Marseille, and my first lesson in dealing with travelling mishaps

My time in Marseille, a city in the Provence region of France, would have been remembered as nothing more than a fun (albeit windy) weekend getaway if it weren't for the single word flashing down from the Departures board at Gare St. Charles on Saturday evening: supprimé.

"What does that word mean?" asked my friend and travel companion Amy. I tried to ignore the fact that I had only seen that word once before here, on my cell phone - when it asked if I would like to delete my old text messages.

Yes, delete - or cancel, when you're referring to French trains, apparently. And yes, the last word my tired, wet-footed, tourist-attraction-weary self wanted to hear, especially after we realized that cancelled train was our last exit out of the city until six in the morning, the next day. After stomping around in defeat (and my purchasing of the proper antidote for distress: Vogue Paris, a huge bottle of water, and a McDonalds cappuccinno), and after briefly considering sleeping in the station before I pouted (yeah, it was the wet feet that sent me over the edge), we set out to find a hostel.

The hostel we stayed in the night before was clean and high-quality, but a little over our emergency-expenses fund. Amy had remembered seeing a sign the night before boasting beds as low as 18€ a few doors down. We approached the door, even though it was dimly lit inside. Much to our surprise, it opened, and we stood dumbfounded in the foyer, peeking in a common area where a few older people sat, watching a sort of reality show on a TV bolted to the wall. It seemed as though there had been a restaurant there beforehand, and vestiges of its past prosperity - a dusty bar, a doorway to a kitchen, a board of mismatched room keys and (my favorite) a chalk sign with a single word: REVEILS and a blank numbered list - the old school method for wake-up calls, I imagined. A woman watching tv shouted out "Viens!" along with some other indistinguishable words and a boy around our age came out, explaining that a room for us both would be 30 euro - a steal at 15 each, and we could even scope out the room before laying down the cash.

We did, and figured anything was better than a hard, cold, train-station chair at this point, so we happily agreed to spend the night in our room, which was outfitted with zero plugs and a single flourescent light in the ceiling. We had no ensuite bathroom (that was in the hall, with a lock that didn't work and no toilet - just two rectangles to stand on and a hole in the floor. Aah, cultural immersion) but our room was outfitted with a sink, bidet, and an ashtray advertising U.S. War Bonds. Yeah, like from WWII. The room smelled like that was probably the last time it had been cleaned, but I appreciated its quirky character and went to bed...with my coat on, because the window kept slipping open throughout the night.

On improving my accent

Yesterday afternoon before class, I was waiting for a friend at the tram stop and a French lady with a chienchien (I learned this word the other day in Translation class, it apparently means "doggy" as opposed to "dog" and is just a doubling of the original word chien but in my mind it rolls of the tongue so fluidly that I find myself calling every dog that passes - and there are a lot - a little chienchien. But I digress) sat down next to me to ask for a light.

I was mildly impressed with myself for looking cool enough to a) pass for a French person and b) pass for a French smoker, which obviously puts me in the uppermost echelon of cool. However, not being either of these, I did not have a lighter. She went up to find someone who did and sat back down, proceeding to casually discuss why there were no people in Montpellier in the winter (personally, I think there's lots of people here now...I imagine in the summer it must be exploding, beautiful tan sunglassed people spilling out onto sidewalks, chienchiens' tongues lolling about in the heat). I'm not very good at small talk in either language, so I just nodded and she's like, "Oh, are you American?" and proceeded to ask in broken english how long I was staying for, and I proceeded to respond in broken French. I remember her saying, "In America...they only speak American!" as I responded with. "Oui, c'est dommage," before saying that I had to go find my friend.

Une grasse matinée

'Bathing Girls Galveston' Galveston, TX 1922
A picture I saw today in Montpellier at a free photo exhibit!

In french, une grasse matinée is literally translated into "a fatty morning" - the kind where you linger under the covers longer, eat breakfast slower, rushing nothing, meandering through thoughts and actions until you find the motivation necessary to continue the day. My school schedule - Wednesdays free, three out of the four other days I don't have to leave the apartment until 11:00 at the earliest - affords me many fatty mornings spent sipping coffee and reading my host mom's collection of TinTin comics (so I feel authentically French, natch). And I kind of feel bad for not being such a go-getter all the time, but its nice like this.

Today I loafed around for a little in bed, on the computer, trying to figure out potential travel plans for the nine days I have off in February. I started with a couple inexpensive travel websites (Ryanair.com, Voyages-sncf.com, EasyJet.com) and a myriad of different itinerary options and red tape to figure out. I came out an hour later with a general idea of my trajectory and a reassuring feeling that I could do whatever needed to be done.

Because it's overwhelming at first. When I curled up in bed in this strange apartment with people I didn't know, tired from my day of air and train travel, a small brief wish flashed into my head to find the next return flight to New York, run back to my own familiar bed, and admit defeat: I was not ready for this. And on the first day of classes, when nothing made sense and it felt like nothing would get done, I wished I was part of the group whose home school took care of everything for them - flight times, housing arrangements, weekend excursions, classes, etc.

Looking back with the loads of wisdom and experience two weeks here has brought me, I am now strangely grateful I had to sit through those several uncomfortable hours where a song to the tune of "What the hell am I doing here?" played over and over in my head, because I know I did it by myself. I was originally going for some big motivational lesson to be learned here, but I'll just leave it at that.

While I was out walking today, avoiding my homework for tomorrow (which I still haven't done yet, some things never change), I walked past a free panoramic photograph exhibit and went in. It was really nice and pretty extensive; a nice cultural surprise for a sunday.

Toulouse sure likes them bricks

Here are some photos from my first out-of-Montpellier visit: to Toulouse! It was a pretty short train ride away and I only stayed for a day with some friends. It felt kind of similar to Montpellier: semi-old, semi-new, busy busy busy.

The Camera Eye

Oh man, so much has happened since my last post. It's strange how each day passes so quickly but feels so long at the same time. I know this is somewhat cliche, but I've lived here just over a week, and it feels like I've been here forever. Like France carved out a space for me years ago, knowing I would come, and I just slipped in once I got the chance. Classes at university feel less confusing now, the French language is just slightly less foreign, and I know people that I hope I can call my friends for the next five months here. I went to Toulouse, a city full of energy and brick buildings about 2 1/2 hours by train from here, and returning felt like coming home.

Well, maybe not home home like Geneseo feels, but it felt familiar and reassuring.

I think on Wednesday last week, I was rushing to get to school (through a combination of walking and public transport, it takes about 40 minutes from my front door to the university entry, I'd approximate, no falling-out-of-bed-into-Welles like at Geneseo) standing outside the doors of the just-arrived tram and pushing close to a group of people so it wouldn't leave us behind. Everyone had an air of urgency, of necessity, to get on that train and go to work or school. But we were held up by an elderly lady exiting the door we were trying to get over. A black shawl covered her entire head and face, her back was hunched almost in a perfect U, a posture of complete sadness, or age, or wear.

I had seen her before, I think, sitting against a building, cup of change in outstretched hand, that same shawl making her face unknown to passersby. I had remembered her because of that unseen face, that scowling posture that looked like devastation. I also remembered her because she was also wearing a pair of hiking boots, such a disparate thing. And now, exiting the tram, her slow movements rejected the fast current of everyone else, created a notable distinction between this woman and her surroundings. The rest of the commuters stopped and slowed, watched as they let her pass, and then continued on their day. Myself included.

Cours compliquees

I rode this tram for the first time yesterday! The first of many, many times. I have to take this lovely light-rail each time I go to school, which is a couple miles away from where I live. I bought the abonnement pour jeunes, basically a monthly pass for students, yesterday with a girl I met at the university and I feel super official now, like I'm really here, really part of the city.

Speaking of school...oof. Yesterday, our orientation, was kinda super confusing. The system to enroll in classes really makes zero sense to me, but now that I've mulled it over for 24 hours it seems to make a little more sense. Basically, to find your courses, you have to walk around to the different departments and stare intensely at this list of courses offered, making sure that they're actually offered this semester and they're for your year. You write a bunch of stuff down and eventually figure out a schedule and start going to said classes, and eventually - like a month later, I think - you register for the final exams so the school knows what you're doing. That could actually all be incorrect, but hopefully I finally kinda know what I'm talking about.

Thus, I couldn't find any classes I wanted for Tuesday (and I'll happily admit it - most of the courses I plan to take are les cours R.I., or courses through international relations adapted for American students) so today I walked around some streets in Montpellier, bought a panini and some fabulous boots (everyone here has fabulous boots! and scarves! and leather jackets).

Aimez-vous la norriture?

I'm in France for all of two days and what I want to talk about right now is food.

I figure that's a good theme, because everything else is really exciting and slightly overwhelming, and I just have been thinking about food for the past forty-eight hours, I guess. The food on the flight was notable enough. I flew British Airways first to London, then to Paris, and on the first, much longer flight, they served dinner. More importantly, they served miniature bottles of wine with dinner! Thus, I happily had my first legal consummation of alcohol 35,000 feet in the air.

Breakfast, which I ate on the flight from London to Paris, was less enjoyable. The ice-cold, plastic-wrapped sandwich that only had the appetizing words "Bacon egg mushroom use before Jan 2" printed on it was not the best way to start the day, but my grumbling stomach said otherwise.

When I finally made it to Paris, both my caffeine addiction and the paltry amount of sleep I got during my travels begged me to spend a couple euros on un grand cafe. Sadly, unlike America, that means coffee in a very small cup. I was too scared to ask where the milk or sugar was, so I drank it black, all while freezing for four hours in the train station to wait for the TGV to Montpellier.

When I arrived in Montpellier, my host mom and her daughter picked me up and we drove back to her apartment. Soon, I had my first real meal in France - Ratatouille and rice! And it was delicious. The daughter and mother were surprised when I told them that the drinking age in the US is 21, because French people begin drinking - mostly wine, I think - much earlier, with their families, etc. Afterwards, I thought we were finished, but then they brought out a plate of different cheeses and we ate them with a baguette. They said that they do this after every dinner, which was interesting, because I knew cheese was big here, but not that big. Still, it's a good thing - the cheese was quite good.

And tonight, for dinner, the other members of my host mom's family - the father, brother, and his friend - came over for Le Reveillon (I think? or l'Epiphenie?) and to eat la galette des Rois, which is a round, sweet pastry with a plastic figurine hidden inside. Since I was the youngest at the table, I got to turn around and decide who got each slice. My host mom found the figurine, or la feve, and got to wear a paper crown that came with the cake. "La Reine, La Reine!" her son said as he put the crown on her head: "The Queen!"

C'est tout. I am sleepy after visiting a Cuban bar, and I'm sure there will be much to write soon.