When in Rome...

Everyone told me that Rome wasn’t built in a day, and you can’t see it in one day either, so we set aside five days to explore the great city. We were reluctant to leave Venice Wednesday morning, but had to move on to our next city, so we boarded the train again (yes!) and headed south.

In my travels, I often imagine cities as they were at their peak, and get a nasty shock when I realize that today they are just modern cities with hints of their long history. This happened in Rome. As our train pulled in to the station, looking at the graffiti on the buildings, I realized that Rome is, after all, a city, with lots of people, lots of cars, and noise. Fortunately, this city has a lot of other things to offer.

After checking into our hostel, we walked down to the Coliseum, took some pictures from the outside, and tried to find our way to the nearest McDonald’s, where we were told there would be a free tour. Seeing so many McDonald’s was also a shock. Aix doesn’t have McDonald’s, or Burger King, or Starbucks. It seems to be one of the only European cities that has successfully kept these fat food joints out. I vowed not to eat McDonald’s in Europe, and have so far kept my promise, although I may have to try it sometime because I hear the meat is of a better quality here. But anyway, we met a tour group at the golden arches and received a very detailed tour of Roman architecture and art history. The Romans liked to steal columns from the Egyptians, so these towering pillars dot the city, always topped by some sort of Christian symbol, which makes for an interesting mix. Although I complained about Rome’s “cityness,” its architecture is really beautiful, and the buildings come in lots of pink and yellow colors, as well as traditional grey.

Our knowledgeable tour guide took us to the popular tourist spots, such as the Spanish Steps (crammed with too many tourists) and the Trevi Fountain (also crammed with too many tourists.) Legend has it that if you throw one coin in the Fountain, you’ll come back to Rome some day. Throw two, and you’ll fall in love there. Throw three, and you’ll get married there. Throw your blood in the fountain, and you’ll have all three and good luck for life… This last one I made up, actually, because just as we were posing for pictures next to the massive fountain, jostling for a good position, I got a bloody nose. Although I would like to say that it was because of a fight with another tourist to get close to the fountain, I have no idea why it happened, but it makes for a good story.



Wednesday night Bre and I met up with some of my friends from Aix who were also in Rome, and we went out for some pasta. (Real Italian lasagna is so much better than anything I have tasted in the States, and I don’t think I could duplicate it if I tried.) After dinner, Bre and I walked around the monuments, hoping to find them less busy at 9PM, but no luck. We walked up to the top of the Spanish steps and watched some German school group singing campfire songs, and met some interesting people from California. Around midnight we went back to the Trevi Fountain and finally got to get close enough to touch the water. And then they closed it for cleaning.

Thursday we got up early and took the metro to the Vatican. While waiting in line to enter St. Peter’s Basilica, we got a good look at another Egyptian column topped with a cross, and the podium where the Pope addresses the public. (We missed the Pope himself.) After the guards checked to make sure our clothing was acceptable (no sandals or bare shoulders) we entered St. Peter’s. I could go on and on about this church, because it was truly magnificent. I never understood how large it is, but it is the largest Catholic church in the world (although a church in Africa supposedly claims otherwise). We wandered its cavernous rooms for over an hour, and my neck hurt from looking up at the ceiling so much.



We also took a tour of the Vatican Museum, but made the mistake of paying a hefty price for a horrible tour guide. She didn’t tell us anything new and never explained the paintings we were looking at, and by the end of the tour Bre and I were going to demand a refund. But then we reached the Sistine Chapel and forgot our frustration. Like everything else important in Rome and the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel was packed with people. No longer really a chapel and more just a piece of art, the room was humid and buzzing with low chatting, although the guards yelled “No Talking!” every few minutes. I also got a sore neck from looking up at this ceiling, and it was awesome to finally see Michelangelo’s great work in person. There is so much detail in the artwork, and all on the ceiling. I can’t imagine how hard it was for him to do it, but he did.



I would have stayed at the Vatican Museum longer, but it was closing, so we headed back to our hostel and had free (yes!) pasta for dinner. The next day (Friday) we toured the Coliseum and the Roman Forum. By this time, I was exhausted and a little sick of looking at old things and contemplating their significance, but it was a nice day and good to sit on the steps of a temple and nap. (oops!). It was also cool to see where Julius Caesar was burned, and made me want to read some Shakespeare. (Et tu, Brute?) After that Bre obliged me by going to the sight of a scene from “Roman Holiday” where Audrey Hepburn sticks her hand in La Bocca della Verita (Mouth of Truth). Big surprise, there was a line to take your picture with it, and a small fee, so I just took a quick picture through the gate.



Friday night we went out with some British friends we’d made in the hostel. I’m delighted to learn that pasties (my favorite yooper food) are everywhere in England (since they came from Cornwall) and you can buy them at the grocery store basically anywhere. If I make it to the UK, I will surely find some. We had so much fun Friday night that on Saturday we decided to take it easy and found a gorgeous park, where we took a long nap in the sunshine. The rest of Rome was similarly lazy, and we were ready to move on to Spain.

To me, Italy, and especially Florence, was very similar to Southern France, and I didn't find many extreme cultural difference like I did in Greece. The few real Italians we encountered seemed more expressive and loud than the French, but like I said, most of the people we saw were tourists, and the real Italia remains a mystery to me.

Venice: a living museum

Phew, I’m tired. I could probably pass out right now if I let myself, but I have a lot to catch up on after two weeks of vacation, so I’ll just jot a few things down before I hibernate for a few days and regain my energy. Five cities is a lot to handle in two weeks, especially for a country bumpkin like me. So where was I…Italy?

The Easter celebrations in Florence were spectacular, but the city itself didn’t impress me as much as I’d hoped. Venice, on the other hand, is another story.

Monday morning (April 6) I got a real treat in the form of my very first train ride. The journey from Florence to Venice was a luxurious roll through the Italian countryside, and I’ve vowed to ask Obama for more trains in the States as soon as I get home, because train travel is a hundred times more convenient than the hassles of plane security and less stressful than driving. And the seats are pretty comfy too.

Immediately after getting off the train in Venice, I was impressed. With the Grand Canal in front of us, Bre and I paused for a moment to take in the scene. Throngs of tourists rushed by us trying to find the most direct way to their hotels (which is an impossible feat in Venice). Because it was a cloudy day, there weren’t as many boats out, but the ferries and cargo vessels still steamed by the sinking canal-side palaces. Gondoliers in striped shirts and straw hats paddled tourists down the canal, and everywhere stood people taking pictures. All of this we saw from the steps of the train station.


After catching our breath we took out our handy dandy itinerary and tried to decipher the directions to our hostel. In Venice, there are no streets, rues, avenues, boulevards, or highways. Just calles and fondamentas, little pathways along the canals and in between buildings. This new lingo coupled with a lack of proper signage and lack of Italian knowledge made our quest for the hostel rather challenging. But eventually we arrived at the door of “A Venice Museum.” We’d read some interesting reviews about this hostel, mostly that the living conditions were pretty subpar, but it was a ton of fun, so we figured this would be our “true” hostel experience on the trip, more social than convenient. This risk paid off, because the hostel ended up being my favorite, and we met some amazing people there. It’s situated in an old building on the Canal, and we were told that Michelangelo once lived in one of its rooms, hence the “Museum” name. Parts of it certainly looked like a museum, with gilded mirrors, a large main hall, and Venetian painting designs on our room’s ceiling. Aside from the fact that we had to pay for our sheets and there was one bathroom (with no shower curtain) for about twenty girls, it was a great place to stay. The staff were pretty casual and made us pizza one night and pasta the next for dinner and served free sangria. The whole hostel ate together at one table, and we got to know each other pretty well. We met a French Canadian girl who had been on the same bus as us to Florence, and who is also studying in Aix. Because she speaks French better than English, we conversed in French during dinner, and it was a great feeling to finally be the person who speaks a second language better than someone else. We also met a lot of Canadians, and at one point I’m pretty sure Canadians surrounded me and we got into an interesting discussion on socialized health care. Of course, there was also a group of Americans there, who ended up staying in the same hostel as us in Rome. Everyone was traveling to similar places, and although we were from different countries, we all had similar stories and lack of funds, and got along pretty well. I digress a little, but hostels can make or break an experience, and I wouldn’t have had half as much fun if I hadn’t met such interesting people during my travels.

Our first day in Venice, after checking in to the hostel, we took the ferry down the Grand Canal, and while listening to Rick Steve’s commentary (via a shard iPod), learned about the glory and doom of Venetian life. The city is rich with a history of …riches. Once the richest city in the world and a crossroads between Turkey and Italy, its huge palaces along the Canal have unique and extremely ornate architecture and decoration, with both Italian and Byzantine influences. Putzing down the Canal, we also learned and witnessed how these beautiful buildings are slowly sinking into the water, and due to flooding; most of the first floors are vacant. The decaying grandeur of Venice was haunting, and made it all the more beautiful.

The ferry let us off at St. Mark’s Square, which was packed with tourists. We toured St. Mark’s Basilica because it was free, and well worth the wait in line. I have never seen a church decorated with so much gold mosaic, and it was cool to learn that St. Mark is buried beneath the church. It’s also interesting to note that the floor of the church was buckling in rolling waves because of the sinking foundation of the building. I try not to think of what will happen when this beautiful building succumbs to the sea. After the Basilica, we walked around for a while and window shopped in the stores selling Venetian Carnival masks and Murano glass, but soon tired of the press of tourists, and returned to the hostel for dinner.

After dinner, a bunch of us went out to what looked like the only bar in the town (I guess Venice doesn’t have much night life.) Unimpressed with the scene, Bre, myself, and another girl decided to explore the city some more and take a look at St. Mark’s Square sans tourists. In my opinion, midnight is the best time to view the Square, because we could stand in the middle (do a few cartwheels) and look at St. Mark’s Basilica, the Doge’s Palace, and the other buildings without being jostled by a thousand other people with cameras. We lay down in the middle of the square for a few minutes and then realized it was cold, so headed back to the hostel. Getting back was a challenge, because the streets make no sense, but we made it eventually.

The second day in Venice, Bre and I got up early to beat the line at the Doge’s Palace. In Venice’s heyday, the Doge was the top dog, and important enough to have his own secret entrance to the Basilica and a beautiful palace. In reality, though, his life sounded a bit dull. He didn’t have real legislative or judicial power, or any kind of official power, and was only allowed to leave Venice for two days at a time, with permission of the Council. Nevertheless, his palace is impressive. After a while, walking through room after room of gilded ceilings and magnificent paintings got to be overwhelming, and I couldn’t imagine anyone actually living and working there. But everything in Venice is over the top, so I guess at one time it seemed normal.

In the Doge’s Palace tour, we got to walk through the famous “Bridge of Sighs,” so named by poets because it supposedly afforded prisoners crossing from the jail to the courthouse one last look at the water before they were put on trial and probably sentenced to death. It was a beautiful day, and I couldn’t help sighing myself as I looked down at the canal below, wondering when the endless tour of fascinating but overwhelming historical chambers would end. (Note: the Bridge of Sighs may sound romantic, but to our luck, it is currently undergoing renovation, and most of it is covered with scaffolding on the outside. Better yet, the scaffolding is covered in an advertisement. Nothing like a historical landmark sharing space with a “Bulgari” ad.)


To take advantage of the sunny day, we took a ferry to nearby Murano Island, the island of glassblowers. This island had simpler, brighter buildings, still with a Venetian style, and considerably less tourists. We sat by the water resting and listening to a bad accordion player and then found some studios where we watched some glassblowers at work.

The rest of Tuesday we got lost in Venice trying to find the Jewish ghetto and a place to fill up our plastic water bottles with wine (for less than a euro!). When we left for Rome the next morning, it was with reluctant feet and a wish to come back some day before the great city disappears. Before it sinks in the sea, it will more likely become a huge museum. As Rick Steves explained, the city now only has about 60,000 inhabitants, and 1000 leave each year. A town built of bridges, steps, and boats, isn’t a great place to raise kids and make a living, apparently. (It is, however, a great place for celebrities. Rumor has it that Angelina Jolie & Co. were staying in the palace across the canal from our hostel, and Johnny Depp was supposedly roaming the island doing a film shoot. Sadly, we saw neither, but I took some pictures of the Branjolina Palace just in case.)

So it took a lot to explain my trip to Venice, but I truly loved this city. The gondolas may only be ridden by tourists at exorbitant prices and the city’s real inhabitants may be disappearing with its buildings, but it is still a beautiful place rich in history, and like no other place I’ve been.

Ciao Bella: Easter in Florence

To avoid an extremely long and much too summarized version of my spring break in Italy and Spain, Im getting ahead of the game and writing right now, in my hostel, before I rack up too many stories to retell in this space.

So right now Im in sunny Florence, Italy...actually its pouring rain. And freeeezing. I left France Thursday night with only one pair of jeans and some skirts, thinking that the slightly more Southern location of Italy and Spain would make it warmer than Aix..wrong. But despite the colder than expected weather, I have enjoyed my time in Florence.

My friend Bre and I boarded the overnight bus from Aix to Florence last thursday night at 10:30 PM and began our first real "backpacking Europe" trip. (When I say backpacking, I mean backpacking. Due to our two Ryanair flights, we each only brought a bookbag for our two week vacation, trying to avoid a baggage fee. It remains to be seen if this was a good idea.) The busride was long and I got about two hours of sleep total, and we arrived in Florence around 8:30 Am Friday morning. After dropping our luggage off at our hotel we stopped into a pastry shop to try out some Italian words "bonjourno" e "ciao" and eat some breakfast, then went on a free tour of the city with our hostel. Our guide showed us around the city famous for its Renaissance art, and pointed out the unavoidable presence of the famous Medici family and their contributions to the city. We walked by the Duomo, a giant cathedral with an elaborate facade of green, pink, and white marble, and stepped inside to see its less elaborate interior. Due to the Easter preparations, the alter area was closed off so we couldnt get a great view of the "Judgement Day" paintings on the dome, but I took a few pictures. Climbing to the top of Brunelleschi's myseteriously ginormous dome was also not allowed this weekend, so we climbed the 400 some steps to the top of Giotto's tower (next to the Duomo) to get a great view of the city.

Friday we wandered around the city some more, ate delicious gelato, and avoided the massive crowds of tourists. (I've been here three days and I still can't find a native of Florence. Apparently they flee the city on this most busiest of tourist weekends.)

Saturday morning we got up bright and early and caught the city waking up. We were free to stroll down the middle of the street uninterupted by cars, or more importantly, tourists, and got a whole new view of the Duomo and various statues littering the city. After being denied a student price (Florence doesn't have student prices for anything) we explored the famous Uffizi gallery and gazed at famous Renaissance works of Michaelangelo and Boticelli while thinking intellectual and deep thoughts. Rembering my days of feverishly memorizing Renaissance paintings in world history, I was glad to be able to know enough about "The Birth of Venus" and the various Madonnas to do more than just look at them.

Saturday was a slightly warm and sunny day, and had great weather for strolling across the Ponte Vecchio (packed with tourists gawking at gold merchants) and watch the greenish-brown Arno River slide by. We also entered numerous churches with fantastic artwork and tombs of people somehow related to the Medici's, but once we ran into churches that started charging for entry, we started looking for other forms of amusement. (I just can't make myself pay to go into a church. No matter how many tourists there are, it's still God's house.) In front of one of the churches that charged admittance, we found three Italian guys playing music in the square, and stood and watched them for a while. We found these same three guys later on in another square, too. They seem to be pretty popular with the tourists.

To break away from churches, we also walked through the giant food market and sampled some traditional Florence cuisine, a panino lampredotto. After paying only three euros for this tasty dish, we stood in line and watched as a weathered Italian man sliced and diced up steaming tripe and slapped it on panini bread. Paired with some curiously strong hot sauce, this sandwich of cow's stomach is surprisingly good.

After a beautiful day Saturday, I was disappointed to wake up this morning to a cold, grey day. But despite the weather, I put on a pretty dress for Easter and headed to church. Once we got to the church, we found a large section of the plaza around the Duomo sectioned off. Hearing drums in the distance, we wandered down the street and came upon a traditional Florentine sight. Men dressed in Renaissance costumes were running around in circles throwing flags up in the air and banging drums. It was awesome. They were much better than my high school color guard, and even the young ones never dropped their flags.

At this ceremony I met up with my friend Danielle, a friend from Michigan who is studying in Florence for the semester. Together we walked back to the Duomo and staked out a spot close to the barricade to await what we heard was going to be a parade. After about an hour of waiting, a procession of more people dressed in costume marched toward the cathedral, behind them a giant, three-story cart pulled by two huge white oxen. Then a procession of priests came out of the Baptistry building across from the Cathedral and entered the church, from which came flying a white dove, which lit a fireworks display on the cart. (The dove was actually mechanical and traveled along a wire). The spark set off a chain reaction of fireworks, bangs, and smoke which lasted for about ten minutes, covering the plaza in red, white and purple smoke (the colors of Florence.) For Easter morning, it was quite the impressive display, and the Easter Bunny might want to step up his game.
Once the fireworks fizzled out, we pushed and squeezed our way through the throng of tourists snapping pictures and made our way inside the church to catch Mass. By the time we got inside, the huge cathedral had been filled and Mass had already started, but we stood for the remaining hour and listened to Easter Mass in Italian, looking up at the paintings in the dome.

It was surreal to be here on Easter, a day that I have celebrated in exactly the same way since birth. Although I missed my family a lot and am still craving honey ham and cheesey potatoes, being in Florence for this important day was unforgettable. Tomorrow we head to Venice for two days, and hopefully the weather will get a little warmer. (Otherwise I might have to start layering my clothes in unflattering ways).

Happy Easter!

Provencal Weather

I just saw a rainbow. Despite claiming that it has 360 days of sunshine, Aix-en-Provence has had some pretty unpredictable and not altogether agreeable weather this year. Yesterday I left my house in a skirt and sweater thinking it would be a gorgeous day, and came home freezing after class. Today I rolled up my jeans in the morning and walked home in the rain. But as I was heading down the last stretch of my street, the sun came out and I saw my first rainbow in a long time. I wondered what the French word for rainbow is, (arc-en-ciel), and paused outside my building to get a last glimpse before heading into the humid, lightless cave that is my bedroom. As I stood there, the French student who lives with us walked by, probably wondering why I was standing there like an idiot staring at the sky. I don’t think he saw the rainbow, and I hadn’t discovered the proper word at that point so I couldn’t ask him if he’d seen it. I guess I’ll just have to keep on letting him think I’m a mute being. I’m pretty sure he thinks Amanda and I are weird enough as it is, so why not add a little more quirks to our mysterious American ways?

So back to the unpredictable weather. I experienced it in full force this weekend because we went on another excursion, this time to the Luberon. The hilly region of the Luberon mountain range, where the author Peter Mayle is reported to live, is a beautiful area with lots of well-preserved Provencal towns perched on hills. It’s also the region known for its lavender fields, which during March are actually a grayish-brown color instead of the postcard-friendly purple. Despite traveling out-of-season, I enjoyed this trip more than many of our other ones. First of all, we took a tour bus with the famous George, a French guy who gives tours of the area on the weekends, and the same guy who took us to Monaco. Instead of listening to my program director drone on about art and history and remind us to turn in various forms, we were entertained by George’s dry humor and regional trivia.

But where did we go? First, we stopped at a tiny town called Lourmarin, a cute village with a pretty impressive chateau, and the grave of the writer Albert Camus. (I haven’t read any Camus yet, but I’m being tested on him in my literature class, so I probably should.) After taking some quick photos and almost leaving a person behind, we left Lourmarin and headed to Apt, a town that is described in a friend’s tour book as “actively ugly” from the outside. For an American used to Walmart and McDonald’s every five miles and suburban monotomy, though, “ugly” was too strong a word for a French town that simply had more industrial, modern buildings on its outskirts. Downtown, we walked around a huge farmer’s market and bought some delicious strawberries and cheese for lunch. And then it started to rain.

So it rained on our drive to the next town, Roussillon, where the dirt is colored by ochre (according to George, because some old French nobleman fed his wife’s lover to someone). We walked around a park with beautiful bare hills of red, orange, and yellow, and rejoiced that the sun came out long enough for us to have a picnic in the middle of the park. Then we headed down into the town itself, which isn’t much (although it’s technically classified as one of the “Most Beautiful Villages in France”) and had some drinks at a brasserie.

As we were finishing our drinks, the weather turned colder and we boarded the bus again and headed to our final destination: Gordes. According to my Irish friend, Gordes is a popular place for American celebrities like Johnny Depp and Brad and Angelina. Ruth (my friend) directed us to the very hotel where these celebrities stay for only 800 euros per night. From the outside the hotel didn’t look like much, but it probably had a great view of the valley and lavender fields. The rest of Gordes was similarly charming and very well-preserved. There wasn’t a single modern building that I could find, and “sprawl” probably doesn’t exist in the vocabulary of the locals.

The Luberon was a great trip overall, and if I wasn’t so jaded by the beauty of France already, I probably would have been extremely awed by the towns and countryside that we visited. Instead, I was just awed.

Sunday the weather was absolutely beautiful, and since I was confused by the time change (France daylight savings time is different than the US) I didn’t get up until one in the afternoon, after which I headed to the park for a picnic with my friends. We stayed there the entire day, basking in the sun and talking, getting a wee bit sunburnt. (Don’t worry mom, I wore sunscreen). I would have stayed there longer but I had to go to Mass for Palm Sunday, which was an experience in itself.

I walked into town thinking I would go to a regular Sunday Mass, but as I got closer to the church, I heard loud chanting and singing, and turned the corner to see a huge procession of people carrying olive branches and palm branches. I joined the throng and figured out some of the words to the song, and followed the procession up to the big cathedral in town. This procession was much different from at home, and we did more than walk around in a circle in front of church. We actually processed through the town, and people were leaning out of windows taking pictures. It was great to be a part of something like that, and although the French don’t show up to church in such massive numbers the rest of the year, they seem to take Palm Sunday rather seriously. Seriously enough to speak really, really slow during the reading of the Passion so that Mass takes two hours instead of one. Nevertheless, I enjoyed it. I’d like to see what it’s like for Easter Mass, but I’ll be in Florence, Italy on Easter Sunday. But that will be another tale.

C'est la vie

This week was a week of highs and lows. On Monday I learned that my grandma had passed away, and my sadness coupled with a recent onset of homesickness made for a challenging week. I never missed my family more than when I realized I would have to deal with my sadness alone in Aix. Dealing with grief on your own, when you’re an ocean away from any family or person who really knows what you’re feeling, is tough. My family and I decided that it would be better for me not to go back to the States just for a few days, and although I would have liked to have been with my family, I know that coming home for only a weekend would not be a good thing to do when I’m in the middle of my study abroad experience. I’ve been feeling especially homesick lately, and this week was the worst, but I made it through.

Because I had a lot on my mind and a presentation Tuesday morning, I didn’t sleep Monday night. Despite my lack of energy, though, I managed to pull off a pretty good presentation on a book written in French, about what I’m still not exactly sure. I somehow survived six hours of class on Tuesday before collapsing into bed, and although I wanted to celebrate my Irish roots on St Paddy’s Day, I was sick. So the beginning of the week didn’t go too well.

Thursday things began to get better. I skipped class and slept in, got some work done, and attended a soiree at my school. That was bizarre. Très bizarre. First of all, I paid 6 euros to attend the party, which was billed by the International Association and Bureau of Sports as a “buffet, boisson, et concert.” For six euros, I could partake in the buffet, get a free drink, and dance the night away. Assuming buffet meant the same thing in France as in the US, I skipped dinner that night. Mistake. When we got there, myself and the rest of the Anglophone students were baffled at what the French call a buffet. Because there were 200 students attending and a limited supply of food, we were rationed. We could choose to eat one slice or pizza OR one salad OR one dessert. Not really worth 6 euros, in my opinion. We couldn’t believe it. We were so convinced they were joking that we hung around the food the whole night, waiting for them to tell us that there was, in fact, enough food for everyone, and we could eat a little more. (A lot of the French students were confused too, so I don’t think this was a “French” buffet so much as one with not enough food.) But seriously, I got there early to make sure the food wasn’t gone before I got there, because that’s usually how it works. The people who arrive at 11:30 PM shouldn’t expect to eat as much as the people who are there when the door opens. The firt-come-first-seved concept doesn't seem to apply here, I guess.
After eating my plate of pasta salad (which was good) I explored the soiree. In one classroom of our school building was set up the food tables, in another room a band, and in the courtyard a disco. Oh, and in the hallway, a mini bar. Our ticket included a drink, “soft” or “hard,” of whiskey and coke or vodka and orange. I may not have mentioned that this party was put on by the students, not the administration, and I’m still not sure how they were allowed to sell liquor in the school hallway. I can’t see U of M allowing that. C'est la France, we kept saying. Only in France would the administration allow its students to get drunk in the same space they learn. Nonetheless, it was fun.

Friday was a gorgeous day, probably somewhere around 70 degrees Fahrenheit. (I still haven’t figured out the Celsius-Fahrenheit conversion.) I did some homework and lazed around in the park for a few hours and didn’t do a whole lot else.

Saturday my program took another excursion to Pont-du-Garde, which is the sight of some huge old Roman aqueducts. (You’ve probably seen pictures of it, and didn’t know it’s called Pont-du-Garde.) The day was warm but cloudy, and it was nice to hike around on the trails and look at the bridge, but not too exciting. After that we drove to a museum in Arles and looked at Roman sculptures and the oldest known bust of Julius Caesar. Once again, after Athens this wasn’t that impressive, and our group got impatient when the bus didn’t show up on time. I wouldn’t have minded going back to Aix at this point, since I was tired and bored, but we stopped at an old Abbey and toured through its stone cold (literally) rooms and climbed up to the top of a tower. From the top we got a nice view of the Provencal countryside, which is starting to show the signs of spring. Being so high up I felt a huge relief, and realized how closed in I feel in landlocked towns. I’m definitely a girl who prefers wide open spaces, and the Dixie Chicks song should be my anthem, because being able to see the horizon made me feel a hundred times better about my tumultuous week and homesickness.

Today (Saturday), I felt even better climbing up Mount Saint Victoire, the highest mountain peak close to Aix. With a couple of my other friends, we took the bus to the base of the mountain and hiked up the extremely rocky but not too steep trail all the way to the top. It took almost three hours to hike up, but it was worth it. So I’ve now been to the top of two mountains in France: the Alps and Mt. Saint Victoire.
On the way down the mountain we decided to take a different, smoother route, and ended up on the other side, where we had to wait for the bus for two hours. We sat on the side of the road telling stories and glaring at French people driving by in their Pugeots and Mercedes, before being told by a nice Englishman who lived across the road that we were waiting at the wrong bus stop. So we trekked a little ways down the road to the correct stop and eventually got on the bus, returning to Aix by 6:30 PM. After rising at 8:30 AM and hiking all day, it’s been a very full day, but a beautiful one, and I’m glad that I stayed here this weekend.

Oui, comme Erin Brockovich

Here I am, spending another Sunday afternoon doing my homework in a bar. This time I'm drinking some "thé fruits rouges," a tasty berry tea that comes with an equally tasty biscuit/cookie. The atmosphere of a bar is not very conducive to doing homework, so I decided updating my blog would be an equally worthy and productive endeavor. It's hard to do homework at all here. I've been working on preparing a presentation since the beginning of the semester, and so far all I've done is read a book and write a rough outline. Earlier this morning I completed the strenuous task of writing a 15-20 line "essay" on immigration laws. Phew. My brain is tirrred.

But really, now that I'm in the middle of classes and I've got the hang of them, I've started preparing for my eight exams and being a little more studious. Yeah that's right, eight exams. There's a high chance I will fail at least one of them and have to stay in France an extra month to make them up. (Good thing about IEP exams: if you fail, you can retake them. No biggie.) So, me "preparing" for exams = rereading my notes and trying to make some sense out of them. The countless arrows, holes, highlighted words, and franglais that made sense when i write them no longer resemble facts.

But enough of stressing about classes. That's a thoroughly American pastime that I don't want to continue when I come home. Although I'm studying more, I'm also trying to do more fun things. Aix isn't a huge town, so it's easy to fall into a routine, go to the same bars, eat at the same sandwich places, and talk to the same people (in English.) I don't particularly like this boring lifestyle, so I'm trying to switch it up more. Friday night my friend invited me to "Bar-b-Cuques" a BBQ/bonfire at the top of a big hill near Cuques, one of the dorms. Around ten o clock a few of us headed up the hill (in the dark) and arrived at a curious site: the French college student's version of a BBQ. An interesting mix of Italians, French, Spaniards, and some other nationalities had set up two toasty bonfires on the hill, which was a welcome site in the cold night. On one fire, however, they had placed an abandoned/stolen shopping cart. They then commenced cooking hot dogs and steak on the shopping cart. Concerned about the dubious origins of the shopping cart, I didn't eat anything,but it was fun to watch.

Standing around a campfire on the top of the hill and looking at the stars reminded me of summer in Michigan. And then I realized that I was speaking French. I had a great conversation from a student from Dakar, Senegal, and couldn't help wondering what my life would have been like if I'd chosen to study in Senegal this semester instead of France. I'm glad I chose to come here, though, because I'm learning French French, not Senegalese French. He had a really cool accent and flipped his "r's" differently, and it was bizarre to hear a whole new form of French.

Whenever I meet a new French person, it usually takes a few minutes for them to grasp the complexities of my name. "Erin" clearly is not a French name, and the "r" is particularly challenging. It often comes out as "Ehreen" until some clever person says, ohhhh, comme Erin Brockovich?? So now, instead of trying to spell out my name and get people to pronounce it right, I just say, "Salut, je m'appelle Erin, Erin Brockovich." (Telling them my last name usually leads to even more confusing conversation and questions about why my first name is Irish and my last name is German. What can I say? I'm American.)

Stereotypes

After eating another thrilling dinner of raw hamburger meat and fried potatoes, my digestive system has put me in a rather contemplative state of mind.

I can’t believe that today is the first day of March. In five more days I will have been in France for exactly two months. Looking at my academic calendar, I basically have a month of actual classes left, with vacation, review weeks and exams thrown in here or there. After two months, I think I’m finally comfortable with my identity as an American in France. After two months, although I don’t stare at people as I pass by and smile excessively for no reason, I’m no longer hesitant to reveal my American identity. Why would I ever be hesitant in the first place? Maybe it’s because I heard all of the stereotypes of both French and Americans, and thought it would be better to blend in than to test the validity of these presumptions. Now I think otherwise.

In many of my blog posts, I make generalizations about cultural differences I’ve experienced such as my observations when I first came to France and my thoughts on Greece. I’d like to make it clear, however, that these musings are just that: generalizations. So I’d like to take the time to demystify a few stereotypes…

I said that the French really are “cold.” I still think that, but in a different sense. Yes, direct eye contact and smiling at strangers in the street is less common. Yes, it’s hard to make French friends, because most French people I’ve encountered won’t come up to a random foreigner and start talking. I’ve noticed that this is largely due to the fact that most of the time I’m standing in a group of Anglophones. Being here has made me sympathize with the foreign students at U-M. I used to complain about the crowds of Asians who always hung out in huge groups and didn’t speak English among themselves when Americans were around, but now I understand some of the reason for that. Although I try to speak French as much as possible, when I’m with my American friends, life is just easier if we all speak in our native tongue. Recognizing how this can isolate us, however, I’m trying to cut down more on the English and initiate conversation with French students. If I were a French person, I wouldn’t approach the huge group of Americans either, unless I was a creepy man. Which leads me to my next point…

The French method of seduction is indeed more forward than the American style. But the stereotypical leering French man you hear about is actually contained to a small percentage of creepers. In clubs, they’re the guys who sneak attack dance, try to make out with you, demand your telephone number, and don’t leave when you say you’re not interested, yank your arm away, or knee them (actually that might work). Frankly, I’ve encountered just as many American guys with the same “style” at snazzy places like Necto in Ann Arbor. The guys I’ve encountered at the IEP and at civilized parties seem pretty nice, and don’t make me feel like a prize cut of meat.

I haven’t asked anyone if French women shave their legs (it generally doesn’t seem to be something one talks about in everyday conversation with strangers), but I’m pretty sure they do. The stereotype of the “dirty Frenchman” doesn’t seem to be true either. Although electricity is expensive here and showers may not be as long and luxurious due to the awkward hanging shower head, the French seem pretty hygienic and probably smell better than me. (Aforementioned shower head has made me reluctant to shower). I encountered more smelly people in Greece than in France.

The stereotype that French people are lazy isn’t unfounded, but not entirely accurate. While free time and leisurely sipping a coffee in a café during the two to three hour lunch period is certainly highly valued, lazy is the wrong term to use. I keep reading that France is still one of the most productive countries in the world, despite having the least amount of work hours. I wholeheartedly approve of this less stressful lifestyle and wish Americans would take a lesson from the French and take back recess and naptime.

I’ve addressed some common French stereotypes, but to be fair, I feel I should mention American stereotypes as well. I’ve heard people say that Americans are loud and pretentious. In response, I will admit that we are loud. Especially in large groups, we have a tendency to laugh, make jokes, and raise the level of our voices to express our emotions. Sometimes at night when this noise level is further heightened by a few too many glasses of wine, I cringe at the sound of our shouts bouncing of the extremely close walls of Aix. But when I look around me and see how happy everyone is to be in the company of friends in a wonderful place, I realize that it’s not such a horrible thing. In Greece when I ran into the bus of American retirees, I also noticed how loud they were, but they seemed to be genuinely having a good time and wanted to share their excitement with everyone else. Is that such a bad thing? Admittedly though, being loud is not always a good thing, and there are some overly expressive Americans who have turned our happy disposition into a bad stereotype.

As far as being pretentious, I think this comes from the fact that many Americans don’t learn a second language. Because English is so widespread in the world, it’s easy to travel all over the world and find someone who speaks enough English to help you find your hotel, the bathroom, a restaurant, etc. But this assumption that everyone speaks English leads to anti-American sentiments. In France as well as in Greece, simply speaking a few words of the native tongue works wonders. Making an effort to communicate in the native language shows a great amount of respect. Although I’m often embarrassed by my subpar French comprehension and speaking ability, it’s good to feel humiliated once in a while instead of trying to be an all-powerful American trying to control the world.

I think I’m getting too reflective. Although I’d like to relax more and sip some coffee, I actually have homework tonight so I’ll have to go.