Our home and native land

[Publishing this via email (damn you great firewall of China), so please excuse any weird formatting or messed up hyperlinks.]

The New York Times published a wonderful opinion comlumn on June 30 in honor of Canada day, which falls on the first of July. Several high-profile expat Canadians living in the United States write about what they miss about that beautiful country in the north. Here's the link:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/01/opinion/01canadaday.html?pagewanted=1&em

I'm no Malcolm Gladwell or A. C. Newman, but here is my own:

Every year when the calendar read October and summer breezes turned refreshingly nippy, my parents would plop me in our used white Mazada and set off across the Ottawa River towards Gatineau Park in Quebec. Gatineau, crowded with elegant maple forests and miles (or should I say kilometers?) of earthy hills, was the best place to watch the leaves change colors (or should I say colours?) in the autumn. After hiking for hours, stepping over clear creeks and freezing in front of startled deer, we would finally arrive at the peak of a mountain and stay there for hours, looking out over endless rows of red, orange, and gold.

I've always associated a loss of innocence with my move to the United States. I suppose it's not Texas's fault that I landed there just shy of twleve years old, unleashing unwarranted teenage angst and crushes on scrawny high school boys. Still, when I think of Canada, one scene always plays in my mind: against a blue sky so bright it hurts your eyes, my mother is bending over to collect fallen crimson leaves. Her hair is still long. She glances up for a second, just long enough to grin into my dad's waiting camera lens, before she gets back to adding colors to the generous bunch clutched in her hand. I watch from a nearby picnic bench, giggling and swinging my legs in the air as Canadian geese soar by overhead.

Forecast: Thunderstorms with a chance of what the hell?!

It is thunderstorming in Beijing. And when I say thunderstorming, I mean it. I have never seen a storm like this in my life. The sky is jet black. It looks like it's midnight, even though it's barely noon. The lightning looks like it's hitting right between this office builidng and the one next door, and the thunder is rumbling barely half a second after the flashes of light. I glanced outside the window of my office builidng and stopped in my tracks because for a second I thought I was dreaming, or that I had once again messed up my alarm clock and accidentally showed up to work at 4 in the morning. Except then I heard fax machines droning and looked around at everyone else in suits walking around, and realized that it was just freak weather...

Scary.

Adventures in Brittany

Because my sojourn in France was extended a week thanks to my friends at the Chinese consulate, I decided to take a trip to Brittany to see the northern coast of France. After painstaking research (read: glancing at Wikipedia pages and blindly trusting passing comments of friends), I decided to spend two nights in Saint-Malo and take a day trip to Mont Saint-Michel. The main things to see at Saint-Malo are the intra-muros, the walled-in historical old town, and the numerous defense forts on surrounding islands. Mont Saint-Michel is a city constructed on a small tidal island, whose main attraction is the monastic abbey crowning the mount.

Pros:

- Mont St-Michel is possibly the coolest place I have ever been. I was seriously awestruck.

- Gorgeous views of the coast from the walls of Saint-Malo.

- Walking along the beach at sunset.

- Amazing seafood. Brittany oysters are delicious.

- Met an awesome Korean girl studying in Paris in my hostel. Both traveling alone, we decided to spend my last day exploring the city together. Long conversations about religion, racism, food. We spoke French the whole time, our only common language. We woke each other up in the middle of the night because we both talk in our sleep; me in English, her in Korean.

- Solitude.

Cons:

- The SHITTY SHITTY WEATHER. It rained almost the entire time and was freezing cold. And when I say rain, I mean pouring, pants drenched, shoes squeaking.

- Saint-Malo was cool, but it's very small and two nights ended up being a little long. Then again, I could easily have spent three days lying on the beach if it weren't raining the whole time...

- Solitude.

Also because I am lazy, here is an excerpt from my journal dated 6/9/09:

It's almost 8:30 and I'm waiting for the sun to set, armed with Kundera and my favorite Cal sweatshirt and my Nikon. The skies aren't quite clear - Mont Saint-Michel was beautiful today, but Saint-Malo continues to be grey and overcast. Still, in the distance, sunlight is pouring into the ocean through an oculous in the clouds. The diagonals of light are so beautiful that I think they must be the product of some sorcery. The beaches have cleared; just an hour ago the stone pathway above the sand was filled with joggers, families, skipping dogs. It must be dinnertime.

Mont Saint-Michel was stunning. I'd seen plenty of photos and postcards, but on the bus approaching the island, I gasped when I caught sight of it. The abbey spires tower over rows and rows of stone walls, like an Atlantis before its sinking. What a mystery that something like this exists in nature, and what a miracle that man constructed a city on top of it.

I was worried I wouldn't have enough time to properly explore it, having only four hours between buses. It turned out to be plenty of time - the island is small and the uphill paths are well-guided - but I still wish I had been able to stay long enough to see the city lit up at night.

Much of Mont Saint-Michel was extremely touristy. The main avenue was lined with souvenir shops, almost all of them toting signs in Japanese (not for naught - throngs of Asian tourists with cameras around their necks crowded the streets). Still, I was able to find a few peaceful moments away from the crowds, some with astonishing views.

(The beach is quite deserted now, the tide almost swallowing the cliff of rocks I was sitting on just an hour before. I keep putting away and taking out my camera because the scene before me is changing every minute to something more beautiful than the one before).

The view from the top of the abbey at MSM was so breathtaking partly because there were so many different landscapes to look at - the muddy bay with streams of sea water fingering their way through the dense, grey sand, the green pastures littered with rows of leafy trees, low white clouds hanging in a straight line just barely above, and then the ocean, wide and expansive, Normandy cliffs barely visible in the distance.

The abbey itself was formidable. I'm not generally a fan of Romanesque architecture, it all feels so heavy and oppressive, but I couldn't help being impressed by the massive stone columns in the crypts holding up wide, vaulted ceilings. The cloisters were beautiful too, turning their way around a garden planted with roses.

(The clouds are receding towards the ocean now, and patches of clear blue sky are finally visible under the clouds. This sunset will be beautiful).

Perhaps the most interesting part of the day was walking through the bay. Despite the warning signs about quicksand and death, groups of children running around it reassured me that there wouldn't be a problem. For the most part my trek was fine save for a few spots of mud splattering on my feet. Towards the end, though, I hit a patch of wet sand and there was no way around but through. So I stepped in...ankle deep. And then another step. And another. My feet and shoes were covered in mud by the time I made my way out, and I had no water to rinse them off with. Let's just say...awkward bus ride home with a lot of weird stares.

Still, there were magical moments on the bay. The sun kept playing hide and seek behind the clouds, and at one point was making its reappearance after a particularly long absence. Across the flatness of the bay and the fields beyond it, shadows of the fleeing clouds scampered swiftly away, chased by the wind. I felt like I was watching an episode of Planet Earth on high speed. The flatness of the land meant that I could trace the shadows of the clouds that were once above my head all the way to the horizon.

I think I almost prefer this semi-dreary, quasi-tumultuous, often-grey type of beach town in Brittany to the sunny Californian variety, all filled with palm trees and girls in skittle-colored bikinis. Other than the rainstorms, which I could do without, I love everything about it - the sad cries of seagulls overhead, the scent of seaweed and crustaceans in the air, the waves crashing without pause onto an empty beach, the steadfast fortresses and silent stone walls coldly standing guard against the ocean.

(The sky is almost completely blue now. By the time the sun dips below the horizon there will be nothing between us).

Farewell Bordeaux; Bitch-slapped by Paris

This is the weirdest place I have ever blogged.

I am on rue Washington in Paris, off of the Champs-Elysées, minutes from the Arc de Triomphe, in a line outside the Chinese consulate. It’s 8:40 in the morning and I’ve already been here an hour, and I’ve got another 50 minutes to go before the consulate opens at 9:30. I came here obscenely early because yesterday, the consulate ran out of numbers to issue at 9:50…a mere 20 minutes after they opened their doors. Thus I am braving sore feet and a chilly Parisian morning in a miniskirt, which is my genius wardrobe choice for the day and the only thing keeping me from plopping my exhausted self on the dirty ground. My laptop is propped up on a windowsill. People are staring.

My last day in Bordeaux was wonderful and heartbreaking. Alexa and I climbed 281 spiraled steps up la tour Pey Berland for the first time, a tower next to the central cathedral which offers amazing views of the city’s red tiled-roofs sprawling homogeneously beneath. We walked through the Miroir d’Eau in front of Place de la Bourse, dipping our feet in the water with children in swimsuits. My host mom made pommes de terre farsi for my last meal, potatoes topped with minced meat, one of my favorite dishes. As a parting gift, I gave her a potted plant of gerber daisies, four red blooms, and she told me that they were like her four daughters – her three real daughters, and me. She cried. I cried. “This house is yours, any time.” I had planned to say goodbye to some friends and get back at midnight to finish packing, but my host sister decided to throw a last minute goodbye party at the house. Her Facebook status announced that I was leaving at 5 in the morning and wouldn’t need to sleep that night. This was news to me…but I didn’t mind. Corona and Frenchies beat packing any day. After emotional goodbyes to Alexa and others in the wee hours of the morning, I headed to the train station. It was a strange feeling – even though my room was empty and white, as if I had never lived there at all, I still felt like I was going on vacation and would be back in a week. But watching the sun rise over the hilly countryside en route to Paris, I knew it was the last time I would be making that trip.

And then everything started to go wrong.

First of all, my train to Paris was overbooked. I had counted on one of the extra seats next to the doors, but by the time I made my way over they had already been filled. After awkwardly trying to sit on my uneven suitcase, my unsupported ass had had enough, and I tried to sit on the floor underneath a suitcase rack. Because God hates me, the rack was just short enough so that my head wouldn’t fit underneath. At this point I was exhausted, cranky, and depressed, so I decided to throw away what little dignity I had and lie down. On the floor. Of the TGV. Right next to the toilets (read: lots of people staring at me while waiting in line to take a piss). The best part was that there was another guy who decided to sleep on top of the rack right above me. The strap of his bag kept dropping through the cracks and whipping me in the face.

When we finally stop in Paris, the strap of my suitcase breaks in half the second it touches the platform.

[Tangent: someone is listening to “Everybody is Kung Fu Fighting” on their cell phone outside of the Chinese consulate…what the fuck.]

Next, the sole ATM in the train station was out of order, so I lug my 100 pounds of luggage into a mall to get money. Then I walk over a mile to find a taxi, only to happen upon the bitchiest driver of all time, who didn’t know any streets and whose only form of expression was yelling at me. I finally rush to the consulate to get my Chinese visa only to learn that they are no longer issuing expedited visas, which I had been counting on in order to make my flight to Beijing on Friday. I have no choice but to change my flight, which cost me a fortune.

I can safely say that that was the worst morning I have ever had in my life. So this is where things stand now: I am staying in Paris an extra week, up until next Friday, which I suppose is a blessing in disguise of a curse in disguise of a blessing. Let me explain. While I am grateful for this extra time in France, and especially in Paris, which is undeniably one of the most beautiful places I have been, I feel like I’m stuck in some sort of strange limbo. Maybe it’s my lack of spontaneity talking, but I would like to either be in Bordeaux, with my friends, or Beijing, with my family. I think I would be thrilled to be here alone under any other circumstances, but it gets a little difficult when you can’t stop looking back nostalgically on the last five months.

That being said, there has been no shortage of breathtaking moments in Paris. I’ll write about them next. Enough of the emo.

"I pre-apologize for the emo"

I can't explain this feeling. I don't know if I can put it into words. It feels absurd, ridiculous, laughable, incomprehensible that everything that was your life for five months is over. It's not the same as leaving high school for college, knowing that you'll see your parents and your friends in just a few months. It's not the same as simply leaving a geographical location, even one that you love and that you think you might never see again. What I left behind in Bordeaux can only ever exist in Bordeaux, France from January 5th 2009 to June 2nd 2009, with the Barry family and all their friends, with my soulmates of EAP Bordeaux Spring 2009. What I left behind was five months of my life. It's something that is definitively over, that no amount of reunions or visits can ever recapture. This all suddenly hit me in a wave when I was looking through one of my French friend's photo albums last night, laughing at their ridiculous pictures, imagining reflexively how I would tell Alexa about them the next time I saw her, picturing us making fun of the guys for them at the next French party. Except then I realized that the next time I saw Alexa would be in the fall, in California, and the next time we would both be at a French party might be in years, if ever.

I can't do justice to how I feel with letters and grammar, so I'm going to stop writing now.

Email posting

I'm testing out this Blogger feature called "email posting." You create an email address linked to your blog, and all you have to do is send an email to it and it posts directly. The reason I'm trying out this feature is because unless things have changed in the last year, I believe Blogger is still entirely blocked in China, and this is the only way I'll be able to update. And I know that even after leaving Bordeaux, I won't be ready to leave this blog. Maybe it's just me trying to hold on to any connection I have to this city, but either way I still have tons of stories to tell and things to say about France, and considering that I will be living with my parents for two months with no friends in Beijing I think blogging would be a nice (read: necessary) outlet.

So, dear readers, I leave Tuesday morning on a 5 AM train to Paris, but this is not goodbye.

Photo Survey, Bordeaux Edition

Tiff sent me this amazing meme because she knew I couldn't resist doing it. Considering that this blog is "study abroad" themed, I'm going to try to confine all the photos to ones taken in Bordeaux. I added captions and explanations, which perhaps defeats the purpose, but nostalgia is making me verbose. Here goes:

1. a photo of you in your room

One of the only photos of me in my room in Bordeaux, taken the week after I broke my ankle when I was confined to my bed. The reason this photo exists is because I have friends who were amazing enough to come see me every day.

2. a photo of you with someone you don't actually like

This guy works in the cafe in San Sebastian where we stopped in to get churros con chocolate. In the middle of a photo whoring session, he motioned with his hand towards our camera. Turns out he didn't want to help take a picture of the group...he wanted to take a picture with me and Tiffany. While this photo is going on the entire cafe is staring and laughing. It was a little awkward.

3. a photo of you very drunk

We threw an "American" themed party at Laura's apartment, complete with beer pong, flip cup, and...Americans. This is us attempting (and failing) to shut everyone up so we can explain the rules of flip cup. Watching French people play beer pong for the first time and love it was probably one of the greatest feelings ever.

4. a picture of you on your birthday

Not my birthday, but Alexa's 21st at the Cock and Bull. Mickey, the manager and bartender, threw her a party complete with champagne, a chocolate cake, and drinks on the house all night for the entire group. 

5. the youngest photo you can find of yourself in digital form

The first picture tagged of me in Bordeaux, from the first weekend. This is at Boris and Piga's apartment, two close friends of my host sister. It was the first French party we ever went to, an epic one at that, where we met a ton of her friends. If it weren't for this party I might not have any French friends today. Still, the fact that this picture is of a cluster of Americans should tell you a bit about our comfort level with interacting with French people upon arrival.

6. a photo of you in one of your favorite outfits

Biarritz, Basque country. It was beautiful.

7. a photo of you making a goofy face

This is a French friend's bike helmet. I apparently have a huge head.

8. a photo you might have edited to make yourself more attractive

A photobooth collage from the first time I left the house after I broke my ankle. It was storming, I still wasn't used to my crutches, and I wasn't allowed to drink - but I didn't care. I went with these girls to quiz night at the Cock and Bull...the beginning of the beautiful thing.

9. a photo of a night you regret

This was the night I realized I have unstoppable, untreatable, and unrelenting verbal diarrhea.

10. a photo of you truly being yourself

Barefoot in the grass, camera in hand, sporting my favorite Texas t-shirt.

11. the most recent photo of you

4 AM. We are exhausted and trying to go to our friend's apartment to sleep. Problem is, they locked themselves out of the bolted front door. Attempted solutions included climbing the walls, ringing the neighbor's bell dozens of times, and trying to kick in the door. You wouldn't believe which one finally worked. The Americans were clearly contributing to these efforts. I believe what we were trying to do here was take a promotion picture for "The Real World: Bordeaux."

12. a photo of you being absolutely ridiculous

One of Erin's three nights in Bordeaux. 5 seconds after this picture was taken about 8 more people piled on the bed. "Ridiculous" would be appropriate here. 

13. a photo of you showing off your new haircut/color

Uhhh...there's no way around this one. I haven't gotten a haircut since last summer.

14. a photo of a time in your life that's over and you wish weren't

April vacation. We were together as a group for most of the time, but somehow we all ended up with different itineraries for returning to Bordeaux. This was our last night in Budapest together as a group. Instead of going out, we bought a handle of Bacardi, put on sweatshirts, and played 10 fingers. Best decision ever. I miss being with all of you together.

15. a photo of a time in your life that's over and you couldn't be more thankful

A broken ankle never stopped me from going out, but it sucked nonetheless. Plus my toes were always cold.

16. a photo of you when you were anything but happy

Taken the day after my surgery when Alexa and Laura came to visit. I was still incredibly fucked up from the anaesthesia and whatever else they were dripping into my bloodstream. Plus at this point I thought my time in France was ruined. It's funny that now, sometimes I forget I even broke my ankle - everything else has made up for it.

17. a photo that you had no idea was being taken

Lunch in Prague. We are an attractive threesome. The beer you see on the bottom left is Kozel, the most delicious beer known to mankind. This restaurant was a huge tourist trap and ripped us off like crazy - we were charged for what we thought were complimentary pretzels sitting on the table, as well as an extra 15 koruna each as a charge for the "flavoring" of our dishes. WTF?!

18. a photo of when you were a different person than you are now

A tourist, not a resident.

19. a photo of you with someone you love

Thanks to that afternoon spent in a park in Vienna, we now know way too much about each other. But I wouldn't have it any other way. I love you Samuel.

20. a photo of how you'd like the world to see you

Lisa the happy photographer who takes creeper photos with her telezoom lens.

21. a photo of you in a cool place

We were pretty irreverant about Stonehenge. But it was still pretty cool.

22. a photo of a time when everything was changing

Emily's last day in Bordeaux. The beginning of the end.

23. a photo that makes your heart hurt

I have exactly the photo for this but no way it's going up on the blog.

24. a photo that makes your heart smile

The girls in the gardens of the Hapsburg Palace in Vienna. City hall towers in the background. Laugher all around.

25. a photo of one of the best nights of your life

Garorock, a three-day rock festival we went to with my host sisters, and their friends. Camping + amazing music + no sleep +toxic substances = shenanigans.

Départ imminent

I don't like to be dramatic here. That belongs to the realm of eighth-grade xanga entries or blogs with subjects more profound than a happy semester spent gallivanting in France. My writing has leaned more towards sarcasm, profanity, and flippant observations on earthly vices, with the occasional italicized French word thrown in. On those beautiful days when I am filled with love for this city, I write fragments decorated by a smattering of adjectives because complete sentences feel too affected somehow. But now, approaching the end, I am letting myself be a little self-indulgent. So here's a sentence for you:

The thought of leaving this place is painful. It feels like uprooting and all words associated with it: tearing, ripping, wresting, arracher.

I can already imagine the things that will remind me of France. They're little details, like the passing exhale of cigarette smoke or the decisive crunch of a knife cutting through the crust of a baguette. Removable showerheads will remind me of France, as will the bitterness of whiskey sticking to my tongue. I won't be able to make pasta without thinking of my host mom's sauce bolognaise, and every time I see a floor length skirt I will hear Anna swishing through the doorway. I already compare every park to Jardin Public and every bar to the Cock and Bull.

My friends who know me well know that I grow very attached to places. I blame it on all the moving. 3 countries, 7 cities, and 5 elementary schools make for a strange upbringing. I don't resent it; it's made me adaptable and given me a unique perspective on a variety of things, and it is of course an integral part of my identity. But at the same time, I feel constantly unsettled. The only thing that has ever been a constant is nostalgia. I cling to places because I no longer have a place I can truly call home. My parents currently work in China. We still own our house in Texas, but it's been rented out to strangers for the past year. So now more than ever, with no permanent address in the world, I find myself trying desperately to find a patch of earth to claim.

This is true for France, but with Bordeaux it was never just about geography. I haven't traveled much this semester, partly due to my broken ankle, partly due to time and budget constraints. Ultimately though, it's because I find it hard to tear myself away. In the beginning of the year I had made a list of places I wanted to visit - Stockholm, Zurich, Dublin, Lisbon, Santorini - and then a list of weekends I had left. I remember feeling so frustrated that I couldn't see everything I wanted in so little time. But when push comes to shove, I am so happy that I spent most of my time here. I would have missed football games, nights with French friends until sunrise, quiet afternoons spent picnicing by the river, taking photos of children running through the miroir d'eau. I can come back later to see the world, and I'm sure I will. But never again for the rest of my life will I be in the situation I'm in now: 20 years old, not a care in the world, living in a beautiful European city, a language I love flitting all around me, surrounded by amazing friends and French people my age who have taught me more about French and France than any textbook or lecture. This is a one-time intersection of time, place, and people that expires the second I step on an airplane. And while I'm enjoying every moment, it's the fact that this experience is so ephemeral and irreplaceable that makes it all the harder to leave.

All this has felt like a dream, the type you wake up from only to squeeze your eyes shut because you want it to keep going. The sad truth is that in less than two weeks, I'll be awake - and there's no falling back asleep. There will only be the memory of the sweetest five months of my life.

--

Expect much more entries like this over the next week.

VIE DE MERDE

UGH UGH UHGH UHGUHGUHUGHUHGUHGHUGGUHG IT IS 5 IN THE MORNING. WHY AM I AWAKE? BECAUSE I AM FIGHTING A LOSING BATTLE AGAINST THE MOSQUITO IN MY ROOM THAT HAS ALREADY STUNG ME 3 TIMES.

FRANCE, -1.

I am really bad at blogging

Mostly because it's hard for me to write about anything in hindsight. I write best in the heat of the moment, when I've just been inspired by something I've seen or done. The problem is a lot of my most interesting experiences have happened while I'm traveling, and thus sans computer. I just feel much less motivated to write about something that happened 2 months ago.

Nevertheless, this is my promise that over the next week I will try my best to blog about

1. Garorock

2. Pays Basque

3. Eastern Europe

Am planning to head to Paris for a few days next week. I got an internship in China this summer (hoorah! no living on the streets for me!) so I have to go get my visa there. All this immigration stuff is so complicated, but if it all works out I may be able to stay a few extra days in Bordeaux and save money doing so, so yay for that.

Back to art history now. Last paper of the semesterrrrrrrr

Last night, I lost my favorite black cardigan

...that goes with absolutely everything, but I don't even care because:

1. The bittersweetness of celebrating Emily's last night in Bordeaux

2. Debating about which country has the largest Christian population between gulps of beer

3. FINALLY placing at quiz night

4. Tabasco shooters that made grown men cry

5. Champagne on the house

6. Being asked if I understand what "enculer les moutons" means (fyi: "to fuck sheep")

7. Seeing three straight French guys spoon in one bed while another king sized bed lies empty 3 feet away

8. Sharing a bed with three other people while the radio blasts French power ballads at 11 in the morning

9. Taking the tram home at 11:30, looking through the photos on my camera and laughing out loud. Alone. On the tram. With a ton of French people staring at me.

Pictures on facebook soon.

Two families, two homes

My dad has a business meeting in Amsterdam this week, so my mom tagged along his trip and both of them are spending the weekend in Bordeaux. My dad came with 2 cameras, 4 lenses, and a tripod. My mom brought her Nikon D90. I walked through the streets of Bordeaux today with them, D80 SLR in hand. We looked like a band of runaway photographer circus freaks. And I loved it.

As I write, my parents are napping in my bed next to me, passed out after a long French lunch at my homestay and jetlag from hours of travel. It has been so nice showing them around the city, and I love that they can have a small glimpse into what my life is like here, which is so different from any place they've ever lived. My host mom made a delicious meal of beef bourguignon, a very traditional French dish, with potatoes and bacon-wrapped green beans. We finished with French vanilla ice cream and fresh strawberries. The meal was delicious, but the best part was watching my parents share stories and champagne with my host mom and my host sisters, while we all clustered around the same table I eat dinner at every night. My dad made corny jokes that my host mom laughed at - it was all perfect.

It's funny trying to see Bordeaux through a tourist's eyes again. When I first arrived, the architecture and buildings here were awe-inspiring, and I remember having conversations with French people about how beautiful this city is and being scandalized that as residents, they couldn't see it anymore. I could never have imagined looking around Bordeaux and finding everything "regular," or getting used to sweeping monuments and towering church spires. After five months here though, I can see where they're coming from. But now, I no longer see it as a lack of appreciation. Aesthetically I still find everything beautiful, but there's a comfort in the fact that I no longer get whiplash from craning my head to look around me. I don't do that anymore because this has all become part of my life. Bordeaux is my home.

Anticipation before a summer storm

I wish I could capture rumbling thunder in a photo, but these will have to do.

Storms have played a large role during our time here in Bordeaux. In January, I vaguely blogged about the "epic storm with gale-force winds," which does not give enough credit to what it actually was. The tempête, literally the tempest, battered southwest France and apparently killed 26 people (thanks, Google). The night it happened we were at a party. Laura and I were driven home the next morning because the tram wasn't working, and it was chaos. Looking out the window of our friend's apartment, you could see people walking by, blown almost horizontal by the wind, black umbrellas flipped the wrong way. On the drive home, there was trash everywhere from garbage cans who had been blown over by the storm. Car windows were smashed in by parts of roofs that had been whipped off. Giant tall trees were competely uprooted, collapsed onto the streets. I was dropped off a few blocks away from where I live, and I ran home because I was so terrified of dying from something falling on my head.

The second storm happened February 9th, a day I remember well. It was the first time I left the house in 11 days after I broke my ankle. Despite my host mom's frustrated warnings about the storm, I put on a jacket, hopped onto crutches and went to the Cock and Bull for quiz night and beer. When the rain started falling I pulled up my hood and kept on walking because I didn't have a free hand for an umbrella. The storm wasn't nearly as bad as the first one, but it's still one I'll always remember. 

I hope this one is a big one.

Allez Bordeaux!

I love World Cup soccer but I must admit that I know precious little about European football clubs. The only thing that matters to me about A.C. Milan is that Kaká is on the team. 

I'll just pause and let you savor that for a moment. Mmm.

Anyway.

It just so happens that Bordeaux's team, FC Girondins, is one of the best in France, and my host sister Lisa and all of her friends are huge fans. No study abroad experience in France could be complete without a football game, so last Sunday I, along with some California cohorts, decided to head to the Bordeaux vs. Sochaux game with some of our French friends.

As in the U.S., a game without alcohol is no game at all. So my host sister organized an apéro in our yard. Apéro is technically short for apéritif, a pre-dinner drink, but our friends here use it to mean a casual kickback...whiskey included. See? The French out-class us even in their pre-gaming vocabulary. I guess you could say that I had a lot of fun, especially considering that at one point I face-planted into a bush.

Click for full size:

The crew

Boys juggling before the game

I won't lie, the rest of the night is a little hazy, but I know that I still had a great time. We scored 3 goals, winning the game and tying Marseilles for number 1 in France for the Championnat (I think? Ligue 1 soccer is very confusing). For a football newbie, I have to say that the best part was the fans. All the songs and chants reminded me of Cal Football games, especially this one where the virage sud, the south side of the stadium (equivalent to our student section, aka rowdy as fuck) calls out to the north side, which echos back :

Aux armes, aux armes

Nous sommes les Bordelais 

Et nous allons gagner 

Allez Bordeaux, Allez Bordeaux...

Take up arms

We are Bordelais

And we are going to win

Go Bordeaux, go Bordeaux...

It sounds better when it rhymes but you get the idea. On top of that, everyone rushes the field for each goal. At some point someone was lighting fireworks. Flags were being waved everywhere. I felt proud singing "nous sommes les Bordelais," even if it wasn't really true.

I didn't bring my camera, but here are a few photos I've stolen from Emily and Alexa:

Alexa, Laura, and I

I don't know what I'm doing, and probably didn't at the time either.

Me and my host sister Lisa :)

Girondins banner

Just to prove that it actually was a football game.

Another reason to love les Girondins:

On a completely different note

The reason French girls don't wear shorts: French men.

A lesson learned the hard way.

Ce que j'aime c'est...

1. The French:

Last night, my three host sisters threw a huge party at the house.

At one point, I heard music coming from the garden and went to see what was going on. A guy was singing...and playing the accordian.

An hour later, someone was blowing fire in the backyard.

I learned that trying to explain the concept of a fraternity to a French person is difficult. Especially in French, especially at 6 in the morning. 

2. And the Californians:

I went to sleep at 6:30, huddled under covers shared with Sam and Tiffany. We woke up at 10, eating cups of yogurt and laughing hysterically for an hour and a half about things that happened the night before.

An afternoon spent with the girls and Eurotrip, three to a bed again, swapping stories all the while. 

Walking home from downtown Bordeaux with Laura, talking about how every conversation we've had of late is laced with the word "last." As in "last month." As in "I wish this could last forever."

La France me manque déjà. J'essaie de bien profiter du temps qui reste, mais je pense tous le temps à ce dernier jour qui arrive si vite. Je suis pas prête à quitter cette pays magnifique avec laquelle je suis tombée amoureuse...

A few of my favorite things

A day in numbers: 4 open-air markets, 2 African drapes, 1 animal print t-shirt/dress if you're feeling dangerous (and I'm feeling a little dangerous), 2 scoops of fluffy gelato, 7 Californian girls, 3 hours in Jardin Public, 168 photos for my photography project, 1 million ounces of joie de vivre coursing through me.

I woke up early today to head downtown to finish a photography project, but not before Bordeaux had already stirred into a flurry of activity. I first headed to Le Marché des Capucins, a produce market filled with farmers hawking their fruits and butchers chopping thick slabs of meat. Old women held out lilies of the valley to sell, a traditional gift in France on the first of May. Around the corner, vendors sat behind booths offering everything from belts and bags to flowy plaid dresses. I paid 1 euro for a box of raspberries and walked around to explore, fingertips soon stained red. I picked up two beautiful drapes, one yellow and printed with red tulips and poppies, the other blue and showing a girl's silhouette reaching towards a white sun.

After that I walked all over; to St. Michel to haggle at the flea market, back to Victoire to get the kebab I've been craving for a week, down rue St. Catherine, to the quais and Place de la Bourse, where the pool is finally working and full of frolicking families. From there, to Place de Parliament for the best ice cream I've had in Bordeaux, around narrow cobblestone streets to Place Saint-Pierre, finally arriving at Jardin Public to sink into the grass with good company and a cold beer. The weather is finally beautiful here after an entire week of rain, wind, cold - a week of peacoats and umbrellas. Bu today the sun beat down on us and our limbs finally reappeared from their clumsy fabric cocoons. I still smell like spring grass and sticky sunscreen.

I finally left Jardin Public around 6, fully intending to go home and study. But on the walk to the tram stop at Quinconces, I ran into another market - a temporary antique market that's been set up for a few weeks in May. Instead of the haphazadly placed knickknacks I expected to find, almost every tent was set up like the inside of a home. Sitting room with antique leather seats here, dining room with antique silverware there. One of the most interesting things I saw was a collection of catalogues of women's fashion from the late 1800's, called "La Nouvelle Mode" - New Fashion. There were also unimaginably old books that I was almost afraid to pick up. They looked like they would turn to dust in my fingers. I loved the idea that all of this was once treasured by someone, and wondered what belongings of mine would still be here a century later.

Eventually, I hit the river. Seeing the late afternoon light hitting the church spires of St. Michel, I was again drawn towards Place de la Bourse, the best place to capture the view (what is it with me and this place? For those who don't remember, it's where I broke my ankle...). There were twice as many people there now than just a few hours earlier. I should explain to those not living in Bordeaux that facing the building, on the other side of the street, is a shallow pool of water which is meant to be a relecting pool for Place de la Bourse. Today though, the surface was far from still and thank god for that - the pool was filled with children clad only in their underwear, splashing water irreverently at their parents. Siblings chased after each other, leaving waves in their wake. Smoking teenagers sat on the bordering steps. Guitars were being played and couples on bicycles whizzed past on the street below. You could hear nothing but laughter. The setting sun hit perfectly, turning the tops of everyone's head orange. All of a sudden I felt strangely removed. SLR in hand, earbuds in, a foreigner no less, someone leaving in little over a month, I was a person outside observing this scene from the lens of a camera. A song came on my ipod, all epic string arrangements and lilting violin melodies, and I almost started to cry.

I looked down to check the title. It was called "Happiness."

Blogging on the road

This is going to be quick because I'm using the hostel computer and I don't want to be obnoxious. I'm now in Prague. Tiffany is sleeping upstairs, Alexa, Laura and Emily are out getting Czech beer. I was dead tired a while ago but now wide awake, so here I am - blogging.

London was amazing, even though we had entirely too little time there. I'd been there before though, so we took a day trip to Stonehenge and Bath. Bath was beautiful; Stonehenge was a pile of rocks. A mysterious pile of rocks, yes...but still a pile of rocks. It took a while to get used to the fact that I could go up to strangers and speak English to them without seeming obnoxious.

Being in Prague is something else entirely. We arrived late in the evening and it took us a while to get downtown with public transportation. By the time we got to Old Town Square it was already dark out, but I'm glad we got a chance to see the nightscape because the architecture here is stunning. There are so many different styles right next to each other, it's dizzying. We're definitely in the touristy heart of things but I'm looking forward to venturing off the beaten path after we find our way around a bit.

It's extremely exciting being in a city where you don't understand anything. Even though almost everyone here speaks English (helpful but disconcerting), there's still something very novel about being in a place where you can't read any of the signs and where you have to figure out everything on your own as you go along. I've learned the words for "Hello," "Speak English?" and "Thank you," and am hoping I'll have enough balls to bust them out once in a while instead of just hopping straight to English. Everyone I'm on this trip with has traveled a lot in the past, but this is my first time staying in a hostel, one of my first times out of France (if you don't count St. Sebastian, which is right on the border). I'm thrilled to be out in the world, finding things out for myself.

This was probably totally incoherent but I don't care. Life is wonderful.

Is it still called nostalgia if you haven't even left yet?

It seems to me that Bordeaux has blossomed overnight. I first noticed it stepping out of my host family's car a week ago. We had just gotten back from Garorock; it was two in the morning on Sunday night, pitch black. I was already half-asleep, clutching a backpack full of beer-stained clothes, and suddenly there it was - the scent of lilacs in the air. In the dead of night, I couldn't tell where it was coming from; a mystery, but unmistakable nonetheless. It wasn't until the next morning that I saw the piles of cut flowering branches stacked on the living room table, lavender petals tumbling to the floor. 

A few days later trees along my street started to explode with clusters of loose pink petals.

Yesterday, during Easter lunch, I noticed for the first time that the garden was green. The glass door to the yard facing the table was thrown wide open, letting in the midday light. Anna was traipsing through the grass with two small English children, friends of the family, showing them how to make wildflower bouquets from daisies that have sprung up in the lawn. Sarah was perched on the sun-warmed steps, an English version of Harry Potter clutched in her hands. I looked up and saw green leaves spreading from the giant tree in the yard without a clue as to when they appeared.

As idyllic as spring in Bordeaux is, it also serves as a reminder of all the time that has already passed, and the precious few weeks that remain. I am not even close to being ready to leave. French people generally seem surprised when I tell them that I have no desire to go back to the States, but I honestly feel like I could stay here forever. There are certainly things I miss about the US (like education, for example...), but it's not enough to tempt me back. A while ago I had a dream that I was back in America. Nothing was happening in this dream other than the extreme consciousness that my time in France had ended, and the pang of nostalgia I felt toward this country that I've come to love.

On the train from San Sebastian to Hendaye in Pays Basque, Tiff and I had a conversation about the possibility that to our host families, we're just one of many lodgers passing through. Even though I feel that I've truly bonded with my host sisters and my host mom, I'm still only one of four (and most likely more in the future) Californian girls who have stayed here. And while this has been a formative experience for me, I know that I can't expect to have the same impact on everyone I've met these past few months. Still, I can't help hoping that I won't sink away to the land of 5-second anecdotes about "that one American girl, la Californienne." If I leave even a fraction of the impression on the French people I've met here as they've left on me, I'll be happy.  That's really all I can ask for.

Garorock, il me tard

I will be more or less unreachable over the next three days, as I'll be at Garorock, a 3 day musical festival an hour away from Bordeaux. I'm bringing my camera and will do my best to document every moment.

Unwashed hair, French rap, and dead brain cells - here I come!