up north

Fall break is already upon us.

Last year I flew to Spain to visit friends who were doing their semester abroad and spent my week training between Madrid and Salamanca. This year, I am staying in France, but have travelled as far north as I can get. I’m sick of palm trees and balmy weather in October — give me rainy, gloomy skies and thick scarves.

Kiely and I took the train from Aix to Brest, a main city on the westernmost coast of the region of Bretagne, or Brittany. The 13-year-old boy in me can’t help but giggle every time I say/hear/see the name, and it turns out that this is the only amusement Brest has to offer. There is absolutely nothing there. I’m not too clear on the facts, but apparently the entire city was razed during World War II, and it was rebuilt with ugly concrete. It is also strangely deserted (maybe as a direct result of its lack of aesthetic appeal). Kiely and I went wandering around last night and probably saw a total of 10 people on the streets. Coming from Aix, this was weird. We’ve gotten too used to the hoppin’ nightlife.

Aside from our two nights in Brest at the beginning and end of our séjour en Bretagne, we didn’t have to spend much time there. Instead we rented a car, an adorable little red Fiat Panda, and hit the road. We went south along the peninsula-ed coast, staying a night each in Crozon, Bénodet, and Carnac. We got lost a few times, did our fair share of retracing our steps, and had an interesting few hours where we couldn’t figure out how to put the car in reverse, but driving through this countryside was amazing. I was the captain of the Panda, taking charge of the driving since Kiely didn’t know how to drive a stick shift (but greatly improved thanks to our grocery store parking lot lessons), and Kiely was chief navigator/DJ, choosing the music from the iTunes open on my computer while simultaneously trying to find the right roads on a map that showed more drawings of little Breton boys on sheep than actual street names. We were so badly prepared and had to figure everything out at the last second — like where to spend the night in Brest when we got into the train station at one in the morning — but it was all a part of the adventure. And it was ridiculously fun.

Kiely had found us an adorable hotel right on the port of a tiny hamlet called Le Fret — Ar Fred, in the Breton dialect. A ten-minute drive from Crozon, we spent the evening in an old stone pub where they were showing a soccer match: Brest (hehe) versus some lame team that lost to Brest. All the locals were getting really into the game, pounding the tables and cheering when goals were scored. We savored our beer (Kiely) and cider (me) with little regard for the fact that we stood out as the étrangers, and hooliganed it up with the rest of them.

With a long stop in Argol the next day — where we went for a country promenade, attended the cider festival, saw a lot of French lady buttcrack (the woman kept crouching down as she was making the cide and her jeans did not fit her in the way one would have hoped), and ate delicious baked apples — we made our way to Bénodet, which the woman at Arrrrrrr Fred had told us was super fancy. It was one of those seaside resort towns that seems more like an amusement park than real life. It was hard to imagine anyone actually living there. We got in kind of late and, after attempting to drive up several one-way streets, managed to find our hotel, which was considerably less charming than what Ar Fred had to offer. We passed out for a couple hours and around ten at night went out for a walk, desperate to get out of our claustrophobic room that smelled faintly of the smoke of a thousand French cigarettes. We ended up at a restaurant/lounge that wanted so desperately to be hip and had a late dinner. This was Sunday, I should add, which in France means that absolutely nothing is open, including supermarkets. We had barely eaten all day. So naturally we gorged ourselves on pesto penne and profiteroles.

Up for the market the next day and had breakfast on the beach, then got back into the Panda and hit the road for Carnac, our southernmost stop. There are hundreds of ancient menhirs — Stonehenge-type rocks placed inexplicably in straight lines — in and around the town, so we wandered through them before making our way to our hotel, which had been inexplicably changed from more modest accommodations to a room in what was more like a mixture of a castle and a spa. It was awesome. We spent the night in, feasting on our bounty we’d bought from the OPEN supermarché earlier that afternoon. We shared two bottles of cider and a bottle of white wine, which provided an interesting intelligence test of sorts to open since we didn’t have a corkscrew. We ended up digging out half the cork with a nail file and shoving the rest into the bottle with the handle-end of a toothbrush, splattering wine all over Kiely, the bed, and the wall. We got the wine, but I’m pretty sure the intelligence test was an epic fail. Oh well!

The next morning we went down to the beaches and combed the sand for cool rocks and shells. Kiely accidentally slaughtered a few crustaceans by bringing them back with us on the 3-hour return drive to Brest, but they are now happily in a flowerpot somewhere in the city. We saw the Social Network at the cinema last night, ate dinner at an omelette/crêpe/salad place, and went back to our tacky but cheap hotel room to sleep away our final hours en Bretagne.

Now we’re on the train to Paris. Three hours into the ride, only one more to go. We’ve got a hostel reserved in Montmartre, the neighborhood where you’ll find the Moulin Rouge and tons of sex shops, and are meeting up with the one and only Dan Schneider-Weiler for three days and nights of Parisian shenanigans. I’m hoping the opportunity to shotgun a beer under the Eiffel Tower quickly presents itself. There’s nothing I love more than sharing my culture. 

drunk angel in disguise

Having been driven out of the park I've been running in for the past month and a half — a homeless man has taken to following/yelling at me and I'd rather avoid that — I have spent my past two runs exploring other possible routes.

Well, let's go back a little. I drop the whole harassment thing into this post like it's no big deal. I guess for me, someone who has gone on many a run in France, it's really nothing out of the ordinary. French people are not big fans of working out, and especially not girlies who work out (perfect French girl = no muscles and weak/slightly nauseated from too much nicotine). It doesn't even have to be working out like going to a gym in a full spandex outfit. Basically any physical activity outside of the realm of ambling is considered to be de la folie. I've made the 45-minute walk from Aix to my friend's house out in the countryside twice now — it's the countryside. It's gorgeous. Why wouldn't I walk? — and each time her host family was shocked into a near speechless state at the very idea that I would choose to come on foot.

So a girl RUNNING is almost unheard of. In all the time I've spent in France over these past years, I have seen less that 20 women running, I'd say. And the number of men isn't much larger. Someone running is so rare that they automatically stand out and are apparently deemed fair game for any sort of derogatory remark a Frenchy might deem to throw their way. Since I am a girly and have girly parts like legs — forsooth and lackaday! — that show when I wear running shorts, I am equally putting myself at the mercy of those pathetic perverts who think it's just a fab idea to yell things at me. I have also been kicked — I kid you not — and stared at, had mothers pull their children away from me as if I might infect them, chased by prepubescents, and generally not treated very kindly.

So the homeless guy popping out from behind a tree and screaming at me was just any other day, really.

But consequently I had to find other routes, and after two days I have come to the conclusion that Crazy Homeless Chap was really a drunk angel in disguise. Apparently I have spent the past six weeks running on the ugliest possible of routes available to me. I live in an apartment not too far from the centre ville of Aix, but close enough to the countryside that I can reach it on foot. I found myself out in the country, on small winding roads passing gorgeous old houses that could legitimately be called villas. There were cypress trees standing tall against the setting sun, which drenched the entire scene in a pinkish-orange glow. It was so beautiful that I had to shake my head a little to realize that I was actually inside that moment, and not watching a movie set in Provence.

I am still thrown for a loop every time I get yelled at when I'm running. I stomp around furiously, going on and on about how France sucks and every single French person can go choke on a block of Rocquefort cheese and die. Extreme, I know. But then I'll find myself in front of a country house with blue shutters sitting peacefully on a hill, passing by a smiling old couple walking their dogs in the evening light, and I remember why I came to Aix in the first place.

independent womanz

I love France. I've been a Francophile since the age of 8, when I found a French textbook buried in the piles of dusty old school supplies in the back of Mrs. Bonar's third grade classroom. I took it home and spent the rest of the year copying down phrases like, "Je m'appelle Dominique" (my chosen French name) et "Tu t'appelles comment?" 14 years later, here I am. And I love the country and the culture a thousand times more, but I also have the capacity to get soooo annoyed with it all.

My host mother told me a French joke about god looking at the earth after it was created, and he noticed that France was the most beautiful of all the countries in the world — mountains, lakes, beaches, oceans, plains, forests — every part of the landscape was diverse and breathtaking. And so, to make it even for the rest of the world, he created the French.

I laughed a little too hard.

In sort of a touchy mood...the wannabe-French director of the AUCP program shat all over me today, telling me that any issues I had with my host family were my own fault for having, "une certaine rigidité où il devrait être du douceur," or a certain rigidity where there should be sweetness. I'm sick of getting shit for being a strong and independent woman.

That sounds like such a cliché/a line from a Beyoncé song, but it's true. Independence and willpower, especially in women, is not valued in French culture. I'd go so far as to say that it's very much looked down upon. When my friend Kiely and I swear like sailors in front of some of our French guy friends, they shush us and say, "No, girls can't say that!"

To this I say, va te faire enculer!

I am all about traveling and discovering different cultures. But if it means that I have to change important aspects of myself in order to fit in — I work out, I don't smoke clope sur clope, I'm not a manipulative bitch, I wear shorts, I don't talk over people — then I'd prefer to retain that certain rigidity in lieu of gaining sweetness any day.

I promise a lighthearted post next time! Something about hot chocolate, methinks...

wanted: café americano

I have a few people in mind who I know will cringe upon reading this — my barista boyfriend, for one — but it must be said: I prefer American coffee to anything in Europe.

Yep. I went there.

I don't mind espresso shots, and I do enjoy cappuccinos and macchiatos, but nothing does it for me the way a steaming hot latte in a ceramic mug does. That is closely followed by chai lattes, mochas, and then drip coffee. All with skim milk. None of this can be found in France, or at least not in your typical, postcard-esque French cafés, where tables are placed inches apart on the sidewalk and crowds of chiseled-cheekboned, scarf-wearing chain smokers congregate to people watch and sip a tiny espresso. I'm not saying that this isn't without its own charm — the outdoor café is an undeniably European experience that cannot be skipped. But nothing can fill the hole in my heart that is left by the absence of American coffeehouses. You can order a hot drink, spread all your homework and books out on a table, and settle in for hours of studying and reading. If I tried to do homework at a French café, I think people would stare at me almost as much as they do when I wear running shorts — but that's another story altogether. My point is that I feel lost and oh-so alone, ALONE without the possibility of an enormous coffee at my slightest whim.

Today, that all changed. Ish. Slowly getting to know the nooks and crannies of Aix, I and my fellow AUCP students have been putting together a cheat sheet of American type coffeehouses, one of which I peeked at today. It's called the Book in Bar, and is an English-language bookstore with a small café that sells cookies, scones, coffees, and hot chocolate. Small wooden tables and overstuffed chairs are scattered throughout the two-floor shop, which is lined with full-to-bursting bookshelves that reach up to the ceiling. I can see myself spending hours there. They might not have lattes, but at least there are scones. There is apparently another place that sells pretty hefty-sized coffees, and another bakery called Le Cupcake which sells coffee to go — a rarity in France, where people are all about "savoring the moment" and shit like that. Pff. Whatever.

Having already mapped out four candy stores where you can buy bonbons en vrac — choosing each individual piece of candy you want from a bin and paying according to the weight — I am dedicating myself to finding the best American-style coffeehouses in Aix. And I'll make sure to sit at a French café or four along the way.

aixtoberfest

While some of the students of AUCP made their way off to Munich at the end of September, I finished off my first month in Aix with a pression pêche — beer with peach syrup. Girly and oh-so-delicious — at Pub O'Sullivan's with a group of pals who were also staying in the country. No traveling for me, unfortunately, at least not until les vacances de Toussaint, a week of fall break at the end of October. Me and my pal Kiely will be heading off to Bretagne, followed by a romp in Paris with my friend Dan, and we will finish off the ten days or of blissful freedom with a few days in either Copenhagen or somewhere in Italy. Or Berlin. Scotland is also a possibility...

This is one of the best things about living in Europe. Everything is so ridiculously close, at least compared to an American scale. France alone is the size of Texas, shares borders with Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain, and is a mere underwater train ride away from England. If I wanted to leave the United States from Ohio, I could make it pretty easily to Canada, but Mexico would be something of a trek. Starting from Aix, I could hop in a car and be in Barcelona in three hours. This blows my mind.

Unfortunately I don't have an international driver's license and/or a vehicle to call my own, so I have to find my way around by the means of other forms of transportation. Like every other student who has studied abroad before me, I am slowly and steadily coming to see the beauty that is Ryan Air. I bought tickets from Marseille to London for the first weekend in December for about 50 Euros, and two round-trip tickets for me and my boyfriend to go to Venice for only a little over 100. The times of the flights are not what you would call convenient and you can only have one carry-on bag free of charge, but really, who really gives a shit when you find yourself on a gondola a few hours later?

I have those two trips planned, and am in the midst of figuring out the rest of my travel for this semester. The program I am with doesn't really want us to travel much, unfortunately. They're all about staying in Aix, which is okay for this first half for me, but I would get insatiably restless if I had to stay much longer after that. My friends and I are trying to pack in trips for every weekend we can after the October break — aside from the trip we're taking to London, Barcelona and Milan are also in the works. We have cooking classes with a Provençal chef here on certain Friday evenings, which means that when we have those we won't really be able to travel very far away that weekend. Oh well.

In the meantime, I'm just hanging out in the south of France and getting to know Aix pretty well. Pas grande chose. Went to Abby's house out in the country today for a bike ride. It was gorgeous, with striking views of le Mont St. Victoire — the mountain that Cézanne painted incessantly AND that I triumphantly climbed this past Sunday! — in the distance. Harumph. So typical.