Paris Part II

Without any lead-in, I’m just going to let you know what wonderful magical thing we did on Wednesday. DISNEYLAND PARIS! Which as it turns out is located quite a ways outside of Paris. Still, this was one day that we got up early and buzzed around the apartment before rushing out the door for the trains. Even at 21, Disney still sparks a child-like level of excitement for me, and I practically bounced in my seat the whole way to the Parks. We arrived at their “Downtown Disney” just ten minutes after they had opened and quickly made up our minds to do what we wanted to do in the Hollywood Studios first, and then go into the Magic Kingdom. Best part about going to Disneyland in January, the lines… or lack there of!

And the first ride, which I know Dad will appreciate, was the Tower of Terror. Even after countless rides, I still love it. I love it so much and hate it too. That first drop and I’m screaming hysterically, but as you shoot up to the 13^th floor and the doors open to show you just how gut wrenchingly high-up you are, and the elevator shudders… and… Well we know how it goes. An adrenaline rush that early in the morning, it does good things for your energy! After that we moseyed through Toy Story land and past the Cars shops, had a blast on a Finding Nemo roller coaster and took plenty of “goofy” photos!

Then it was on to the Magic Kingdom, and the Haunted Mansion! Which was super bizarre as it wasn’t quite like the one in Anaheim, in fact it wasn’t at all like the one in Anaheim. First, Disneyland Paris doesn’t have a New Orleans Square, so the Haunted Mansion is stuck over in Frontier Land, and thus, has a western ghost story, which goes along with the idea that it’s built over sacred Indian burial grounds! But the rest of it was so different! There were French and English voice overs, and my Doom Buggy sidekick did not introduce himself as my “Ghost Host”… Overall of course, it was fun to see something new, and as always, it was STILL DISNEY! Next was the good ole Thunder Mountain Railroad, and then Indiana Jones, and Space Mountain. A stop over for overpriced sandwiches and sodas and back to the rides. The park was closing earlier than normal because of winter hours, but we still managed to capture the parade at the end, and this was where the empty-ness of the Disneyland came in handy. Rather than crowds ten people thick and having to crane your neck to see the show, everyone, and I mean everyone had a curbside seat. The Disney Dreams parade, sharing the usual message of dreaming and wishing and all of that mushy stuff, but I soaked it all up. There was one moment I particularly enjoyed when Peter saw my camera and posed for a big grin, and I shouted, “Merci!” and he proceeded to stick his tongue out at me, in complete Peter behavior.

I won’t bore you to death with the details of the day, because we all know how Disneyland goes. Rides, lines, expensive food, and lots of laughs and smiles. My cheeks hurt at the end of the day from the stupid grin plastered on my face.

Despite limping home, our moods were soaring.

With one day remaining in Paris, we wanted to make the most of exploring the city, and decided to find the Musée d’Orsay and see the Stein collection (which I had previously viewed in San Francisco) and a Van Gogh collection on display. The museums in Paris are all beautiful architecture, and the Orsay was no exception, with high arched ceilings and glass windows illuminating the levels below. The art was a tad repetitive at this point, but I still enjoyed it, hunting down the Olympia (Manet) and my favorite Denis’ The Muses. Afterwards we decided to walk to the Notre Dame for lunch. It wasn’t quite as short a stroll as we first guessed, but walking along the Seine was beautiful, the art and book stalls stacked high, and we stopped to buy the cheapest postcards I’ve ever found in France! Eventually we made it on the island in the center of the river and followed the twisting cobblestone paths until turning the corner and finding the cathedral before us. It wasn’t quite as large as it’s usually made out to be in films, but was still a magnificent example of stained glass and stonework. Inside we silently stood and took in the history that seeped from the stone and the stories whispered in hushed prayers. It was there, in the spectrum light of the Cathedral’s stained glass that I knew one day, I would return and rent a flat in the 19^th arrondissement and work at a boutique hotel with dreams of the Ritz.

We stopped in a café for lunch and received directions to get to the Galleries Lafayette by the Champs Elysees. I was quite proud that I was able to carry on a discussion with the waitress entirely in French and comprends her directions for taking the metro to the shopping center. The Galleries were mostly overpriced designer clothing, but it was fun to walk around and I picked out a new Pandora charm for my bracelet, then grabbed a Greek dinner in the Gallerie food court (most expensive meal the entire trip!) The ride home on the metro was quiet, squished between commuters and protecting my dinner in red, cold-chapped hands.

After five insane days, we (definitely!) stumbled home on sore pieds and collapsed around the table. Tearing into our dinners we recounted our amazing adventure and afterwards fell asleep to an episode of The Walking Dead.

The next morning everyone grouchily gathered their suitcases and we made our way to the Gare de Lyon and waited the train. As I finally settled into my seat, the clouded sky beginning to break with the morning sun, I caught a final glimpse of the skyscrapers and Parisian styled homes as we pulled away, the train whistle a bittersweet “Au revoir” for the city that had captured my heart in just five short days. 

Paris, Je T'aime Part I

I never would have believed that any city in the whole world could steal my heart away from San Francisco, and as the TGV pulled into Gare de Lyon in Paris, the cobalt skyline against a perpetually clouded sky, I never imagined how my opinion of the most famous city in the world would change after just five days with a friend and her sister.

Paris to me, before spending five days exploring her every alleyway and cobblestone path, was something else entirely. The Parisian attitude is notorious, and outside of the city, les Français roll their eyes at anyone who casually tosses, “J’suis Parisian.” Or “Je vien d’Paris..” into a conversation. I’d heard nightmares of sour smelling waterways and Romanian gypsies on every street corner. Still, that slightly singed, dusty smell of the metro-system was a warm welcoming for someone who has learned to love the Bay Area’s public transport. As with any public transportation, the convoluted maze of colored lines and bubbled stops on the map were an amusing challenge, and before too long I was barely glancing at the maps. Even taking quickly conveyed instructions from a vrai Parisian wasn’t anything daunting by our last day in the city of lights.

Although plenty happened between those first moments in the train station and our final jaunt about town.

The first order of business was to locate the apartment that Theresa’s mother and aunt had set up for us. Following the rainbow of metro-lines we disembarked at Montmartre, in Northern Paris, set above the beautiful city, and a once frequented favorite of Hemingway and Picasso amongst others. Our temporary landlord was waiting with the keys and eagerly spoke in a mélange of French and English explaining how the water and microwave worked before leaving us to collapse exhausted on the scattered furniture. Although there was no grand view of the Eiffel Tower from the window, the ever active and captivating “vibes” of the neighborhood were enough. That very evening, restless from the train and ready to not waste a single moment, we hopped back on the subway and headed for the Eiffel Tower, babbling about everything we’d be doing over the course of the week. Emerging from the underground, just as dusk was rolling over the city, we climbed a staircase to a viewing deck opposite the landmark and waited as the Iron Lady slowly lit up, golden beams illuminating her curved steel before finally, erupting into a shower of sparkling stars.

After an hour or so in the freezing Paris temperatures, we shuffled back to the metro and crammed in with the commuting public and forced our way out at our hillside station. Picking up Chinese takeaway and some rations for breakfast, we climbed the stairs to the apartment and barely spoke over dinner, before haphazardly throwing together a morning schedule and passing out completely drained.

The next morning, unable to resist the lure of freshly washed streets, glinting in the still lit streetlamps, I pulled on my “under armor” and Nikes, taking on the hilly terrain surrounding our home base. Climbing set after set of staircases I finally reached the top of the hill and stared up at the marble rotunda of the Sacre Coeur, before pivoting and staring out over Paris, the Eiffel Tower sharp and jagged against the horizon. This was the beginning of my love affair with that northern city.

Returning to the studio, we all took our turns in the bathroom, shared the breakfast making duties and were headed for the train before 9AM. First stop for our week was the Louvre.

Approaching the glass pyramid, I never had any concept of the enormity of the world famous museum, but Theresa was adamant that we wouldn’t be able to see it all in the five or so hours we’d planned on. Descending below the courtyard, I was pleased to discover that my student visa and school identity granted me free access to the numerous halls. Still, once we had our tickets, it was all business and first things first; we set off in search of the most famous woman in the world. La Gioconda, or as she is better known, Mona Lisa, is hidden away, through various twisting pathways then placed in a small room through a barely-there door. Luckily, we had arrived early enough in the morning, that the throng of tourists wasn’t complete insanity… yet.

The hallways of the Louvre echoed with snapping apertures and hushed whispers of tourists reciting their well-practiced art knowledge. It was something else, seeing paintings and statues seemingly emerge from my high school textbooks and be within reaching distance. Venus, Olympia, Mona Lisa… the most famous, most beautiful women in the world posed, aloft and vacantly staring at the marveling crowds. Hercules and Caesar perfectly carved and motionless, while the “lower classes” look on in awe, that incessant snapping of cameras constantly clicking away. We did not see the entirety of the museum, and I’m not entirely sure how close we came to seeing it all. We never did find the African exhibit, or the Easter Island statue. Though we were lost in Egypt for about an hour, only to have to backtrack to find our way out. There was also a period of about twenty-five minutes where we found a long, abandoned hallway lined with only pictures of Jesus Christ and the crucifixion. My favorite hallways were the fifty-foot tall rooms, arched ceilings and paintings covering every inch of space. These were the student rooms, easels flecked with paint, canvases stretched over wooden frames and the artists, or artists-to-be, with their furrowed brows, studying the paintings before them.

Overhearing one woman, who had just begun trying to find the right shade of blue-black for her night sky, her American accent prominent amongst the nasally whisperings of the French, and soft murmuring Japanese, I struck up a conversation, asking how exactly one finds herself here, in the Louvre, studying the masters. As it were, being employed as an American Airlines flight stewardess and marrying a French pilot has its perks. Like getting to move to Paris, raising your children in a bilingual home and having the opportunity to pass your art class final at the Louvre. I asked, how exactly are they learning if they’re creating carbon copies of the original pieces? She smiled, mixing another smear of black onto her palette, “Anyone who takes “creative liberty” from the original, doesn’t know how to paint… and just won’t admit it.” She smushed her stiff brush into the paint and slapped it onto the canvas, glancing back up at the star-dusted maiden in the framed portrait on the wall, “That’s about right don’t you think?”

By then, our feet swollen and uncomfortable, we limped to the food court and bemoaned tourist prices after handing over nearly 15€ for a plate of Moroccan tagine (obviously my next trip was already clouding my mind.) Still, it was wonderful food and allowed us to rest up a bit before searching out the Metro and eventually emerging above ground directly beside the Arc de Triumph at the top of the Champs Elysses.

Now I was on a mission. We started down one side, stomachs still full of couscous and Greek tapas, but a craving had set in and we were determined to satisfy it. Eyes scanned the shop fronts, passing over Louis Vuitton and Cartier before… there, on the opposite corner, gilded Emerald signage exclaiming for all to see, that here is where one would find the very best macaroons in all of France, Laudree.

Not even bothering with a cross-walk, (after all, mindlessly stepping out into traffic and glaring the cars to a halt is the “French way”) we hurried across the most famous street in Paris to the most famous macaron store in the world.

Unfortunately photographs are not allowed inside the building, and you will be told to put your camera away if you attempt to sneak a snapshot, but this didn’t stop us from shelling out far too much money for the most delicate, delectable, savory or sweet (whichever way you like it) cookies you have ever tasted.

The perfectly lined rows, staff in their starched shirts, hands quickly snatching and stack the round cookies into decorative boxes, it is a sight to see. I looked over the thirty or so flavors, overwhelmed when I asked for the nine-cookie box. The young man behind the glass smiled, Vous voulez les meilleurs? (You want the best flavors?) I nodded excitedly as he carefully considered the succulent little jewels, before picking up a pistachio, vanilla, café, chocolate, rose, green tea, orange flower water, Juste les sucres? (Only sweet flavors?) I nodded again, and he added a passion fruit, and lemon. Carefully tying the seafoam box off with a bow, I was motioned to the cash register where I did not regret handing over my euros before taking the famous bag, (Tiffany’s? Please…) and dashing out the door to the first bench. My next moves were carefully considered as I figured out which to eat, and how long I could make them last. My first bite of a Laudree macaron was the second moment my heart beat a little faster for Paris.

As we sat, people watched and ooh-ed and aw-ed over the cookies, I decided my run had done me in for the day, and decided to head back to the apartment while Theresa and her sister headed to the Eiffel Tower for some ice-skating. Settling into a metro car, I glanced around, taking in the diversity of the city, so different from Aix where the Southern sun and Italian heritage makes everyone look a bit alike. This is a city I could blend into.

Reaching the apartment, I got in a quick skype call to my parents before falling asleep, awaking only to the key in the lock and the end of some sisterly argument.

They’d stopped for dinner, and I heated up the rest of my Chinese take-out, as we discussed the day and eagerly thought of the following morning, where we would set off for one of the most famous sites of the French revolution: Versailles.

The train trip out to Versailles was long, and I lolled my head against the train window, watching skyscrapers turn to apartments along the Seine, and apartments turn to ramshackle housing, before it all slipped away into the country and we sped along, the town of Versailles edging above the horizon, my cheek pressed against the cold glass, fogged with my breath in the January chill.

Arriving at the train station, we hurried out, pulling our coats and scarves tighter and ducking into a Starbucks, laying out our plan and waiting for the office of tourism to open so we could benefit on student discount tickets (again free!)

After grabbing out tickets, we walked along the sidewalk, chatting eagerly before turning the corner and there it was, a tree-lined street leading to golden gates, set back and appearing to glower at the droves of regular populace, wielding their tickets and brandishing their cameras. I paused, wondering how it would have felt to walk past these gates everyday, to know those inside had a life of ease and overflowing wealth, while perhaps your family starved, and I understood the anger as my fingers brushed over the gold filigree.

Entering the golden gates and standing in the courtyard, cameras snapping, and tourists posing with peace signs and inane grins, we took it in, before entering the first room of the palace to retrieve our headsets and audio-guided tour.

It started in the chapel in the main entrance, and wound up a spiral staircase to the many seating rooms, each as abundant and lavish as the last. Portraits of former rulers, and their families, lovers, their military heroes, each framed magnificently on the wall, or painted directly to the ceiling. The Hall of Mirrors, with broad windows on one side and the other entirely mirrors, reflected the bright winter light from outside and seemed to stretch for eternity, with secret doors leading to bed chambers of King Louis the 16^th and of course, Maria Antonia, one of the most infamous, and apparently misunderstood women of European history, known better by her French-given name, Marie Antoinette.

Perhaps less than fifty percent of the main palace is open for the public, and it didn’t take more than an hour and a half to discover the rooms and history, to stand where the Queen of France stood and catch a glimpse through the secret door she escaped through, fleeing with her children as the blood-thirsty mobs ransacked her home and murdered her friends. The palace was extravagant, and beautiful, in a disgusting sort of way.

Leaving the marble and gold behind, we escaped into the gardens, and spent the next five hours or so, walking along the fountains and discovering the oasis that Louis had built for his wife, her home away from home to escape the court and the depression of the death of her child. The hamlet, still home to farm livestock to keep with the theme, looked like a run down Disney Fantasyland. Decaying wood and step-less staircases, it had been built to reflect the country life Marie had never been able to live, (but really as the former Duchess of Austria and Queen of France, did she really believe this could have been her future…)

The walk back to the main palace was long, well over two miles and with sore feet and grumbling stomachs, it seemed all the longer. Finally, we reached the main palace, and the exit, and set off for our apartment, miles away in Montmartre. The ride back was dark, and this time I dozed off, and dreamt of toile fabrics and powdered wigs.

Even so, as wondrous as the day had been, the next would be truly magical.

A Trip North

The adventures are truly never ending.

The day after Christmas, I anxiously paced my studio, my backpack set by the door, train tickets waiting on the coffee table, impatient for 7PM when I could leave for Marseille and catch a night train North.

When it was finally time, I swung my obnoxiously heavy backpack over my shoulders and bid Aix farewell for a few days.

I should note, before this trip, I was beyond excited to finally travel France by train. Falling asleep in Marseille, waking to a snow frosted Strasbourg. It all seemed so romantic, and absolutely none of it went according to plan.

First of all, sitting in the Marseille train station at 9PM waiting for your 10PM train, is right about the time that the vagrants decide to settle into the warm waiting rooms for the night, and eyeball your McDonalds bag.

Secondly, for the night trains, they don’t check tickets in the second-class cars, so occasionally the vagabonds board your night train to Strasbourg and wait around looking for an empty seat while repeatedly asking you for money for coffee. (Then at 3AM there’s a huge fight with one of the conductors when they have to kick the drifter off the train in some unknown city…)

Needless to say, the ride to Strasbourg was really unpleasant. The reclining chairs don’t recline so well with a 6’7” giant in the seat behind you, or when you can’t sleep because you’re hugging your belongings to your chest because of the homeless man wandering the aisles, or the incredible heat in the train car.

I slept on and off for perhaps a grand total of three hours for the ten-hour train ride, and was beyond grateful to watch the sun rise over the mountains and the fog-laced fields awaken as the train sped through the country. This was the romantic scene I had envisioned. However once I got to Strasbourg, and realized I was somewhere between zombie-mode and Frankenstein, I decided it was best to get to the hotel for a nap and a shower.

I grabbed a taxi to the Comfort Inn that I had booked on the outskirts of the centre ville and thankfully the man behind the desk could tell I was not in the mood to head into town while my room was being prepared, so he called in a “rush” for me and I collapsed in the lobby, surely looking a little less than fantastic. I was able to overhear the humorous exchange of an American family who were interested in finding something for breakfast, “You know, eggs and potatoes?” and the desk clerk had to scrounge-up somewhere that served a very non-French breakfast. Then my room was ready and I blundered up to the third floor, (which is technically the second) and didn’t think twice before kicking off my boots and falling into the bed.

After catching a few hours of ‘z’s I unpacked, washed away the grimy feeling from the train and decided to start exploring.

First a few facts about why I chose to visit Strasbourg for my winter holiday.

It’s located in the Alsace region of France, right on the border of Germany, and the food and architecture are heavily influenced by the neighboring country. I wanted to visit the nearby town of Colmar, to explore the canal waterways of what is often referred to as France’s Venice. Oh, and Strasbourg is nicknamed, the CHRISTMAS CAPITAL OF THE WORLD!

It’s a European tradition during the holidays for Marchés du Noël to pop up, drawing tourists and locals alike with the scent of vin chaud and tempting treats. Not to mention, it’s a great place to find deals on Christmas gifts or to just wander and snap photos. Aix had a very cute market down the Cours Maribeau, but it was nothing compared to the wonder that was Strasbourg. The city of Strasbourg, in order to live up to its reputation, has not one, not two or three Christmas Markets, but boasts a grand total of twelve, scattered through-out the town and each seperately themed. The festival of markets runs for over a month from the 26th of November to the 31st of December, and is the biggest tourist draw for the city.

Yes Frederick tagged along :)

So, my camera slung on my back in a new leather sac, and my scarf wrapped over my face, I grabbed the tram from just out front of my hotel and headed across the river into the center of town. That evening I stopped over in the Place Kleber to see the grand sapin de Noël, and find some dinner. I wandered the streets, snapping photos at every turn, trying to capture the architecture and decorations lining the narrow streets that I’m grown accustomed to in French villages. Eventually my grumbling stomach got the better of me and I dropped into an Italian restaurant for an absolutely fantastic pizza. Crème fraiche, jambon, sauteed mushrooms and a wonderful marinara. Pizza is usually a great meal in France because you can grab a whole pizza for around or under 10€. After an early dinner, I enjoyed watching the Christimas lights switch on before exhaustion set in and I had to find my way back to the hotel to check in with the parental units and hit the sheets.

The next morning, refreshed and ready to go, I set off on my first out-of-town adventure and caught a commuter train to Sélestat, my heart set on visiting my first French château. Photos of snow kissed turrets and lavish rooms were calling ! So after a twenty minute trip down the tracks, I got off the train and found the stop for the shuttle that would whisk me away to a royal wonderland. I waited… and waited. I checked the time and waited some more. Finally I got up to review the shuttle schedule, only to find it runs daily, from March to October. I was out of luck, and about to head back to Strasbourg before deciding to make the most of my trip to Sélestat and explore the town. So I grabbed a free map and went in search of the Office of Tourism to see what they could suggest for a few hours. As thrilling as the « House of Bread » sounded, I wasn’t quite feeling it, so I resorted to exploring on my own and taking advantage of the sunny weather to get lots of great photos before throwing in the towel and grabbing the next train back to Strasbourg.

It was back to the markets, sitting in a café to plan out my next two days and trusting friendly locals and tourists with my camera to snap a quick picture here and there. I wandered the canals and perused the menus I passed, before realizing just how delicious a huge plate of spaetzle sounded to me. I decided upon a restaurant right on the water, with a very modern atmosphere and decor and hoped for old classics revived ! This was without a doubt the very best meal of the trip ! I ordered a huge plate of spaetzle in a cream sauce with sauteed forest mushrooms and a diabolo menthe (lemonade drink with spearmint syrup !) The spaetzle was made in house, and the mushrooms were absolutely amazing. To finish the meal, I sat warming my fingers, clutching a cup of espresso and feeling quite satisfied with my day. After gathering the courage to tackle the bitter, northern cold again, I pulled my coat around me and headed back out, determined to capture the markets in action. I did a bit of shopping, sipped a vin chaud and watched the Cathedral turn a rusty rouge in the setting sun. Day two ended on a high note.

And day three began with a runny nose. I should have known the minute I took my seat on the train that the sniffling, wheezing, coughing kids in front of me would be my downfall. I carefully sipped the hotel provided coffee and cringed at the hint of a sore throat. No ! This was my vacation ! I deserved to enjoy my day and no cold was going to stop me ! Though, as it turned out, everything else that morning was determined to upset my trip.

I had seen ads for VeloHop around Strasbourg, and they had caught my attention. What better way to really make some ground during the day than with a bike ? So I asked the front desk for the nearest automated rental and set off, getting horribly lost, almost giving up and then finally realizing I was on the wrong side of the river ! Eventually, I found the shop and punched in my card information, gulping at the 150€ deposit but excited to set off on a new adventure.

The way the automated rental works it you use a code box (like an ATM key pad) to enter all of your card and phone information, and then you receive a text message with the code to enter the VelHop room. What I didn’t know, is that it can take up to two hours for your code to start working. So I was a little more than frustrated when the door refused to open, they didn’t answer their support phone lines and my plans for the day had been derailed, or maybe deflated is more appropriate. Deciding finally that, « At least my deposit won’t be lost if I can’t even take the bike ! » I went looking for something else to do and ended up taking a boat tour through the canals of Strasbourg. (Student discounts !) It was definitely a different perspective of the city and I appreciated learning some of the history of the surrounding area.

After the boat docked, I resolved to giving the VelHop one more go. Tromping back across the river, with the code at this point memorized, I was thrilled to find the door swing open for me and allow me entrance to a room of bikes with baskets ! Following the instructions inside the room, I removed the key for my bike lock and grabbed #63 ! I struggled back through the door and momentarily wobbled down the bike line before getting comfortable to the cars whizzing past. I flew down the street, finally having good use for the arm-signals I’d learned in driver’s ed ! Riding alongside the river, I stopped to photograph a bevy of swans and looked across to the other bank. My mind was made up, I was going to Germany !

Hopping back on my velo I sped off, riding until I found a bridge that would cross the Rhone and pedaling to the other side ! The nearest Germanic town was Kehl, which unfortunately is an industrial city with not a whole lot to look at. At least I can still say I rode a bike to Germany, for half an hour or so.

Heading back to France, my cold was taking on a new level of misery and I returned my bike and crossed back into the centre ville a little more bow-legged than before (it’s been a while since I rode a bike for two-plus hours !) Weaving through the increasingly familar town, I looked up and caught the glimpse of the Cathédrale spires before deciding « why not ? » and going to purchase a ticket to the top.

The Strasbourg Cathédrale construction began in 1015 and was completed in 1439 and for almost two hundred and thirty years, it was the tallest building in the world. So of course you had to climb near twenty flights of stairs to reach the viewing deck, and of course those stairs were built into spiral staircases about five feet in diameter. Somewhere between flights twelve and fifteen I was ridiculously dizzy and hugging the center column as I stared out the gaping windows of the stairwell. As we all know, all too well… Heights are not one of my strong points.

Still, I made it to the top and convinced some Japanese tourists to take my photo before I captured the panorama and stared out over the town and surrounding countryside to where the horizon blurred into the Black Forest of Germany. It was really remarkable to think that without any sort of technology, this incredible example of architecture, which had taken over 400 years to complete (hope you can read the last guy’s handwriting !) was still standing so strong and proudly against the sky. Taking a few deep breaths of the chilly air, I stayed on the viewing deck for quite some time before taking the same twisting twenty-flights back down and emerging in the midst of the market in the shadow of the Cathédrale. I decided to stay out to watch the Christmas lights flicker on, before my cold finally persuaded me to head back to the hotel and order dinner in for the night.

Quick moment to note absolutely fabulous customer service, for when I returned I checked the hotel restaurant menu and the man at the front desk noticed that I did not look well, and said it would be no problem for me to order and have my meal delivered to my room. Despite not being part of the program, they really went out of their way to make sure I had a hot meal and as it turned out, for a Comfort Inn restaurant a beautiful quiche and bowl of soup were promptly brought up to my room before dinner service had even started, which I really appreciated.

After a day of getting lost, floating through Strasbourg on a boat, and racing to Germany on a bike, I was dead.

The next morning, my head was some sort of ticking time bomb, and I stood in the shower in a daze, filling the entire room with steam to try and clear my sinuses. There would be no bike ride again today… My train wasn’t until after 8PM that night, but I had to check out by 11AM, so I worked on packing, eating the remainder of my quiche from the night before and hoisting my 50lbs. backpack onto my shoulders (which I soon regretted !) So I checked out, with near nine hours to kill, and decided to head back to the Place de Cathédrale for a coffee and to fill out some postcards.

Ok, only eight hours left now ! I decided to visit the Strasbourg Museum of Modern Art (student discount again !) and ambled around their exhibits for a few hours before heading back into the city center for one final turn through the markets and to enjoy the Christmas spirit one last time.

I grabbed a pasta box to go, and sat in the main place, people watching, shivering, snuffling and mange-ing my dinner, while buskers played celtic music a few yards away.

Despite the sore shoulders, the reminders of an uncomfortable bike seat, and the headache threatening to grow increasingly violent, I felt immersed in the holiday spirit, and was so grateful to be right where I was.

Bidding Strasbourg a final farewell, I climbed aboard my second night train (first class this time !) and crawled into my bed.

I slept the whole way home.

Skipping Christmas

This year, was different than most.

The Holidays, the merriment, the food, the time spent with family, and the part of this whole grand adventure that I was looking forward to the least. I wanted to fall asleep the fifteenth of November and wake up around the fourth of January. Just skip everything, but of course, this childish dream was impossible, and I was just going to have to buckle down and bear it.

And just like that, Thanksgiving arrived, except it wasn’t Thanksgiving, because I was in school and not driving down I-Five to my sister’s house. I was conjugating verbs and shuffling through soggy, frostbitten leaves rather than noshing on cheese and crackers and watching the game (which, who am I kidding, I never really watch.) I realized that maybe the holiday season would be bearable, because no one in France was celebrating Thanksgiving, and there’s just this strange void between Halloween and Christmas. Still, the school decided to subject us to a “Thanksgiving” dinner of tradition Provencal fish stew, and boeuf Bourgogne. Okay, this was making it worse, because in all honesty all I wanted was a plate of cardboard flavored turkey and mashed potatoes. After the disappointing meal, a few of the students decided to take matters into their own hands, (or all of our own I suppose) and host a potluck style Thanksgiving. It was inevitable, I decided, on the walk to the apartment, Christmas lights twinkling above the Cours, those warm and fuzzy holiday feelings were creeping in, and despite my best Grinch attempt at shunning the cheer, I knew that I wanted to be a part of the celebrations.

So I attended the makeshift Thanksgiving, pumpkin mousse in hand, and had a wonderful time. We laughed, and toasted, crowded the kitchen and acted like the one thing everyone was missing, family. There was even the chance to share our meal and traditions with a few Brits and Frenchies who tagged along. And as we went around and shared what we were all the most thankful for in that moment, the general response was, “All of you, and this opportunity to be living in France, and to still feel at home.”

(I had just been attacked with whipped cream...)

So that was the beginning, and I decided to make the most of my lonely holiday season, which, wasn’t really all that lonely at all.

As the Christmas market opened on the Cours, and the lights sparkled in the trees and lined the streets, the usual warmth of excitement and charity was rampant. I forgot my original stance, and looked forward to purchasing Christmas gifts, to visiting the market for a vin chaud and strolling past cliché, frosted store windows on my walk to class. When the first Christmas cards arrived, I proudly displayed them beside my miniature foam Christmas tree, a few gifts carefully arranged amongst the lime green boughs. Frank Sinatra and slack-key Hawaiian carols played, and I sipped homemade eggnog, watching the sunny skies for snow.

I had the chance to return home, one bitter day when I accidently purchased train tickets in the wrong month and called mom is hysterics about blowing almost 80€, and then paying an exchange fee, twice. I almost bought airplane tickets home, back to comfort and routine, and family. Some days, every so often, I wished that I had, but in the end, I know I would have regretted it the entire flight back to the west coast, and then I would have been a miserable houseguest. Instead I stuck it out, I surrounded myself with friends who have become family, and we made sure none of us would regret staying in France.

Christmas Eve my friends hosted a dinner at their home, with a beautiful spread that Krystal had spent all day preparing. Gorgonzola stuffed figs wrapped in prosciutto, a boeuf Bourgogne that melted on your tongue, finished with apple torte drizzled with market bought honey. It was beautiful, and as we sat around their Christmas tree (a real six foot tall sapin!) I was so glad I wasn’t sitting at home in my apartment, watching ‘Toddlers and Tiaras’ reruns and reheating something for dinner. We played a few card games, exchanged gifts and hurried to midnight mass, only to discover it had started an hour earlier, so we huddled in the street and sat under a tree laced with light up icicles. A few final notes of a French carol drifted from the Cathedrale, and we sat in silence, likely missing our families, thinking of our warm beds, thinking of the eminent morning, full of skype calls and conversations about lives on different sides of the world. After a tangle of hugs, and “Merry Christmas”-es, I hurried home and checked ‘NORAD Tracks Santa’ while chatting with my nephews. Papa Noel was over Paris, and I crawled into bed.

The next morning I was reminded of Thanksgiving, because like Thanksgiving, it didn’t feel like Christmas. To make the wait more bearable, I was dragged myself from bed and went to Mass, just to have something to do, and met an American family, visiting retired grandparents for the Holidays. The first pang of a Christmas without family, five-thousand miles away punched me in the gut. I checked my watch and bemoaned the eight hours until it would appropriate to call. I ambled home and pulled out a suitcase to begin packing for the next day and my trip to Strasbourg, the one thing I had been looking forward to for the past month.

Finally it arrived, an hour when I wouldn’t be awakening the entire block! I sat with anticipation knotting my stomach, the tears already blurring the computer screen as I was passed around and everyone said “Hello!” In all honesty, it wasn’t so bad, we still shared our gifts and laughs, still recalled the year that everyone was sick, and looked forward to next year. The only difference was, when we hung up, and I looked around my apartment, dishes in the sink, wrapping paper bundled on my table and the heater ticking in the corner, just like that, the magic of Christmas was gone. It didn’t linger this year as it does, well past bedtime, when you try and hold on to those feelings, to guard them and cherish the nostalgia. So quickly, it was December twenty-sixth, and I was on my way to the Northern end of France, for a whole new adventure.

xoxo-Jen

Weekend Adventures

So since I have fallen horrifically behind in my updates on weekend trips and gallivants around the south of France (unintentional rhyming for the win!) I thought I would update everyone with one big post to save time and lessen my guilt!

So, if we roll way back to a weekend in September, I think I should start with a blurb about a day spent in St. Tropez. The isle of celebrities and suntans...

Or maybe the land of forty-five minute treks up rocky mountains infested with snakes. Yeah somehow I doubt Madonna has to put with this crap when she vacations on the mediterranean, however, lack of yacht or helicopter resulted in sunburned shoulders and sandy shoes.

At least there's going to be a tiki bar right? A beachside cabana?

Ok, not exactly what I had in mind. Tide pools are cool I guess, and the water is gorgeous as always, I'll give it that. But really, not even an ice cream stand?

Oh what a cruel world this is.

The beach actually wasn't that bad, but we were all pretty anxious to get into St. Tropez and see what it's all about. See why it's a top vacation destination, and of course play paparazzi if possible. So we traversed the mountain back to the parked bus and headed into town.

I think they were mistaken in telling us that we were going to St. Tropez. Obviously, we could not get into St. Tropez so they let us off on the other side of the bay where spray tans and Kardashian wannabes are aplenty. This was seriously like a knock-off of Rodeo Drive. The highlights were the seaside buildings, and yachts parked along the docks. I did have to wonder, where was the real St. Tropez, and why were so many people wearing Ed Hardy gear? Is this where Jon Gosselin hangs out?

Better to drown my sorrows in a double scoop of raisin rhum gelato and wait for the bus to get back.

Summary: Unless you have the Willy Wonka golden ticket, and the secret code, and the membership card, you aren't going to see St. Tropez. They do have good ice cream and beaches, but it's a hell of a walk to get there.

Moving on:

One of the first weekends in November, we were once again herded onto a bus way too early in the morning and shuttled off for Avignon, which luckily wasn't too far away.

Avignon is another walled in ancient city, which although I still love, are beginning to feel repetitive. Also it has a famous bridge, this is it:

No it doesn't reach across the entirety of the river... And it costs four euro to walk to the end. So I took my picture from a distance and moved on into the city.

Holy workout Batman! That was a lot of stairs, which went on for a very long time and wound up several spiral towers. Which is sort of cool for the first one.. one and a half.

However, once at the top, the view was worth it!

From there it was onto the Palais des Papes, one of the most historically significant buildings from the Gothic era in all of Europe.

It was here that the Popes lived from 1309 until the French Revolution when it was ransacked and became the sight of a brutal massacre.

Since 1906 it has been a museum and in 1996 became a World Heritage Site! The massive towers and multiple chapels were pretty darn impressive, considering that during its construction period it cost almost the entirety of the papal income.

This courtyard was my favorite part of the palace, I think it was the vibrant green of the grass and the incredibly blue sky above the ramparts. No photoshop necessary on these pictures!

The entrance to the Palace, the Cour d'Honneur.

The imposing towers and walls were to ward off attacks, but I can't imagine it was too cheery of a place to live.

One of the Grand Halls where they held meetings and worship.

After the Palace we moved into the city to shop and find somewhere to eat lunch. After a goat cheese, basil and tomato panini (and my millionth Orangina) we thought it best to kill the rest of our time by just walking around.

Something you are guaranteed to find in every French town, city, village and otherwise:

Carousels! They absolutely love carousels. Aix has two, and every town I've visited has at least one very ornate, very colorful carousel.

After Avignon it was back on the bus, to climb a twisting, increasingly narrow road to Les Baux de Provence!

A darling little village perched on the tip top of a mountain. The bus dropped us off several hundred yards below the entrance to the village because it is accessible only on foot. The narrow streets would be impossible to navigate by car, even a smart car would find it slightly cramped!

Our time here was mostly spent wandering the streets, ducking into the odd boutique and laughing over a self cleaning public restroom. For the life of us we couldn't figure out why it was so wet and then, "Milan! You need to get out of there!!"

Les Baux was a gorgeous stop, and one of my favorite so far!

Now to finish catching up (this is such a horribly lame post!) we'll fast forward to December 3rd and the last mini-trip I've taken with the CSU group!

Again, the bus, the drive, the snoring of my fellow students who aren't used to crawling out of bed before noon... What a way to start a Saturday!

This trip consisted of two stops, first Les Antibes, a fortified port located between Cannes and Nice (for those of you who know the French Rivera!)

It was a beautiful port, with a very interesting Picasso museum! I'm still not entirely sure that I "get" Picasso. Sometimes his work is really beautiful, and then sometimes...

Nevertheless, I rarely pass up the chance to see something that's a once in a lifetime shot, plus the chateau it was housed in, was absolutely beautiful! Photography in the museum wasn't allowed, but there were some interesting sculptures on the back terrace.

We didn't linger too long at the museum, and Milan and I headed for the centre ville and explored the local market and then stumbled upon an absinthe bar! Unfortunately (or fortunately!) they weren't allowed to serve the notorious apero until after three, but they let us wander the downstairs bar and snap some photos!

Definitely an interesting find!

From Les Antibes, after a quick falafel lunch, it was back on the bus, to drive down and circle through Nice, (which reminded me of driving down Ali'i on the Big Island!) then head over the hill to Grasse, a town nestled 8km North East of Nice and renowned for its perfume factories! Grasse has the widest assortment of wild flowers and fruits in all of France, and thus was the premiere epicenter of the perfume industry! Our tour took us to Fragonard Parfumerie open since 1926.

The tour of the factory was a fairly straight forward, touristy type offering, but it was interesting to see how hardly any of their process has changed since the factory opened, and of course to smell all of the perfumes! Following the tour they let us loose in the factory store. Ummm, what budget?

Alright, I didn't go too crazy, but I picked up a decently priced lotion, of my favorite scent and a few Christmas goodies :)

Although visiting the parfumerie was a fairly obvious tourist trap, French perfume is world renowned and definitely something the très chic French culture take a lot of pride in (what aren't they proud of though?) and was worth the quick stop!

So that sums up the weekend trips that I have taken since coming to France (and failed to update everyone on.) All of these were short day trips, and easily done with Aix as a home base! Which I appreciated, overnights aren't always my favorite!

Hope everyone is enjoying the New Year and starting it off right! Miss everyone lots and sending loads of love and thoughts your way!

Gros Bisous!

-Jenn