An American Girl in Avignon

Saturday, May 30
Wow. Miracle: I woke up sans alarm. Factoring in how much I didn’t sleep the night before, I was handling things pretty well this morning. Thank you, Jesus for creating the coffee bean! Since we had neglected to buy lunch for our mountain hike, we strolled over to the supermarket to buy some food after going to the little bakery by our house called: Delices de Marius, which is themed after Marcel Pagnol’s Marseille trilogy. People in Provence seem to be quite fond of it, in case you didn’t notice. It was here where I purchased the best croissant I have eaten in my entire life! It was so warm, flaky, buttery. My mouth is watering just typing about it. For added ambiance, the café’s décor was all from the famous books and movies, whose location was the town we were going to spend our weekend away.
It wasn’t until the bus ride when my fatigue started to get the best of me. I was tired and I was about to HIKE up hill for THREE hours in the Calanques. Surprisingly, once I started moving, I felt okay. The human body amazes me sometimes. I managed to hike uphill for hours on slippery rocks wearing clothes and shoes I would go strolling through town in. Why do I always bring the wrong clothes to everything? Vraiment, je ne sais pas, mais c’est ma vie. Maybe that’s why I was chosen to write the section about wearing appropriate clothing to the activities and the excursions, because I never did.
The Calanques were absolutely breathtaking. I couldn’t believe how high up we were or how blue the water was. It was such a deep, clear shade that it almost didn’t even look real. It was postcard picturesque. I only wish that my camera would have worked better, because there was no way my cruddy fuji film with the half blacked-out screen could capture this on film.
Although it was really hot, I was glad that I sucked it up and decided to make the hike instead of hanging on the beach or just walking around in town all day, because the view was worth the climb. But since the rocks had been walked on by so many tourists over the years, the surfaces were worn down to the point where they were dangerously slippery. I am not ashamed to admit that I fell, because I was in the company of three others who did the exact same thing. After the hike, I was more than ready to lounge on the beach and do: absolutely nothing.
After some time on one side of the bay, I walked over to the other to find Brad, Zoe, Nina, and Sakinah. While I was over there, I had to o the bathroom so bad, so I decided to be brave and look for those lovely public toilets, which really aren’t that dirty in France, thanks to the fact that they usually charge a few centimes for an entry fee to keep them clean. After almost three months of living in France, and inevitably speaking French, I had no idea what anyone was saying to me, or where they were telling me to go exactly, so looking like an idiot, I wandered around for half an hour looking for the mysteriously camouflaged bathroom with no luck finding it. I was really ridiculous in every way, shape, and form. I wondered if I was on candid camera, or if there was no bathroom in the first place. Was it all a big joke? The lifeguard ended up showing me where it was, because I could not find this bathroom for the life of me! I turns out that I had walked past it ten times, but it was a hidden under this pretty little staircase off to the side of the beach, without any marking whatsoever. Anyway, I was embarrassed. And of course, on top on my embarrassment, I had to pay 50 centimes to use the toilet. Humiliation with a fee.
I went back to the beach after my find-the-bathroom adventure (you really could make a game out of this in Europe. It will go on for longer than you’d expect). I took on the role of personal photographer for Sakinah, Nina, and Zoe, who were bouncing around in the waves.
It wasn’t until Sakinah came running out of the waves with the look of death upon her face that I realized what had happened. She’d been stung by a jellyfish. Of course, it would have been useful for some of that French year one animal vocabulary to kick in about now, because when we went up to the lifeguard station and tried to ask for help, no one knew what the word for jellyfish was. We were doomed. Thankfully, Nina is legitimately fluent in French, so she helped us out. Sakinah first off had asked Brad to pee on the sting, but his humorous response was, “But I don’t need to go.” I honestly don’t know if I could have handled someone peeing on my hand, but if it would have saved my life, I could have dealt with smelling like urine. Whether or not my friend “needed” to go or not, I would have demanded they force out some urine to save my life. :)
Thankfully, urinating on her arm proved unnecessary, because we arrived in time for the lifeguard to give her some healing crème. Our little side scare meant that we were late for the bus (as usual), but at least we had a decent excuse this time. I don’t think you can fake a jellyfish wound or a story with four witnesses. No “I couldn’t find the bathroom” stories necessary this time (although most of the time, this was the truth. Case and point: earlier).
The next stop was Marseilles, a little port town right on the Mediterranean, which, as I said before, was made famous by the Marseille trilogy written by Marcel Pagnol. I have to give Katy and Christophe some major props for their hotel selection. The Hotel Relax was so nice. A tv, multiple outlets, a complete breakfast, a shower (with a stable showerhead), and, GASP, provided toiletries and towels! It was so nice!
Dinner that night was at a fancy restaurant right next to the Vieux Port, ironically enough, called the White House. The dinner came with red and rose wine, a salad, entrée, bread, and dessert. Crème brûlée pour moi, bien sûr, and my favorite, seafood. Seafood did seem appropriate, because this was a seaport town. Needless to say, the dinner was excellent. I sat with Sakinah, Adam, and Kyle and talked our first week together in Paris and our first impressions of each other. It was interesting and funny. I’ll leave it at that. First impressions really aren’t correct. Unfortunately, during our laughter-filled discussion, I slammed my wine glass down a little too hard and broke the glass stem. How embarrassing. I looked over to see if Christophe or a waiter had seen. Negative. I slyly shoved the top of the glass down my coffee cup and split smiling the whole way out. Whoops. I wonder if anyone noticed. I am going to have to go with no, because Christophe didn’t care that half of the students had left by this point.
This night happened to be the big play-off match between Marseille’s football (soccer) team and their rivals, Bordeaux. We walked around looking for a sports bar to join the fans and sit down to watch the game. Unfortunately, most places were packed by then, so we settled with standing outside amongst a crowd of rowdy fans. This was the craziest thing I have ever seen! Never in my life have I seen people get so excited over a soccer game. American football fans, look out! Those European soccer groupies are die-hard! They make American football fans look tame! The Marseillians were screaming and jumping and running in the streets with coke bottles and exploding fireworks! Shouting, parading through the streets as a victory march all while slinging, the Marseillean, the French battle anthem named after the song. It was insane, and we were right in the middle of it! After the victory march through town, the party continued elsewhere. I’d like to see how excited they get after they win the championship. The town will probably go up in flames!
After all of the excitement, going back to the hotel to sleep was kind of a downer, but we had things to do in the morning, so we at least had to get some sleep. Rachel and I, of course unable to sleep after the exploding coke bottles from about an hour ago, talked about what was on our mind: the fact that we would be leaving France soon…and we weren’t ready to go. We had the same fears: Will things be the same when I go back? (They aren’t) Will I be able to relate to my friends? (Yes, you can, but it’s harder) Will I experience reverse culture shock? (Yes) Will my home ever feel like home again? (It’s going to take some time) What happens when all of this is over? (I don’t know. Go back to school in the fall. Work?) Did I even have a life before France? (You did, but you just forgot about it.) What will I be like now? (Tough at first) Will I have changed so much that my friends and family won’t even recognize me or think of me in the same way? (Yeah, it’s noticeable that you’ve changed and are different, but you’re still you) And what about this fall? We both knew good and well that OU would never be the same after living and studying in France. It’s almost as if when we go back, we are going to be freshman all over again! Everything will be new, and yes, things will have changed, but then again, we have too. What do you do when home doesn’t even feel like home anymore? Where do you turn to? I am still struggling with this right now, but thankfully, I have the summer to get readjusted to “my life before France” so to speak, before coming back to school in the fall.
Wow. I really have changed. I’m not the girl from my first two quarters of freshman year. I mean, well, technically I am. I haven’t changed so much that people won’t know me, but let’s just say I will be doing things differently from now on. I’m not that scared little girl anymore. I now know what I want, what I don’t, who I am, and who I’m not. That’s the beauty about studying abroad. Not only do you learn about another language and culture, you learn about yourself. You grow up.