An American Girl in Avignon

Alright, Histoire exam let’s do this! I woke up early this morning to study, which was a complete waste of my time, because I had no idea what to study. My studying consisted of reading over the worksheets and Wikipedia-ing Napoleon and the French Revolution. When I got to history class, I was really starting to sweat it, but our exam turned out to only a worksheet, on which we were allowed to use our notes, so how exactly was one supposed to prepare for this? That’s just it. We weren’t. I was relieved. I took my time, rechecked my answers, and took the whole two hours. I was determined to get an A on this thing. It was my last exam after all. I figured: why not try my absolute best? That’s all one can really do.
So during our long break, I went shopping with Zoe. Since Longchamp is French and Zoe was wanting to update her longchamp wardrobe, we figured, why not stop in and buy one? The lady was really nice and was telling us all about her son who lives in Florida and just happens to work in the France part of Disneyworld at Epcott. Pretty cool, huh? Epcott had always been my favorite, but now there was even more of a reason…real French people worked there! Walt Disney is authentic.
Sadly we couldn’t stay and chat forever, because we had our last literature class to attend. I was confused as to why we were having class since we already turned in our exams, but we did need our grades. The professor, Professor Bory, is completely adorable, so even more of a reason to go to class. He lent me the CDs of Jacques Prevert’s songs, since that was the author I had chosen for my oral presentation a few weeks before. Getting our grades for the class was like getting our high school diploma. We all clapped for each other as we walked up to the podium to grab the three neatly stapled sheets with our final grades circled. We all got As. I don’t understand this, but I’m not complaining! :)
After class, there was only an hour and half to get ready for that night’s aperif with the host families, which was not near enough time when I had shoes to buy and we all had showers to get. The shower had finally been fixed that afternoon.
I took a speedy shower after running to the store down the street and picking out some fuchsia pink kitten heels to wear that night. My hair looked like a wreck, since I was the last one to get into the shower, so I just had to accept the fact that I was going to look horrid for the last soiree. My hair, looking like a mess, just fell down my shoulders. I am anxiously awaiting that haircut I am going to be scheduling as soon as I get home. Can’t wait to clean up my mess of a hairdo! It has not been cut in three months, and it is starting to show.
Thinking that the party started at 7:30, we thought that we were making good time since it was nearing 7:15, and we were all almost ready. It was at this moment that Katie informed us that she just now read the email, which all three of us had opted to ignore, which read that the party started at 7. Oops. Well, since we were late anyway. We took our time…and then ran out the door. Of course, we didn’t know where the tapas restaurant was exactly. Only had a general idea. Panicked thinking that we were beyond the point of fashionably late and nearing the point of embarrassingly late very quickly, we hurried ourselves in the restaurant’s general direction and ran into professor Bory and Christophe. Phew. Well if we arrive with the grammar director/professor and the adorable literature professor, I guess it’s okay. The party can’t start without them anyway. Talk about making an entrance. The only time it’s acceptable to be late: when the director and professors are late themselves and you show up with them!
Walking upstairs to the tapas bar when everyone else was there was made less embarrassing thanks to our escorts. I was just happy to be there. The drinks: red wine and white wine mixed with Sangria and fruit. The tapas changed every few minutes as new trays of food came out with yummy goodies being rotated faster that a dryer cycle. I tried everything, except for the fried sardines. Normally I like seafood, but the little salty fish were staring up at me. I think putting them in my mouth would have made me lose my drink and all of the zucchini in tomato sauce I had consumed. I decided to spare everyone the gross-out and stick to eating foods that weren’t staring up at me.
Meeting everyone’s host family was really nice. I was sad that Martine had been unable to go with us, but she was busy. It was amazing to me the range of different families present. Some had kids, some were younger, some were older, some were single women, but they all clearly served the same purpose: provide a welcoming home away from home. Christophe had each of us go up and read a poem we had written in that oh so drama-inducing writing project of a book that drove people to tears the week before. We all read our poems, said our peace, mingled, and took pictures, fighting back emotions, knowing that this would be the last time all of us would be together.
After this, I ran back to my house to get ready with Sakinah and Katie for our last soirée as a group at Cadillac Club of course! Red Sky was pit stop number one though. We met up with Thomas and his friend before going off to dance with the others. Little did we know what was waiting for us at Cadillac, or how the night would end.
By the time we arrived, everyone had been there awhile. We had had so much fun talking with Thomas and his friend that we had completely forgot about what time it was and that everyone was already dancing and having fun without us, not that weren’t having a great time ourselves.
The place was packed and the majority of people were wearing numbers on their shirts. We asked some girls in the bathroom what the numbers were for, and discovered why exactly the place was so packed: Singles night. Take a number. Of course we wanted one! Pourquoi pas? Zoe, Sakinah and I went up to a guy by the stage by the dj who was passing out numbers. Single and ready to mingle.
No night would ever be complete without its fair share of drama or weird something or other happening. This night was our last and when we go out with a bang, we go out with a bang! Now I’ve told you about our “we’re all on a reality tv show” theory. Well, I think we were either starring in The Bad Girls’ Club, Girls Gone Wild, or Cops that night. We would have been signed on for several seasons after this night.
So Sakinah, Zoe, Brad, and I and a bunch of our French friends and some other people are dancing on stage. Completely and seemingly harmless activity to do at a dance club, right? Wrong. Well, Sakinah dropped that preciously important “single ladies” number and bent down to get it…all while getting pushed and shoved by a five foot tall French girl with a bob. Things went downhill from there. The girl then proceeded to shove Sakinah and the next few minutes ended in an all-out catfight! The girl and her other 5 foot tall friend and some blond girl went after us. Mind you, Sakinah is between 5 foot 9 to 10, leaning more towards 10 to 11. I have no idea what these girls were thinking! They didn’t stand a chance. I ended up getting shoved of the stage and right near the table with the single numbers by the DJ. Zoe was shoved off about 5 seconds later. I turned around and saw a big mob of flinging hair and clawing girls. Our friend Adrien picked Sakinah up and moved her to the patio. Yes, you read right. He physically moved her. Well, of course everyone was staring. Uhh…”Bonsoir?! Quoi de neuf, French people all looking?!”
The patio was a good place for us all to cool off and calm down before going back on the dance floor, at least until the five-foot tall French girl and her posse of two FOLLOWED us all out there. Granted there were twenty American students, several of our French friends, and Miriam and Vincent (Caitlin’s host parents) with us. They tried to start something again, to which Sakinah ignored and started namedropping on the United States. I really kinda wanted to die though when she said, “Don’t mess with me French….(and some other colorful things). I’m from the United States! Yeah, AMERCIA (biotch)!!!” Oh my God. This where things got so scary that it almost turned comical. To provide some comical relief, it would be at this moment when two guys at the bar would turn around and ask, “Obama?!” Oh the French and their fascination with Obama never seems to fade, even in the middle of a bar fight. Well, armed with an army of French friends, they got the girls to leave, and we went back out, enjoyed ourselves, and tried to forget what had just happened. It was completely inappropriate and uncalled for.
Leaving at close, one of our friends noticed that the girls were glaring at us from across the room, then from across the parking lot. Not wanting to walk alone for fear of safety (best decision we made), we had everyone walk back with us in a big group. Even though we were in a large group, I was shocked to turn around and see the French girls still following us, then running, then attacking Sakinah, their weasel boyfriends trailing behind and watching every move while doing nothing. They tried to attack again, but we eventually got them off. This was just getting ridiculous. Couldn’t they just let it go? We had walked away, and they were still trying to attack us!
Thinking that they were gone, we continued our walk home down the road, only to see a zooming by car. Vincent ran ahead of me, and as usual in France, I was clueless as to what was going on. The black car zooming by was the crazy French girls who pulled up right next to us on the curb and jumped out with: a KNIFE, screwdriver, and pipe as weapons. They attacked Sakinah and scratched up her face while making a few dints in some other people. Thankfully, Meghan’s correspondent was side-by—side with Sakinah and told her, “run!” The girls eventually ran off and left, but how ridiculous, not to mention frightening!? You have to come after us with knives…and a screwdriver? And all over a stupid shove on the dance floor.
I was so thankful that the others were there, because my mind couldn’t resist from thinking about what could have happened if it had just been me and Sakinah walking home that night. We could have been killed.
Now the problem was finding out where Sakinah had gone off to. I had her purse, her cell phone, and the keys to our house. This was not good. We called several people (thank God Vincent and Miriam were there) and finally got a hold of Adam who was with Sakinah and at the police station with Meghan’s correspondent. John and I walked over there, fearing the worst, and when we arrived, I was shocked by how beaten up she was. I was so angry and scared at the same time. How could they do something so horrible to my friend?! I was furious. I asked Meghan’s friend about all this. His reply, “French girls are crazy.”
While they were inside filing a report, who do I see but the dreamy cop “Jacques” leaning against the wall. Fate? Figures I would see him like this.
A few minutes later, the cops looked like they had a lead, so Adam, John, and I went around the corner to identify the suspects. No such luck. The girls with knives and screwdrivers had gotten away.
After filing a report, Sakinah and I were too shaken up to go home, so the cops escorted us home in the back of a cop car. Guess who I was crammed next to? Yes, gorgeous “Jacques.” I thought, “Isn’t this ironic?!” I didn’t picture this being the way we would meet. I wanted a picture with him for “saving us” but thought that would be completely inappropriate at the time. Which it was: Dear Mom and Dad, so my next-to-last night in Avignon, I got in a bar fight, some crazy chicks came after us with knives and screwdrivers, and I got to ride home in the back of a cop car next to my fantasy future husband, who happens to be a French cop I like to refer to as “Jacques.” So, can I come back next year?
I know this situation is nothing to joke about, but we have started laughing at it amongst ourselves, now that it is over. Avignon: the Real World. Twenty OU college students, sent to live with host families in the South of France. This is more than a social experiment. This is real life. Where’s that season two contract?