Afterthoughts

First, the title:
I considered others such as "La Fin" and "Epilogue". But those carry strong connotations of finality - there is no completion here. Everyday I discover feel the effects of my term abroad, find them everywhere, be it in my spelling, my sentence constructions, my speaking, my thinking... like afterthoughts, which never cede the opportunity to strike.

The blog:
Forgive me the liberties I took throughout this blog. I wrote creatively to keep myself interested. A few white lies, omission (or inclusion) of pedestrian activities. The increasingly unforgivable length of posts. The limits of my vocabulary (both in terms of extent and constraint). Pictures can only tell where I've been, this blog reminds me what I've done.

And the afterthoughts:
I don't quite miss France properly yet. In a way, I feel like I'm on vacation. I'm in the suburbs, not the city. I don't yet miss walking past boulangeries, patisseries, and crêperies. Every sign in French, every conversation. Where will go to speak French at whim?

It was nice to drive my car again. Then I looked at gas prices for the first time yesterday.

It's great to see old friends and my family again.
It's horrible to not know if I'll ever see new ones again.

The variety of clothes once again at my disposal is marvelous. The luxurious softness of socks that have traveled through the drier is unmatched.

The traffic light crossing man jars me in his switch from the green of Europe to the white of the States.

Which way do doors open again? I keep making a fool of myself.

It took me a while to determine what was so different about my return to the USA, in looks alone. It's the trees. The trees were so obviously different upon arriving in France. Now, back to normal.

Bagels. Green money. Peanut butter and jelly. Free water in restaurants.

My narrow bed confines me. I miss my double, and its duvet. I miss my host family and their dog.

The clink of overhead lights illuminating.

But where's the reverse culture shock? I'm not overwhelmed by sorrow. I accept that my sojourn to France reached its end. I'm already moving on. And while nostalgia has not set in quite yet, I already cherish the memories, hold them fondly, treasure them.

Which leaves me with just this: how to say goodbye?

Adieu? So definite.
Salut? Ciao? Too light.
A tout alors? A denial of importance.
Au revoir? I can do better.



A bientôt.

Les Derniers Jours

Aix-amens:
I've already mentioned the comprehension final that I didn't understand, but it turns out I did better than passably on it. For my written expression final with the same teacher, Madame Calvet, I thought I did just passably. And even though I got an entire verb-tense selection incorrect, I managed to do quite well all the same.

I've already mentioned that I believe I did quite well on my Histoire de la Langue presentation, well enough that I think regardless of how poorly I did on the written exam, I'll be receiving an A equivalent (70% or higher).

My other written expression class's final scared me to death because I mistakenly skipped a question out of two questions. But everything worked out in the end. If you want to know more about this one, I'm in the USA; ask me directly.

Phonetics had no final exam.

Finally, only thoughts of Littérature et Politique continue to hang over me. I took its exam Monday, so have had no opportunity since to speak with prof. I finished an hour (of three) early, but when I tried to turn it in, my professor deplored my slightly sloppy essay (France requires that all exams be in pen, so I had a scribble or two) and had me rewrite it, which took me the last hour to complete. But the real reason to worry here is that one can never tell what he wants you to talk about, is apparently a fairly harsh grader, and the exam was the only grade of the semester.

When I get my grades, I have no clue. So no point thinking about them further really.

Last Moments:
I spent a good amount of time in my last week in cafés, watching the Aixois linger past. Granted, the purpose of setting up with coffee or hot chocolate was to study, but truthfully that was much less interesting.

Happy Hour

Wednesday was our last happy hour, after which we proceeded to Cinéma Cézanne to watch Minuit à Paris, as I have already described in an earlier blog;

Thursday, I went to Pavillon Vendôme, a small museum just east of downtown. It was, as my friend Sarah Kay suggested, similar to a miniature Versailles - that's an oxymoron. It also had an abstract art exhibit that harmonized oddly with the classical ornamentation.

Atop Mt Ste Victoire

Friday, I hiked up Mount Sainte Victoire one last time with Ian and Sarah Kay. It was a beautiful day, perfect for wearing shorts, so it was a good thing I'd brought a pair with me to France. I finally took the red path (Les Venturiers) in descent instead of the blue (Imoucha). It was quite steep, and not really worth it: no views. But the whole hike in sum was absolutely marvelous. Ah Ste Victoire, you're walk is so short and so long. Much like my time in France. Much like life.

My trebuchet

Saturday, my program woke up early to go to Les Baux de Provence (The Bluffs of Provence). We wandered around an ancient castle. I saw Le Val d'Enfer, the vale that inspired Dante's depiction of Hell in his Inferno. I wound up a catapult for firing. We then had a two-hour lunch cooked by an heirless 86 year old French chef, Lolo, at his 400 year-old dug-into-a-mountainside house, and afterwards visited the grounds where Van Gogh interned himself after chopping off his ear, and where he painted Starry Night (La Nuit Etoilée). Typical day in France.
Saturday night was free museum night, so a bunch of us met up outside Musée du Vieil Aix, which was supposed to be closed until June, but was open exceptionally. As a testament to my progress in French, I crossed paths with a free tour in French, and proceeded to follow the tour guide around as she talked about things that weren't in my vocabulary (ie porcelain). But I understood everything just fine. From there we took a bus (it was late, so we were going to have to walk back) to Musée Vasarely, a geometrical art museum. And the art was actually good.

Lunch table

Garden for Van Gogh

Oppidum d'Entremont

Sunday, Ian, Cari, and I took a bus north of Aix to visit Oppidum d'Entremont, the ruins of the original Aix-area Celto-Ligure civilization, dating from the second century BCE. Obviously the ruins were so old that they were on top of a hill, so while we'd taken the bus up, we walked back to Aix in time for the barbecue that one our program directrices was hosting.

Barbecues are social places

Monday, we could really feel the impending departure. I bought my last baguette Monday. We all reconvened that night, drank the bottle of Bordeaux red that my mom had so generously given us.

Tuesday, last day. Full of goodbyes. My first class of the day and last class in France ended at 11:30 am. Done. I skipped breakfast so as to be able to eat more crêpes for lunch, and it was a great decision. After lunch, those who were still there, and didn't have class (only a few of us: me, Sarah Kay, and Ashley) went to Parc Jourdan to lounge in the sun. Eventually we headed resignedly back to Aix, where I bought one last crêpe. And we parted ways.
Last host family dinner. Pictures with the host family. Packing my suitcase as my host siblings commented on my possessions. Playing C'Etait Toi by Billy Joel so my host brother could critique his French accent.

My window, opened despite allergies for my last day in France

My last souvenirs of France.

Chez Moi

I'm back in the USA. I woke at 3:50 am France time (so 9:50 pm East Coast time) to catch a 4:40 am bus from the Aix Bus Station to the airport. My host dad, in his infinite kindness, drove me to the bus station, and my host mom was awake to say goodbye. My host brother had asked that I wake him to say bye to him as well, but he slept right through my gentle shakes at 4 in the morning, and I couldn't bring myself to disturb him further.

I got to the Aix-Marseille Airport at 5:10 am, made it through check-in and security without incident, and said my goodbyes to other CEA students that were leaving at that ungodly hour. However, I was the sole student flying through Amsterdam, so I would see them no more once I boarded at 6:00. I slept for about an hour at most on the plane.

Amsterdam: Arrival: 8:35 am
                   Departure: 10:45 am
New experience: going through gate-specific security. Could get near the gate, but not actually into the waiting area without doing so.

Amsterdam to Newark: I got upgraded to an emergency exit seat, and then when my neighbor appeared not to be coming, I grabbed the window seat. He in fact did make it, but when I got up to relinquish my seat, he refused and kept the aisle. He was a nice enough guy, but he really seemed to resent the airlines, complaining that they would do anything to make a profit. From our small amount of conversation, he seemed to resent capitalism in general. Though he had a point about the emergency exit issue: my immobile armrest would have been an enormous hindrance in removing the door in case of need.

11 am to 1 pm. During those eight hours of flight, Delta showed four movies (because we did not have seat back screens). However, I encountered a few movie-viewing problems: the easiest screen for me to see was projecting upside down, the next easiest had horrible contrast and the lower right hand corner was out of view, and the seeing the third easiest required sitting up rigidly, so would not have been easy at all. At least they gave us free headphones (which was especially nice since I currently don't own any).

So I paid vague attention to The Tourist (it seemed disappointing). When Little Fockers followed, I decided I preferred to listen to my ipod in French, which I then discovered I'd forgotten to charge. I fell asleep for about an hour here as well.
Then came Voyage of the Dawn Treader, which I also paid a small amount of attention to, as well as some to Greenland and Canada passing below, and even more attention to my crossword puzzle book. Finally, a film I wanted to see, Salt, played. However I was truly fatigued from the flight at this point, and was developing a slight headache. So I turned the volume down, which made the characters unintelligible. So I listened to my ipod which kindly died at the very end of the album Vida la Vida, and then dozed for another hour.

My flight landed at 1 pm (supposedly half-an-hour early). I quickly moved through customs. Well, mildly quickly. At passport inspection, I switched lines because mine wasn't moving and the one on the left seemed to be an express lane of types (makes one feel confident about security). Still, they did x-ray all my goodies, although I was fortunate and didn't have to take the time to reveal each declared item to them. So I was out of the airport by 1:30 pm. Alright, quickly.

My Dad was there to pick me up and drive me home. So was the rain. I realize that it killed off any allergies I'll have, at least temporarily (which is nice since my medicine taking schedule is now 6 hours off), but it could have rained a little lighter, been a little less grey. There are definitely worse things though. And usually I like the rain.

Home. Unpacking. Haircut. Lasagna for dinner. Managed to stay awake until 10 pm (watching my much missed NBA basketball, but I could only make it through one half).

Then I woke up this morning. It felt late, and I figured I must have slept at least until 8 am. Wrong! 6:35 am. Well, that's as good a time to blog as any.

I'll be going to renew my driver's license in two hours. Turning 21 in France means I can't legally driver here now.

I have at least two blogs left in me.

The Weight of Things

I really wanted to be true to this blog.

I really wanted to write of France in France, reserving no more than an epilogue for the United States.

But sometimes, being stubborn is being dumb.

When the blog gets in the way of living, living should persevere.

So, until after my return Wednesday, au revoir.

Sans Titre

We start in the past:

Had a presentation last Wednesday (May 4). Presented a passage from Horace, a seventeenth century play by Pierre Corneille. After finishing, the professor, Madame Calvet, said "Vous avez presque tout dit", (you said almost everything), which from her was (ach I'm already writing in past tense where I can use present) a giant compliment. She then proceeded to talk about the piece for about fifteen minutes, lecture complete with citations from other works, quotes from contemporaries and everything despite the fact that we hadn't told her in advance what we were going to present on. In fact, no one in the class had, and she was always able to provide in-depth background information regardless of what students presented (it was because of this that only half the class had the opportunity to present, and we were obliged to stay after our final Wednesday the 11th for an additional two hours of presentations). She literally seems to know everything about French literature from the seventeenth century, if not earlier, on. Obviously, this can't possibly be true, but she didn't confess a lack of knowledge once this semester. Though she did admit that she isn't good at planning parties for the last day of course. I'm glad she knows she has a weakness.

Friday, I went to an absinthe liquoristerie, tasted versinthe, found one of their other products tastier (Mélopépo), and wound up with a third as a souvenir (free with the degustation, or tasting). Then I went back home.

Saturday, a bunch of us went to Marseille to picnic on the plage. There was some debate about trying to find a grill, which most people seemed to implicitly agree would be too difficult, but all those people just wandered around a supermarket the size of, I don't know, a small bakery for about a half hour trying to decide what to buy. Silly, indecisive shoppers. Finally, we made it to the beach, where we did beach things, like not go in the water because it was too cold, both air temperature-wise (too much wind) and water temperature-wise (too much cold). On the other hand, we made a dramatic escape at high tide when a wave broke the tideline and sloshed a few people. We ran a few yards away and sat down again. Looking back, I have a blue fear that we picked up this behavior from of fleeing pigeons.

Interluding, before I forget, I have a note on Carcassonne. And French language in general. "You're welcome" in French:

• Je t'en prie or Je vous en prie
• This is very hard to translate directly. It comes close to "I pray this of you", and at one point must have been an alternative to please (s'il vous plait, which is "if it pleases you", which I accidentally said once going for the literal meaning)
• I'd been told in the USA that this form is only used to be extremely polite, but I've heard it used much more often then the following, which I had been informed was ubiquitous
•  De rien
• Literally "of nothing", "It was nothing."

And at Carcassonne, my favorite:

• C'est moi.
• Short for C'est moi qui vous remercie, or "It's me who thanks you". Apparently used in a narrow regions of France, because my host parents or my program director - I forget which - warned me against using it in Southern France. Not that I'd be hanged for it or anything.

Cassis

Sunday, we went to the beach at Cassis, and did more beach things, which included (spending an inordinate amount of time in another super market) entering the numbing water. There was some sort of festival that day, so here's some obligatory pictures:

People in costumes interpretive dancing on boats

Interpretive air dancing?

Quick catch up to today and yesterday: Last night was our last happy hour, so I of course closed it out with another Kir. Then our program paid for us to go to a movie theatre and see the Cannes film festival opening ceremonies live, which was immediately followed by Minuit à Paris, all in French.
You know what? Watching dubbed movies is even harder than just plain French ones, because watching the actors' mouths throws you for a loop. But I understood.
I don't appear to be making it to Cannes in person. I almost picked a program that would have let me actually intern at the festival, but I think courses were in English there or something. Or it was ridiculously more expensive. Whatever the case, I'm content with my choice.

Today, I completed final 4/5. Nothing until Monday.

I've done my last load of laundry in France.

My host dog got a haircut. She seems ridiculously small now, and I don't think I took any pictures of her previously. So know I'm going to remember the cocker spaniel with the buzz cut. A(las/wesome).

Breather?

Whew. Blogging nearly every day is exhausting. But I don't want to write about my voyages in Europe from the United States; that seems like cheating.

Speaking of which, the countdown's at eight days. That's within the ten-day forecast (and looking like rain; typical travel day).

Chronologically, this blog is now liable to recount two timelines simultaneously for a bit. My thoughts from today, my actions from last week.

So, last week: I spent the whole week blogging.
Not really.
Last Monday, my gym classes ended. So, observations on those:

Salsa:

In case you were wondering, Salsa translates into French as Salsa. Woo.

Je fais de la Salsa - I dance Salsa.

 

This course had some ridiculous number of students at the outset, in the environs of one hundred I think. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but it's also possible that I'm underestimating; I don't know.

It had about twenty the last day. Granted Monday was optional, but in any case...

We learned a handful of salsa maneuvers, but we had a very rigid order we were supposed to perform them in during the class. On the other hand, the instructrice deplored us to be less rigid as we danced as militarily as possible.

What I'll always remember from this course:

• Chevalier - the lead 
• Chevalière - the follow
• Trying to hear the subtleties in pronunciation difference of the above
• The ridiculous number of female Chevaliers sans Chevalière
• Tac Tac Tac - French nonsense word marking completed actions
• Un pas en avance/recule - A step forward/back
• Cross-Body (Tour) - Cross-body (turn)
• Les Caresses, Le "Shine" - More moves
• The long walk from IEFEE (Institut d'Etudes Françaises pour Etudiants Etrangers) 
• Dancing to the same Spanish song every week with Sarah Kay

Basketball

Cours Mirabeau, as car-free as it will ever be.

And here's a surprise: Basketball translates as basketball. Wonder what language that comes from.
Je joue au basket -
I play basketball.

I had this 90 minute course each Monday immediately after my 90 minutes of Salsa.

In an interesting counterpoint to the salsa course, the basketball course was half-filled Monday with people I'd never seen before trying to make up the classes they'd missed for other levels (I played competition level).

What I'll always remember from this course:

• Airball - Airball (Don't worry, it wasn't chanted at me)
• Faute - Foul
• Coude - Elbow (Learned after somebody elbowed me hard on the nose and tried to call me for a foul)
• Partout - Literally means throughout. Six partout - six all
• Arguing about who would win the NBA title this year. I said the Thunder. We shall see
• Watching an alley-oop dunk among two mecs (guys). Impressive for amateurs, but it wasn't against my team
• Being challenged to a one-on-one by someone who was clearly looking for someone bad to practice against and absolutely dominating him. He gave up down about 20-0 or so
• A friendly, very good German kid (Tom) who I saw at the airport when picking up my mom, where he made sure that I was coming the final day. I'm pretty sure he would have blackmailed me or something if I'd refused. Anyway, he didn't show
• Eating large 3€ dinners in Café Les Gazelles and then returning to my homestay to eat a second dinner
• Meeting random Irish people during said dinners
• The really long walk home from my 3 hours of weekly sports - 40 minutes

It's a good thing I did these sports; it's about all that kept me fit other than walking while here.

But now it's finals week. I had a comprehension final today, which I didn't understand.

The Fountain. They were right, it is beautiful in Spring.

So I guess I'm thankful that as long as I pass (i.e. get a 9 out of 20), I pass at Pitt, and it doesn't affect my GPA. But I'm not too worried in any case, as it appears no one in my class did well. I hope French culture doesn't permit teachers to fail everybody...

And on the note of French culture: I don't like the beggars here. They just seem lazy to me; they're frequently well-dressed to the extent of having nicer clothes than I, they often eat and seeing them smoke isn't too unusual. I even saw one who had clearly bought food from the local, fairly expensive pasta shop with a cupful of money. I'm sure there are some who honestly need help, but they're difficult to find amongst the rogues.

I forgot to mention the avian gladiator fights I witnessed in Rome. While at the Colosseum, I looked up and saw two pigeons exchanging blows. One would give the other a strong smack across the beak with the heft of his wing, and the other would retaliate in kind. The were both perched precariously, and several times nearly fell from the wall. Whenever either made an attempt to flee, he was pursued and the battle reengaged. I stood transfixed for several minutes, but when it became clear that there could be no victor in the comedic affair, I moved on.

Saving the Best for Last

Every fragment of every shattered building, every chip in every weathered statue exudes a sense of history here. Not simply because of their age, but because of Rome's influence on Western Civilization. So much of what I have learned throughout my life happened on these grounds. Despite this, I know nearly nothing of Rome.

I just want to take a minute and bask in reminiscence.

Rome, a place of legends. Rome, a cloud of life crawling over fallen, sprawling ruins, oblivious.

Rome.

I can hardly bare to break its spell, to taint it with such vulgar memories. Alas: I was suffering from a terrible cold when I arrived in Rome. Or did Rome come to me? Either way, I believed that my allergies were accosting me once more, and was exultant to perceive drop of rain after drop of rain falling gently from the heavens. But the expected relief never came.

I love the rain. It had not rained since before my Mom arrived in Aix, but it was finally raining once more. But I can no more describe my love of rain than I can convey my awe of Rome. The combination of the two was anything but upsetting.

Trying to capture the scale of St. Peters Basilica - pictures do not do it justice.

Thursday, it was supposed to rain, but it never did. In anticipation of the imaginary deluge, I visited yet another country: Vatican City (one of the more indoors destinations available). Ironically, I was still toting my matzah around. Unfortunately, most likely due to my caturrhal haze, I was largely unimpressed. Although the Vatican City museums admittedly harbored a large variety of objects, I failed to see what differentiated them from so many other statues pandemic to Italy. Even the Sistine Chapel at the end was a bit of a letdown, being small, and as filled with people as I was with snot (sorry for that image). From there, we moved on to Saint Peter's Basilica. It was clearly the church of churches, the cathedral of cathedrals. It was massive, intricate, beautiful, more so than Il Duomo. However, I did not enjoy the view from the top of the cupola. This was less because it wasn't worth the 500-something stair climb than because my cold assaulted me with redoubled efforts as soon as I cast my eyes over the Roman skyline.

Statues overlooking St. Peters Square on the climb to the cupola

From there, we began our wanderings. We walked around the western bank of the Tiber River (Trestavere), and then headed into the main historical center. We enjoyed some tartuffo nero (black truffle) in Piazza Navona, but didn't make it much further than that.

Ah Friday.

Flash forward to Saturday: it certainly rained Saturday. A steady downpour mourned our looming departure. We attempted to visit the catacombs dug by early persecuted Christians, but the lines were long and the prices had undergone severe inflation since my guidebook - from which I had torn out the section on Italy for easier traveling - was written (not a problem for me, but I wasn't leaving Kim alone in the rain). So we contented ourselves with wandering around outside the city and gazing out upon the Roman countryside. It was scant kilometers from those catacombs that Spartacus and his rebels were executed, but it seemed so peaceful. Have I mentioned I love the rain?

We visited Palazzo Massimo alla Terme, where my statue-sore eyes recovered among rich mosaics.

But then it was time to leave, and we took our bus to the airport, our plane to Valencia. We stayed in the airport overnight, I ate the last of my matzah, and we were already in the sky, heading back home - France - when the sun joined us among the clouds the next morning.

Home - for 9 more days.

But the memories will last.

Friday, my cold lifted.
Friday, we went to the Colosseum. Normally, I reserve a large amount of skepticism for anything that draws such large crowds, for anything so universally and unquestioningly accepted as majestic. And now I find myself one of its disciples.

As I floated through the ancient ruins, I acutely felt the missing majesty. Where was the stench that had once enveloped these grounds? Where were the throngs? And most importantly, where was the roar of the crowd?

Where was the roar of the crowd?



Eventually, I tore myself away, and approached the Roman Forum at the base of Palatine Hill. As we strode through the abandoned grounds that had once housed the center of the Roman Republic, an ominous thunderstorm sounded in the distance. But as long as I walked amidst the ruins, it dared not approach. And when, after hours, we finally headed out, the thunderstorm fled back to the east.

The Lapis Niger, covering Romulus' grave, or so they say

And the day was not over. We made our way through Rome's historical center.

First stop: Spanish steps. They were steps.

Second: Piazza del Popolo. Some nice statue/fountains/twin churches, but nothing too impressive.

Then the Pantheon. It seemed so inappropriate as a church, with alcoves clearly designed for Greco-Roman deities holding saints.

Fourth up: Trevi Fountain. Gorgeous. They say if you throw a coin over your shoulder into the fountain, you ensure your return to Rome. My pocket is a little lighter today.

Finally, before returning to our (new and second) hostel for free pasta, we made our way to Piazza del Campidoglio, which originally housed the temples of Juno and Jupiter. Supposedly Brutus hid here after socking it to Caesar.

The sun set, and having been told the Trevi Fountain was even more gorgeous under night's blanket, we made our way back. I don't think it looked significantly different, but I really want to come back a third time, so I threw another coin in.

Was all that real?