap screamfest. I don’t know about the average person, but when I wake up in the afternoon, it’s hard for me to find motivation to actually DO anything. That being said, I pretty much did nothing. I read a bit of my book for literature, but mostly relaxed. Unsurprisingly, the day went by pretty fast. And, thank goodness, I was tired at about 11. I felt a little bad about crashing at 11 because I told Erin I’d probably see her at her birthday thing, but I couldn’t bring myself for another night on the town. Julia, François, and I had dinner together Sunday night (not out, just at the house) because Philippe, Paul, Sylvie, and her friend (also named Sylvie) all went out and Julia was babysitting and François was there because that’s what boyfriends do. I’m not sure they went out together, but I know they were all gone. Just before I started getting ready for bed I had to walk to the bus stop to check the Sunday morning departure time. As I was walking away, I noticed a lovely, new-looking, black car parked outside. I assumed it was Sylvie’s friend’s car. I found out that the only bus I could catch in order to… catch my bus… was at 8:25. I had to be up before 8 in order to catch the bus to get into Centre-Ville so I could catch the bus for my excursion. When I left for the bus stop (at 8:00, believe me, I was NOT missing this bus) the black car was still there. Apparently, Sylvie’s friend had been unable to drive home last night and was presumably sleeping in Yann’s bed (Yann was in England from Thursday evening to Monday evening).

The excursion was pretty neat. We didn’t do anything particularly amazing. I mean, we saw some neat stuff (a hospital where Van Gogh painted and the Cathedral of Images [see web site at the end of entry]), but it’s barely worth writing home about. However, the wind finally stopped blowing while we were out and about and it ended up being the kind of day where people start taking off their jackets in the afternoon sun. And, best of all, this time I didn’t forget my frisbee. Charlie and I enjoyed a few games of catch and that was nice. In fact, after our last stop, we were about an hour and a half ahead of schedule and so a few of us found a bit of grass and ended up throwing for almost 30 minutes! Wonderful! And, because we were back early enough, I even caught the bus back home. I got off the bus and realized that the entire western sky was a beautiful shade of pink. It was very beautiful and I walked backwards a good portion of the way home just admiring the sky and letting the smells of spring fill my nose. I was in a fantastic mood on account of the relaxing day away from home and with friends and frisbee that it seemed only fitting that the sky be pink. The moment was a little surreal, actually, and it made me think of a phrase my mother had said only 2 nights previous. She said "la vie en rose" and I thought that was only fitting. The dog didn't even bark at me when I walked by, I couldn't believe it. When I got home, there wasn’t a whole lot going on, so I popped in the James Bond movie Matt let me borrow (A View to a Kill, 1985) and waited for Sylvie to call me for dinner. When I came downstairs for dinner about an hour later, it was just she and I dining at the kitchen table. Odd for a Sunday night, but I didn’t give it a second thought. Sylvie and I chatted about the excursion, had a little gossip sesh, and at one point in the conversation she lets me know that Philippe and François had a little quarrel that morning. François had slept over and Philippe was not happy about that. However, Sylvie had given permission for the impromptu sleepover and so it caused Sylvie and Philippe to have a bit of a row as well. Sylvie tells me that Philippe left afterwards and that it’s quite possible he isn’t coming back. I’ve seen adults show more emotion for a flushed goldfish. Of course, I’m crossing my fingers that he isn’t coming back, but when I came down in the middle of the night for some water he was passed out drunk on the couch. Apparently they worked things out. We’ll see.

Monday was very lovely. A relaxed day at the institute and we played frisbee too. I’m going to play a free, beach tournament this weekend and I can’t WAIT for that. No other real news to report other than my long weekend. I hope you’re all happy and well. Best wishes always. -Jake

http://www.cathedrale-images.com/

One update for the weekend. Lots happened, but I didn't write about it because I wanted to watch "A View to a Kill" instead. I'll write later should I have the time. If not, expect an update tomorrow morning. Smooches!

Kind of a funny bus event this morning. Like Greg Newmark, I've really come to appreciate public transportation. That's not to say that I like it or dislike it, but I definitely appreciate it. It was all sorts of foggy this morning and I think this slowed the bus down because I was very early getting to my stop (Enzo was in particularly horrendous form this morning and thus I left as soon as possible) and when I arrived there must have been close to 10 people waiting for the bus so I think the previous bus hadn't come yet and so it was a mix between people who wanted the last bus and the next bus. Anyways, I climbed on the bus and it was pretty full but I probably could have sniped a seat but I'm a young buck and there's no need. I can stand for 20 minutes. Anyways, out of the 15 stops (approximately) we loaded that bus to capacity. It was so full I had to give my hand holds to old people because they had given up their seats to handicapped people who actually had mentally handicapped people sitting on their laps. It was that full. When the driver opened the bus we just exploded out like a giant, public transportation zit.

Actually, another shorter bus story! We were 3 stops from my stop, JUST outside Centre-Ville when a man with a small dog got on the bus. Apparently, this is not allowed. Understandbly to non-French but remember that the French bring their dogs with them everywhere. The hair salons, the restaurants, grocery stores, etc. The driver and the man argued a bit and the man with the dog sat down next to me. The driver called his bosses and we sat at the stop waiting for some big wigs from the bus company to come and straighten this mess out. We sat for damn near 10 minutes. People got out and walked, climbed onto other buses but I was trapped next to Dogman. I wasn't in a hurry and was interested to see what was going to happen (if they arrested the man, what would they do with the dog??) but only because I didn't really have the option to leave was I annoyed. Anyways, a couple guys came and talked to Dogman about why he couldn't have the dog on the bus. Since he was getting off at Place Pie (the main stop in Centre-Ville, just 3 stops from where we were) the men told the bus driver to go on and talked to Dogman about why it wasn't allowed and it seemed like no real action was taken. At one point, the men were agreeing with what Dogman was saying! The French!