Deauville Delights

After a generous handful of sunny summer days in the unremarkable invisible month of June, the cloud cover came ominously, sticky and unmoving. In Besançon, the rains came in grey, and we returned begrudgingly to our nippy wet Spring. ‘In Kansas, we don’t have this kind of cool summer’, I repeat on loop to anyone with an opinion on the weather. The dead of July should be suffocatingly warm enough to sleep with only a sheet and a fan, but instead one walks outside to the mild winds of May.

Already a week gone by and the latticed white imprint of sandal straps still highlights the pink-turning-tan of my feet. I now long for that crispy sensation of being cooked by strong sun that I felt with my toes in the sand. Today, packed bags lean against my desk where they rest ready for another six hours on the bus tomorrow morning, Paris-bound again. This week in Besançon I spent squaring affairs and preparing for the pinnacle of our summertime travels, twelve days between the Czech Republic and Germany. France’s generous vacation time makes for active weeks of flurried movement as the country vibrates with trains on tracks and hotel check-ins.

As dutiful Parisians and a predictable part of the hoards hunting beach time, Louigi, his mother, and I threw together a weekend in Deauville only a few weeks in advance. With each reservation made, I see more clearly that vacation planning remains a skill unmastered for even the most experienced travelers. Vacationers more thoughtful than us have already filled all trains heading to the seaside destination from Paris that Saturday morning. Thankfully we find bus tickets for the scenic route. We struggle similarly for lodging, where reserving an Airbnb is suddenly out of the question when we see the prices of rooms already picked over by the early birds. We settle on a pastel hotel only steps from the sand, prioritizing convenience and time over playing it cheap.

With alarms, coffee, and flurried movements of preparation and sack zipping, our intergenerational trio steps quickly to the metro line six, then to the bus terminus Cabourg. Evidently, the bus remains an afterthought to the Deauville types who I now associate with country clubs and the color white, and we have rows to ourselves. Our driver glides us easily into Normandy and the sky grows clear and the fields lushly green. These passing pastures pocked with picturesque villages takes me back to my first few days in France chaperoning a group of students on a tour of Normandy country. We reach the docks of Deauville with time enough to stroll around the city’s miniscule yet bustling center snapping shots of clear skies and smiles.

In a side street jutting off from the central fountained roundabout, we attain a table under parasol cover from which we order decent Italian dishes followed by our habitual afternoon espressos. All three of us have overpacked for our one-night stay, so we slug along the pedestrian-infested district watching chatty vacation gangs dipping in and out of luxury boutiques selling articles of clothing for laughable prices. Instead of paved streets, a seashell pattern has been carefully laid with crisp stones giving the strip the maritime vacation vibe the people pursue.  The manicured lawns and fresh flower beds ensure the spotlessness of this seaside oasis.

Burning time before check-in, we burn our skin to different shades of tan while surveying the state of Deauville beach from the sandy boardwalk stretching seeming miles out along the umbrellas for rent under which we see the leathery elderly and parents entertaining toddlers. Protruding from the paid changing cabins are painted wooden gates boasting Hollywood’s greatest cinematic names. Host of the American Film Festival every summer, Deauville’s Promenade des Planches mimics the original starry walk of fame oceans away.

We see the water lapping up Trouville beach from our top floor house-turned-hotel room. Trouville sits to the North, across the bay filled with recreational ships and booming with seagull shrieks. Oftentimes spoken of as Deauville-Trouville with downtowns close enough for an easy afternoon stroll, the towns retain separate personalities and publics as seen in the streets and dress of their patrons. Finally relieved of our bags and fresh in our bathing suits, our six feet head down to pitch the umbrella and enjoy the late afternoon amid tanning bodies and sandcastles. My partner and I are opposite beachgoers. He wastes no time beelining for the waves riddled with all size children, zagging out of sight from our sand perch further up in the crowd of bright colored beach equipment. His mother and I flip open novels, spines to the sand. Later, to head back to the hotel, we take the boardwalk up along the gorgeous seaside residences decorated with Alsatian woodwork and impressive brick towers.

Trouville’s restaurant strip buzzes alive along the ocean’s inlet looking out to Deauville lights. We find seats at a crêperie claiming Brittany style crêpes, those savory with the sides folded into a center of cheeses, eggs, meats, and more. Across from mother and son I see the sun setting slowly on the bright dusk of the North, reminding me again of my first French days in Caen and the circadian adjustment. The fall of day creeps so slowly that Louigi and I have enough time to get back out to the near empty beach with just the last glimmers of blue-orange reflection falling behind the horizon. We stroll along the wet sand uncovered by the lowering tide already far out beyond us, making sure to avoid the puddles and crabs that litter the dark wet land. Each direction is a photograph of light interacting with the dark – a sky illuminated, an inversed city skyline in lights.

The next morning, we start by crossing back into Deauville’s Southern California setting and hunting a comfortable sandy spot a happy medium between the famous planks and the water’s incoming edge. Like any beach dwelling family, we struggle to pitch the tent, squirm around to share the shade, alternate back and front, and trek to a hotdog stand for a quick lunch. Again, Louigi plays the dolphin by spending long stretches diving under wave after wave. I dip in, then out, going as far as to do a bit of real stroke swimming before retreating to the drying heat of our encampment to pass time in short stories. By late afternoon, the skin on my shoulders pings pain to my brain, although too late to save me from my first annual burn.

We wrap up with freezing rinse showers taken as quickly and awkwardly as possible in front of the audience in line. Redressed and fatigued by the heat and all things beach, we wander back into the posh streets of Deauville’s center until hitting upon a nice dinner spot before out train ride home. We enjoy the winding down of a stunning cloudless day over burgers and fries served on nice plates by friendly vacation-style service. Expensive cars make slow loops around the fountain’s countless jets and the people in all their brands and sunburns seem to follow suit. The sunset glittering in the dock’s waters and window reflections provides the warm feeling of time well spent and an excellent sunsetting to our first family weekend away.   

Next up, our trip to the Czech Republic and Germany!

Emily

Lyon the Luminous

I am delighted to announce that, after months of applications, portals, letters, and translations all overlapping with my work as an English lecturer, I have been accepted to Lyon’s École nationale supérieure des sciences de l’information et des bibliothèques for the equivalent of a Master of Library and Information Science. The acceptance email arriving only last week relieved me of an existential burden of a missing next step and of the dread of returning to the heart of the States with no car, apartment, or career prospects. I now feel a vibrant mix of ecstasy and anxiety as my partner and I prepare to take on the challenge of starting a city together. Through the windshield I see the road bend, bending as the mile markers fly past my path and I change direction as two years of Europe double and my fresh roots here begin to deepen. My final formative years will take place in Lyon, not Lawrence.

Speaking of Lyon, we were just there last week for the Pride parade. I’ll recount:

Il fait trop chaud. The heat permeates the inside of my mask, clothes, and hair. French summer steamrolled over cities and villages alike last week with days of angry sun burning our newly revealed skin. So deadened to the endless grey skies, I nose around my apartment-turned-oven for my sunglasses and shorts suddenly, at a lost finally facing the heat. With my fan whirling away at the foot of my single bed, I accept the start of the annual deprivation of feeling cool and dry that corresponds with the European summer season.

The heat coincides with June and Pride and critiques of rainbow capitalism. A friend, Larissa, whom I met through my downstairs neighbor some months ago, suggests the idea of trekking out to Lyon for the city’s parade. I feel I surprise her by not only agreeing, but also following up to plan lodging and transportation shortly thereafter. Over macarons of cherry and vanilla, we compare airbnbs, blablacars, trains, and buses that make it apparent that Lyon exudes activity and allure enough to drive up travel costs. Aiming for cheap over convenient, I snatch up the least expensive apartment I see that maintains high ratings. Unfortunately, three years of reserving these makeshift bed and breakfasts has taught me zilch. I book and pay for one night instead of two, and so close to the arrival date that we’re stuck with my find, only staying Friday night.

With the parade on Saturday, we tell ourselves c’est pas grave and we will take advantage of the metropolis anyways. Booking the return, looking to avoid the pricey train, we see that the Flixbus options can solve multiple problems. For only 15 euros a piece, we reserve our spots on a bus leaving Lyon at 2am Sunday. Two nights for the price of one (and fatigue). The only hiccup we foresee being the national 11pm curfew still in place. We reassure ourselves with the fact that our tickets will count as supporting documents to explain our nocturnal presence.

The day arrives, and Louigi and I roll up the station to meet Larissa and find our seats on the most expensive TER I’ve ridden to date. Thankfully, luckily, these two timid personalities attend the same specialized mechanical engineering school in town and bond through complaints on class content and apprenticeship tidbits. Another quirk they share is having never seen Lyon. I may be a bit too satisfied with my role as clumsy accented tour guide for a city I’ve visited twice before.

We arrive late afternoon seeing no aerial signs of relief from the sweltering heat. I have enough wherewithal to start out in the right direction from Gare Perrache to reach the famous Place Bellecour directly to the North on the peninsula finger of Lyon containing the major shopping district. I lead us to a cute café boasting organic lemonade and cold brew. Shortly caffeinated, we leave from our shaded spot to walk in hot squares until reaching Old Lyon, the historic downtown crisscrossed with narrow cobbled streets that organize earthy pastel shops and bustling restaurants. We see summer swinging in throngs of ice cream cone holders and terraces brimming as we cross back over one of the many bridges linking Lyon’s crowded banks together. We slide into a stylish Korean restaurant that surprises me by being affordable. This wouldn’t have been my first choice of cuisine, but my companions seem delighted, and we leave satisfied and slow.

Curling back through the crowded streets of old town at dusk, we don’t deny our craving for a little something sweet. We choose the right vendor out of the plethora. Inching up the blurry line of arms and chats, we browse through the 96 flavors available. Between fruits I’d never heard of and savory options unthinkable to most (Roquefort anyone?), I settle on scoops of kiwi and grapefruit.

Our triad, ice creams in hand, scales the steep ascent of Fourvière hill that slopes immediately from the river Saône and old town up to the Basilica perched and overlooking the masses below. Surprisingly, the incredibly ornate cathedral still welcomes visitors at this hour, so naturally, we take the tour in quiet steps shocked by the detail of each square inch lathered in golds and emerald greens. Outside, the night’s air refreshes our limbs as we continue even further from the town center looking for our long-lost Airbnb nestled a charming 35-minute walk from anything we want to see. I hate to be sour, but the 9^th floor room in an occupied apartment did not merit the price. The host speaks briefly with us, managing to include a joke at my American expense before sneaking off into the night.

The world’s smallest elevator dings in the morning, ready to descend us to the rez-de-chaussée at 11am even. We crowd in and down, starting the long march townward with a quick bite where we choose light lunches for later. Glazing past the historic old town, we cross the gapping river once again to reach Place Bellecour, the heart and start of Lyon’s 2021 Pride parade. I am criticized for believing the event would start on time once we see a square of milling flags and face paint with no parade-shapes having yet been formed. On a bench before a fountain under spread branches of shade, we eat our bakery lunches peacefully, commenting on passerby and postulating on the real start time of the parade.

At 1pm, the crowd swirls and rainbows begin to streamline toward the southern street of the square. The next error is convincing the two to move with the herd out from the shade and into the relentless rays of Southern sun. The thick of it surrounds us in handmade signs for equal rights and free hugs, in neck tattoos on girls, in every shade of gender nonconformity, and in sweaty skin. A sort of semi-truck open in the back blares beats for the crowd agitated with loving excitement. Louigi comments on the genre of electronic music while Larissa exchanges instagrams while I snap photos. Half an hour becomes one becomes an hour and a half as I fall into the sunk-cost fallacy and don’t let my companions leave before this damn float moves.

And then the movement starts, and we flow in the ocean of bodies bobbing to the throbs of bass. Chants sing out over the heads of the mass with our claps of support. I feel taken aback by the liveliness of it all. So long we spent indoors under grey skies suffocated by cold rain and a resounding lack of connection, that this moment stands out as vividly and remarkably human. The perfect warm weather day and gorgeous river backdrop only adds to the love in the air of this elongated space safe for all.

Feeling faint from dehydration, which compounds the heat on our feet, we turn left when the march goes right about halfway through. We dive into the first Casino shop open and find the convenience store pillaged of water. We grab the literal last bottles and join the long line of gaggles of twenty-somethings behind the register stationed by a young man looking unprepared for a rainbow ambush on his shift. The quay calls us, so we escape the crowded streets to breathe for a moment by the green water pocked with boats and gulls.

As late afternoon sets in, we venture again into the peninsula’s shopping borough to grab a coffee and map out the last hours. One metro plus one bus later, the Parc de la Tête d’Or gapes open before us, and my friends begin the hunt simultaneously for the famous train and rentable bicycle chariots. Fortunately for me, who wants only to lie down among the roses, the daytime hours have already come to an end with the onslaught of dusk and the grumblings of hunger. The rose garden in this light invites us to smell the sweet clear air and enjoy the view of the park’s large pond complete with of hordes of ducks and memorials islands. I imagine preemptively student life in such a peaceful green environment and smile thinking of romantic picnics surrounded by the blooms of Spring.

We attempt to do justice to our visit to the gastronomic hub by opting for a bouchon Lyonnais, a term difficult to translate, but generally describing a restaurant dedicated to serving the traditional cuisine of the area. Back in Old Lyon, we bump around in the throngs of hungry visitors looking for an open table. Again, I feel lucky that we manage to choose blindly a restaurant with good-looking plates and prices near half of what we were expecting. Jolly, we settle in and pour over the menu full of different dishes from the region. The waiter arrives quickly, briskly, and demands drink orders. I make the mistake of speaking first, with accented French, in a tourist trap area. So, when I say Moi, je vais prendre de l’eau pétillante s’il vous plaît, he responds by asking the table if we would like to speak English. I fail to hide my hurt surprise and let the question hang awkwardly in the air for my two francophone companions to answer in the negative. To drive home to the point, I pick up the prior conversation before he leaves the table to clarify my status as French resident. Believe me when I say I no longer judge people for accents in any language.

Gaffe over, the food makes up for any bad feelings. All dishes come out hot and appetizing. To start, we dig into entrées of French onion soup, Lyonnaise salad, and fried chèvre. The main dishes appear shortly after and we each fork into a new plates of regional classics containing pastry, sausage, and seafood. After the included desserts of sherbet and crème brûlée, we wander into the night mentally preparing to burn away the next four hours in the streets of the country’s third largest city. The lights and sounds and life of the quay attract our attention as we take our last passes through the tourist district. We carve out a few feet of stone overlooking the water between groups of youth enjoying one of the first lively Saturday nights out in a while.

At 11pm sharp, a commotion stirs the crowds who I assume are both aware and apathetic to the falling curfew. Police boats hum circling paths on the river, threatening us to dock and hand out tickets. The bridge above our spot suddenly has multiple ambulances forming what appears to be a blockade of lights and sirens. These signs are enough to convince my group to move to a less peopled area, so we make our way along the river, eyes out for peaceful parks. We wind down in our phones and easy chats on the city and upcoming trips. With an hour to go, like clockwork, I have to pee. We head toward the station where we will soon find our red-eye bus. We loop around to the main entrance with dim hopes of using the facilities.

I have never seen anything quite like the scene that awaits us inside. Ascending the steps, we hear the thuds of bass and vocals of rap at volumes unprecedented for public spaces. A party? Once inside the main area of the station, the music deafens us, so loud my brain fails to compute the scene before my eyes. To one side, a man sits alone, awake, surrounded the source of sound, the speakers. Our presence does not affect him, he looks ahead, bored. The atmosphere wreaks danger. There are piles of trash everywhere. A young policeman stands with a German Shepard to the other side, also hardly taking notice of us. Like the white girl tourist I am, I approach the uniform unafraid but already knowing he will tell us to take a hike. He motions for me to halt a smidge too late, and I enter the invisible danger zone, setting off his bomb of a dog who barks and jumps enough to scare all daylights out of me. He shrugs, pretentious. I decided to annoy him then and press him to tell me that the closest bathrooms are out front, public. We leave the charged scene with a better idea of the reality of strike action in France.

The nighttime bus to Besançon flies between the two cities seamlessly, and we get flutter-eye sleep for three hours until dumped home at 5am, feet swollen and sweaty.

Et voilà, a two-day tour of Lyon done at low-cost, with a Pride parade to boot. Days later I receive my acceptance to the masters program, like fate.

Thanks for reading! I’ll be writing more as summer starts up and the trips get planned.

Bisous!

Revitalizing

The birds above appear as sesame seeds smeared on the surface of a perpetually wet white sky.

The end of an epoch enters the eternal Spring of my second year in France. May’s weeks have weaved away from me during daily tasks and a million trillion raindrops. The season blossomed in wildflowers trampled by dogs and boisterous children, in electronic giggles of love, in herds of young women who smell of candy, and in the reappearance of my sunglasses – a desperate attempt to nudge the weather warmer. Thankfully, on a recent weekend away at Port Lesney, a charming, flowered village an hour south, the skies granted us a few windows of sunny weather. Surrounded by French for long hours on end, I feel my comprehension has advanced tremendously. I no longer feel ill at ease in large group conversations, although my remarks and interjections are still a bit sparse and not overly articulate. I do find myself bested by a few rounds of French trivia during which I fail even the kiddy questions.

Breezy village strolls and fishing poles make up this weekend à la campagne so refreshing after a shut-in year void of social interaction. Our host, the grandmother of our friend, lives alone in an enormous house containing a fully functioning hydroelectric watermill perched atop the rushing green river. She serves us meal after aperitif after meal after dessert until, at the end of the weekend we move lethargic. The outpouring of hospitality surprises me to no end, especially when non-alcoholic beer appears in the fridge so that I feel more included in constant rounds of before drinks clinked. We decide unanimously after an invitation to stay another night and prolong our comfortable village weekend into Monday’s holiday.

Now home again in my slantroof apartment, I realize it has been a while since I’ve written on my time in the hexagon. Already the twentieth month, I now respond “almost two years” when posed the predictable question. Time ticks by in this country still unfailing to produce cultural and linguistic surprises. My American friend makes a rotisserie chicken for myself and our French partners. Who wants dark meat? Us. Who wants white meat? Them. I witness the couple bicker about correctly cleaning the pans, repeating near verbatim a conversation my partner and I had a few months back. Through an endless string of discussions, my boyfriend and I learn more about each other’s countries and the origins of our own inherited worldviews. For example, making and using flashcards? Unheard of here, if my boyfriend’s baffled reaction to my Spanish studying indicates anything.

My daily discovery of new words and expressions grows a bit tiring now as I swallow the hard pill of the limitlessness of language. How have I made it this far without knowing that the touch in touchscreen translates to tactile? Are the words for squint or easel even necessary? Other words I struggle to translate from French, like an attestation that I would show during a contrôle that explains why I’m allowed out after curfew. I find myself grasping for English expressions now having taken a backseat to smoother sayings in French.

In shining April, I wrapped up the last of my online courses with the university. Exams occured in person in amphitheaters full of spaced-out students mostly unprepared to take tests for courses they had not attended. The following week, the finale occurred anticlimactically but par for the course for the times scarred by Covid, marked only by a flurry of student emails falling on a range between concerned and laudatory. I and the other lecturers hash out grades, correcting by cursor and by pen, until one morning reaching the bottom of the pile, the last file. Just like that, under the perpetual grey rain, we have wrapped up another academic year. In June, I will assist with giving and grading rattrage or make-up exams, where students can pass an entire course with a fifteen-minute oral exam. Between their various options to pass a class without attending, I see clearly from my vantage point why French professors are notoriously ruthless graders.

Further back, there was March, with cold sunshine that bled into my summertime playlist as I boarded buses to my private classes, leering at those with uncovered noses. The golden rays felt acute when they granted us their presence during this first month of a dragging season heavy with hours of class and administrative tasks. I enjoy the French I hear sung out by electronic voices around me. La porte est ouverte she cries each time my boyfriend and I enter his Parisian building of unremarkable off-white and cut out windows. With him in Paris for work, I spent March in TERs crossing the country’s center of small towns and farmland every other weekend. The first new people I met since November’s start of the second lockdown spoke in a thick accent from across a stone entombment littered with candles, graffiti, and litter. I couldn’t say no to another descent into the endless dark and dirty of the catacombs.

The May days already at their end, I await the oppressive heat of summer with haste. Only last week, on the 19^th of May, did terraces, cultural locations, and clothing stores reopen to the agitated public. The first day, social media was plastered with images of gaggles and couples alike hunched under umbrellas and awnings forcing themselves to enjoy their right to a terrace chair and cigarette, rain be dammed. Being a bit cold-averse, I’ve yet to exercise my power to buy a cup of espresso in ceramic. This coming weekend looks promising though, and tomorrow I will board my regular train to the capital where my affectionate partner will find me at Bercy Station. I’ve already reserved us tickets to see an exposition at Palais de la Porte Dorée, my first museum visit since mid-October! I’m giddy.

Plan to see a bit more writing this summer as I again stretch my limbs into different parts of France and Europe. My summer plans remain blurry and dependent on French administration, but in any case, the handsome man and I will be moving around (once we get our hands on this elusive vaccine) in warm weather months, and I’d love to tell you all about it.

Thanks for reading ☺

Annecy Abloom

I blink in a fog of incoming assignments and blurry hours correcting tenses of the tongue. Today’s light yet persistent rainfall from a white sky bored with monotonous winter finds me flailing to juggle compounding online tasks. Spring Break fades into the haze of the first frosty weeks of a year already marked with problematic confusion. I, better than my students, awkwardly find my rhythm swiveling between voice channels and downloads, disconnections and misunderstandings. Online teaching rips the mask off a frightening number of students who have always skated by on minimal effort and are now able to do nothing. An amorphous mass of students no longer attend, and the groups that arrive are riddled with connection issues and apathy. The pockets of students with “broken” microphones for oral expression classes are inescapable. The total and blatant indifference of some towards their education disheartens me to the core of my identity as a lover of learning but also allows me to cherish my interested and responsible students that much more.

So, with that brief account of my current and subpar experience of online teaching, I would like to share my sunny soft memories of my romantic weekend in Annecy.

After a Friday morning talking about psychology in layperson English, my partner and I pack the backpacks and snacks, bundle up in gloves and scarves and wind our way up Rue Battant to the station where our first train awaits us. Three trains, three additional hours, and many windswept and white miles later, we find ourselves hand in hand a short walk from a hotel-style studio. The streetlights create a glimmering orange in the snow crunching under our bootsteps between the city station and a quaint street cutting off downtown where we find our lofty hideout layered in pinks and greens. Due to the Lyonnais delay, the clock shows past midnight and I my fatigue. We munch and sleep while awaiting daylight’s relief.

A snowy Saturday arrives on the other side of the night in an awfully comfortable bed. The temperature of the icy wonderland falls scandalously below Celsius’ zero as we march the two-minute concrete path to the famous lake, our starting point in this French slice of Switzerland. The wind from an apparent artic forces our hands in gloves and many would be passerby inside under covers of feathers and heat. Just lakeside, we peer into the glass-like water. Alone in the snow of the final spirals of an eternal season, we take our time with pictures and observations while meandering to the Pont des Amours,found only a stroll away. The crowd of tourists, thinned by the tight biting air and grey overhead, impedes our lazy romantic wandering. Yet we cross the beaten trail as the dutiful tourists we are, catching the impressive scene made of lake and mountain in the iceblue of an impressionist, with a cozy canal behind and summerclear fresh water below. The bridge bleeds into a park named the Gardens of Europe still framed by the water and the promenade for the dozens of courageous wanderers like us.

Cutting away from the dreamy vistas of the city’s main attraction, we weave through the imposing artistic structures of the park to find the historic downtown chopped up by singing streams and pastel facades. Arriving in the old town from the lake will run you right to le Palais de l’Ile, an impressive stone structure from real fairytale times rising from the end of a miniscule “island” crafted by green streams. We take our shots, mostly silly selfies I don’t bother to check until later when I bemoan the closed eyes, wonky angles, and the fact my boyfriend can produce a grimaced smile. Houses from the 16^th century form the alleys of streets that hatch the frozen tourist town, with titles and dates and professions all scribed in stone. We notice a back path that spins up and away from the city streets pocked with vendors of all things sweet and savory. L’Escalier du Chateau leads us along a picturesque yet slick way to the castle perched atop the town, which in non-Covid times would have invited us to explore contemporary art within its medieval walls. Tant pis.

We descend another snowy road lined with Easter-colored mismatched dwellings to meet the shops again on the other side. The window display of a bakery with pain au chocolats and meringues the size of footballs tempts us into its warm interior then into buying a bag full of sweetness. For a late lunch, I try my first ever raclette sandwich, a genius reimagination of one my favorite French dishes. The same melted cheese gets scrapped over ham and pickles then closed between sides of a baguette. The beauty of the town and the excitement of exploration had thus far muffled the cold felt in fingers and toes and ears, but eating our sandwiches outside in the dead of winter gives the chill a moment to creep into consciousness. With the 6pm curfew looming soon, we let the cold guide us back through the historic center, then the newer commercial blocks, all the way to our rented room. Later that night, in true birthday vacation fashion, we order pizza and wrap up our current series comfortably sprawled with not a worry in the world.

Sunday springs like the season into view through the glass wall of window, sunny and inviting. Mount Veyrier can be seen like crystal in the sky now free of yesterday’s cloudy gray. Ready to take advantage of the friendlier weather during our second and last full day in town, we eat an early lunch in the luminous heat of the apartment before trekking out back towards the lake. Under the sun and in front of the sparkling body of water, the entire town has the same idea to profit from these hours of fair weather freedom. We follow the water away from town this time, towards the base of the pile of mountain peaks that overlook the sheltered city, weaving through cyclists, lovebirds, dogs, and every family in town.

We hadn’t really planned for any down and dirty mountain climbing but encouraged by the liveliness of the day and the suppression of all activities culture under Covid, we start up a rocky path that winds first through some heavenly back yards. Not even one hundred meters up those rocks become slick with melting ice and snowy mud, a nightmare of successive adrenalin rushes as we lose and find footing on the inclined ground. He’s in Vans and I boots, and together we are no match for the mountain trail carved for those with proper footwear, experience, and hiking sticks. Groups of all types pass us both ascending and descending with baffling agility and speed. A young boy on a mountain bike flies down the muddy mess of icy hairpin turns with ease, giving us seconds to pivot out of his path. At times the risk of slipping appears acutely when one side of the trail falls away with cliff-like steepness. After one too many jokes about missteps and perilous ends, we throw in the towel. A third of the way up did come with a nice view and a hearty workout. This will have to do in checking “winter hike” off our life lists.

Below again and in the thick of the Spring break crowds, we follow the lakeside promenade in reverse, basking in February rays. More people spill into the wide walkway every second, while I reflect on not ever seeing so many people congregated even during my time in Paris over these last holidays. Unfortunately, Annecy’s mask mandate only extends to the limits of downtown. Clearly, much of this human mass sees the mountains and thinks “I’m in nature, so no need to wear the mask”. The lack of the common sense it requires to don the mask in crowds astounds me. This time we continue past the old city and up towards the Basilica of the Visitation. Thankfully, this means we part from the circulating masses and follow sidewalks into more residential blocks until we race (I won) up a stone and stoic stairwell leading to the impressive church. We quickly walk the round inside before taking a moment to chirp about the weekend on a bench looking over the valleyed city.

More adorable side streets lathered in dusky sunset light lead us to our last pass through the old town’s pinks and greens and yellows. Charming pedestrian bridges guide us across the charming waterways. I imagine a summertime Annecy in full force, free of Covid, with lively restaurants, glowing nightlife, and unbreathable crowds enjoying human nature with such a gorgeous background. The nation’s curfew yanks us into reality and closes in by the minute as we meander back to our cute-as-a-button Airbnb, stopping only for our daily bakery visit. A night of cooking and chocolate cake awaits us as we enjoy our indoor time as well.

The next morning came sharp and dark in the form of a 7:00am train back to the grit of Spring semester work. Although traveling under covid and the curfew posed obvious challenges, I can say that this bit of travel put new life in my blood and air in my lungs. I’ve seen another gorgeous corner of France while enjoying a sweet and stress-free weekend.

Having just hit the two thirds mark of my last semester as an English lecturer, my short days weigh heavy with lesson planning for so many online eyes. Final oral presentations and written exams loom soon for my students and their grading for me. Summer plans reside like mirages in my happy brain space, shimmering slightly out of sight with each passing day without a word from the government and with the continuation days that end at 6pm. While the mental toll of these restrictions becomes more tangible with each week of no new encounters, little live language practice, and constant doom scrolling, I come back to the fact that I have about a month left hard work. After that, I’ll breathe and bask.

Be happy,

Emily  

Teaching

Saharan sand coats Besançon in pale yellows that normally precede tornado weather in my neck of the midwestern woods. These smog colors and weighty air fail to impede walkers and fitness fans of all stripes on this winter Saturday almost free of rain and frost. Well into the entrails of the university’s first entirely online semester, the four walls of two apartments irritate a superficial part of my personality that insists I stretch my joints and flex my dormant muscles. By noon, our light rain jackets flutter in the breezy brown atmosphere of the riverside trail. We trek up to the fort called Chaudanne in surprisingly gentle weather. My fourth time up this windy trail to the lookout points above, I think back to a year ago when I found the energy on a crystal blue February morning to jog up the mount. Today, under the apocalyptic sky materializing in bits of muddy sand on our jackets and phones, I smile. In such an imperfect, burning world, I find myself comfortable and loved, experiencing life scenes unimaginable to a younger me. Spoiled with the pleasant parts of life. We have sandwiches and bananas to accompany our view of our town from our perch in the singing grasses.

As for my humble contribution to French society, tomorrow I begin week five of this semester’s twelve, haphazardly halved by the February break that starts next weekend. These online hours of English lecturing arrived suddenly and sit begrudgingly on my weekly schedule. The earlier start of this academic period compared to that of last Spring caught me off guard in the Paris apartment. Two days after reentering France off a rescheduled transatlantic flight from Baltimore, I log into Discord to begin my wade into the sea of the real discord among students, teachers, administration, and technology. Invigorated by a lightening week of family meals and New England tourism, I filter through bilingual piles of emails containing pleas and complaints, confusions and questions fit for IT support and the registrar. My train back to Besançon rattles through suburban France then sprawling fields until, after a delay of three hours, I reach home base in my cozy studio.

Only marginally better than the startling shift to online teaching at the end of October for the second confinement, this month’s transition to virtual hits every obstacle on this unexplored path thanks to another round of lacking administrative preparation and coherence. Flawed humans make flawed schedules that lead to confusion and rescheduling ad infinium. Secretarial work falls from above onto the shoulders of teachers now tasked with tracking down sometimes nonexistent class lists, prodigal students, and even the classes themselves, lost in the abyss of early Internet era software. The technical connection questions roll in ceaselessly in a suffocating flood of student concern and confusion. Since the last lockdown, many students find themselves back at home in the small villages scattered throughout the region or beyond in houses with poor internet connection, shared spaces or computers, and unknowable domestic situations. A grading metric just enough to account for personal and technical difficulties stemming from economic disparities remains unfound by any of us on the pedagogical side.

I find myself in the thick of the semester’s workload as I inch closer to my midwinter birthday. During our remaining week before the break, I will spend grey and sprinkling mornings, drab afternoons, and early fallen evenings moving my eyes across my screen as it becomes progressively orange to soften the blow to my retinas. My sudden increased autonomy as an instructor, provided by distance and an ironclad 6pm curfew across the hexagon, mean more work but also more meaningful and interesting content for my courses. I’ve been handed the reigns of an English class focusing on the Harlem Renaissance. Each week we read my pick of articles, poetry, and stories from artists crucial to the movement while my background in African and African American studies provides me the ability to respond adequately to uninformed questions on the racial history of the States. For my classes on written and oral expression centered more widely on Anglophone culture, I enjoy an enormous liberty in choosing material, activities, and questions for students of an impressive range of ability.

The next ordeal, one approached regularly by the oft dysfunctional departments, will be the transition back into the reality of the classroom. Between hefty emails from the direction of the university and the hefty responses from all corners of the teaching staff, contradictory information leaks down to our rang on the ladder. Groups of ten students, if they are first year students, can meet for class, if they want to, and if I, as the instructor, want to. What about the second and third year students? What about the fact that no classes have only ten students? What about the fact their preceding or succeeding classes are online and they need to be back in front of a screen with reliable internet connection? With looming and unanswerable questions, I choose to keep my instruction online for the time being, along with several colleagues.

January finished up and stored away in desktop files and emails, I look forward to this new month of love and aging. My last time out of Besançon, in a Paris closed for covid, disappears in the rearview of last year. The week in Maryland’s capital rests pleasantly as a collection of fond memories on a shelf in my thoughts, tumbling to the forefront every time a see my hair’s new color in the mirror. This whirlwind of multi-family travel over the holidays had me eager to return to even a digital classroom that second week of the year. Now I’m as eager to take the next break and adventure out again into the region. To celebrate my birthday and its proximity to Valentine’s Day, my partner and I have booked a weekend stay in Annecy, a picturesque city on a shimmering lake a long jaunt south. Keen to poke around a new town during some time without work, I look forward to delving back into travel writing.

I hope you all are well.

Emily

Caving

The classes and corrections of my university students wound down last week. Some courses finished early, in a flash of graded comprehension exams, others dragged on for weeks in the form of individual oral presentations over subjects related to film adaptation and narration. The relaxing of the second confinement occurred subtly, without people or streets erupting in celebratory riots. Instead, pessimistic headlines and grey sleet convince us to wander out still sparingly, not to mention the curfew now in place from 8pm until an early hour. This does not perturb me. As I repeat to my colleagues, students, and close friends, many of my pastimes unravel from the safety and comfort of my attic-like apartment. My bilingual pile of books only grows with each diner shared in the apartment below with Philippe, who I’ll describe as a type of French father figure, a down to earth literature professor, and a kind and curious man with which I feel fortunate to have crossed paths. So, I open and close books with increasing frequency, and I record my days via mechanical pencils and the French language. I correct exams with green ink and make corresponding Excel spreadsheets on a screen that becomes orange-tinted with the setting sun. Without the inviting heat and clarity of a summer day, I find myself perfectly content to pass hours and days downing coffee and investing in words.

I see my friends as well of course, my literary mind fades in the evening and even under confinement and curfew small get-togethers are formed around meals and tea. With an American I talk politics –Biden wins without martial law declared nor the start of another civil war. The American Right does not surprise us with calls to abandon democracy in favor an authoritarian takeover. Now only to yank my party left with appealing ideas like securing food and shelter for everyone. With the French we dabble in film, travel, vegetables, sex, and plans for next year spiraling out in so many directions.

Near the end of November, I watch The Social Dilemma and find clarity in the nihilistic understanding that humanity’s already lost this war of autonomy with computing and the ugly fangs of profit. Like a fall to hubris and the very few. Or that being human doesn’t, almost obviously, mean anything at all. I reflect on screen dependency and dopamine-fueled social media interactions under headphones and my winter mask of solid grey handed out by the university in twos and threes and fours. I have a fairly regular walk between two apartments in Besançon. Some evenings the sky’s soft pink blends charmingly with the stones below on the glistening tracks I cross for a better look at the silent, running Doubs. The near lifelessness of European winter opens time to pinpoint myself in the infinite swirling of human life and controversy. I read Chronique de la dérive douce by Dany Laferrière, reminiscent of Césaire’s Cahier d’un retour au pays natal in more ways than one. Laferrière uses free verse to describe a cold and blurry first year in Montreal for an immigrant arriving from Haiti, most likely autobiographical I’d venture. I identify with certain aspects of the immigrant condition written down here, one day I might write something similar.

I’ve remet someone delightful who I first met over a cup of coffee the first winter I lived here. Our conversations are lovely and inspiring. We talk class struggle and wealth inequality, remaking the world in the cage of a studio. To learn so much about the inner workings of France as a state made up of organizations, political philosophies, youtubers, polemics, multinational corporations profiting off of the developing world’s resources and labor, community gardens, graffiti, metalheads, watchmakers and admirers, and underground cavelike tunnels formed from the remnants of a limestone quarry – the catacombs and all of the related community and culture found therein, has been perspective shifting.

I feel comfortable and awake. On walks, I feel creases of smiles for no one, masked but alive in the eyes. For the holidays, we take a blablacar to Paris where he grew up. The ride haunts me still as my worst ride with rude passengers, no room, and a detour to a military base. Thankfully, travel worries are quickly forgotten in the mental glow of a new, vibrant city. My fourth time here, and still the immensity of this stretching society confounds me. In the fourteenth, there are wet orange reflections in the streets of seven story structures behind buses and wheels and fashion. On a bus bounding into the thirteenth, I fais la touriste in holding my paper ticket up to the card reader. We descend to reach Marché Tang Frères where we pick noodles and sweets and green beans.

Days later, I’m a few meters underground, front facing on line 12 and everyone I can see wears a mask and headphones and harness their focus on a screen. They do not seem alone, only that they prefer to engage numerically. We’re all bundled a bit heavy, seeing as the colder, real winter will arrive later in the week. Before the conception of the metro at the turn of the prior century, other tunnels ran deeper. In fact, those beige tunnels still run. Skirting around curfew rules that evening, we jaunt out in sprinkles to a utility hole with triangular covers. Cover up, we race in like rats from a light switched on. In a sewerlike space we turn the headlamps on and immediately climb carefully down moistened bars to the bottom of a well.

Close quarter hallways become tunnels in stone, bordered on the bottom by water muddy from footsteps before us. Other puddle pools of water will be dyed green, others flowing clear as creeks. I make up the fortunate in having been lent all gear necessary to not suffer soaking in the pitch-black labyrinth. We stumble on the first salle suddenly after scurrying through the dark and the mud. I have an impression of fear I cannot quite place after asking for assurance that there are not serial killers lurking about. I can see that quite a few people enjoy participating in the theme of delirium sketched on the walls in tags of paint. A miniature castle like those grand and of sand stands far center, sculpted of rock. Perched on the edge of the back of the bank of chairs sits the bust of a child’s toy gone wrong.

Our sacks are prepared with snack bars and three large bottles of water, also saucisson sec. Let’s say we smoke cigarettes. The speakers connect, so we kick back backlit by a dozen candles. The realization comes on slowly that there is nothing to fear. In one of the next blurry corridors, we cross a space deemed la salle de fleur, really just a large arrangement of plastic flowers framed perfectly with a watering can. We move on, often hunched and the tags suddenly explode into murals of varying artistic merit and life philosophy. At one moment, the map is unclear, we retrace steps, and the realization grips me that without the phones and lights we carry, we would not find our way out until the cataflics arrived to hand us a sixty euro ticket, if they found us.

The next room has scooter handlebars dangling from the ceiling of the cave. They have been sprayed pink to highlight the rosy tones of the background fresco of an elflike woman. So, there appear to be plenty of artists making up this underground community, the jargon of which my hyperactive guide explains in between breaths emitting fog from the condensation. Certain artists reappear in similar lines, themes, and motifs. The Salle des reflets we trip upon looking for the exit in a long-forgotten brewery cellar divided by large columns of stone and sand and paint. Almost obviously, this room has been decorated with broken mirrors and CDs, with mannequin legs hanging golden and tagged.

Our next pause takes place on more stone benches beneath what is at first glance a bird cage, but at second perhaps a lamp holder. Decently over my fear of other people jumping out to murder us, another fear rears its head, one of silence. We don’t play music in the tunnels, because we need to hear the quiet and its disturbances. So, having sat down for our second pause I gasp when we hear voices beyond the curtain of dark cast by our candles. A young woman’s voice immediately puts me at ease, and as the gaggle of four finally arrive, I breathe easy facing the highschoolers. Their guide and mine swap friendly chat while I smile politely and comment on the creepiness. They dart off in the black winding down their exploration. We hear them twenty minutes later, the voices an indication of a doubling back in search of a missed exit.

We too get moving in through the pitch. We are in search of La plage. Well, we are on the path that leads to the room until we hit water. Attempting to wade our way like in the first tunnels, we quickly become overwhelmed by the lack of footing and depth of the cold and cloudy water. We one eighty as the others and sneak our way to the sandy beach via other routes. Pictures taken of the clean three-wall mural inspired by the Great Wave off Kanagaw, we march on. My energy dips remarkably during our next break in a room named after the traffic cone hugging the base of seats. Fatigue creeps into my eyes slowly, despite the adrenaline of fear and new experiences keeping me thus far lively and wide-eyed. Near the end of our time below, we pass our final spot in search of bones.

The Official Catacombs of Paris, somewhere to the North of our location, boasts of bones to attract around 300,000 visitors per year. On the legal route, visitors pay for the walls of skulls and femurs, but down here, all spaces being communal, we must search. Far out to one side, we make quick work of meter after meter of cramped tunnel to arrive at a hole in the wall that must be maneuvered through with disregard for dirt stains. The ceiling lowers to only a few feet by the time we see bones. Endless bones. Haphazard and dirty unlike those of the picture-perfect state passages. We turn back here, as the first notions of claustrophobia creep into my thoughts.

He recounts tales of parties and meals shared before as we sit alone in the final room, le bélier. The ram statue looks down at us and wreaks of appropriated satanic imagery. As we wrap up final snacks and thoughts, he suggests we attempt the rite of passage, one of total darkness. Candles out, we flip off the headlamps and sit with the audio and visual nothingness before us. A final cigarette out and we retrace certain steps to find an offshoot of a tunnel I don’t recognize that winds its way to the well we’ll ascend. Just below the surface he waits for the sound of cars to fade before popping open the iron cover. Three cars are waiting at a red right in front of us in the minutes between six and seven in the morning under light and refreshing rainfall. I wonder if they are baffled or apathetic or annoyed. The ensuing walk home and sleep are well welcome after an all-nighter urban caving. 

Next week I’m boarding a plane to Maryland to see my family for the first time since August 2019. Happy holidays everyone!

Watching

I stroll homeward over a slick slate bridge under drizzle from a bored sky. I round the corner, stepping off the bridge constructed for trams and cars and feet alike. The pale air reflects off the Doubs that shimmers with indiscernible droplets of misting downfall. Before this scene of greys and forest greens, a crow sits perched atop a sign framing my vision and wretches my thoughts across to omens and impending events. The air does not bite, or I have become accustomed to light rain in the months outside of summer here in Besançon.

I let too much time slip into days of work and being social these two past months to adequately finish writing on my summer trip around the South. France bustles with news and drama and announcements. Unsurprisingly, the policy choice to hold university classes as normal backfired. Predictably, the students congregated, sticky and smoking, in bars and courtyards. Of course, we all applied some faulty decision-making tactics when deciding who to see, and when and how. The call for individual responsibility to stay home and confine socially does not circulate the same way it does in the (liberal) United States. At the same time, the French suffered a three month total lockdown swathed in fear and blooming nature. So once let free, we roamed.

Last week, on Wednesday October the 28th, Macron appeared to give an announcement. His ornate office gives an aura of diplomacy with a subtle yet inescapable impression of royalty. Every single person I know living in this European hexagon finds a place before a screen to tune into this presidential declaration. Everyone knows. Shorter than the verbose and whirling address in the Spring, his speech goes no longer than twenty minutes this time. The second confinement arrives in explanations of policy and cancelled Halloween celebrations. Having learned some painful economic lessons during the first yank on the brakes in March, this second stay-at-home order leaves more room to breathe, especially for those working. Administration, junior high and high schools, and shops selling food will remain open and regularly functioning, much to students’ dismay.  

At the university level, we find ourselves flung into distance teaching mid-semester for the second time. Would it have been wiser to move to distance learning in August before the semester started to give us all time to plan our online courses, acclimate ourselves to an array of software, and develop our abilities to teach in the age of pandemics? Yes. But decisions far above my own were made with little foresight or understanding of on-the-ground operations. At least here the public universities do not have student tuition to calculate into decisions to hold class.

Apart from the bureaucratic and technological hassles now imposed, my second Fall in France unravels smoothly, correctly like a rug bought new from a department store. The summer heat I favored fell away quickly, so suddenly in a few days that the next chapter of my experience flew open. My long term projects simmer in the background, amorphous and shifting. I field questions about next moves, and I feel adult. These questions will find answers in the coming months when my second term as an English lecturer draws to a close in need of a conclusion.

If there is any direction I can look to see the fruit of my time in France, I can turn towards my ability in the language. I recently tested my ‘connaissances’ officially and digitally through question after question testing my understanding of spoken and written French. I outperformed my expectations times over. On the train back home from the voyage to take this exam in the capital, I reflect on my language learning journey. Having plateaued hard in undergrad, then again in the Master’s program at KU, I can say that the submersion into small town France and incessant practice with those willing has paid off. I understand almost everything I hear, with no issues to follow radio, television, or tiktoks. My ability to participate in group conversations still varies from soirée to soirée, but I no longer stay quiet and to the side. Still, my interlocutor cannot be someone completely unaccustomed to foreign accents nor someone rude. Thankfully, that rarely occurs, and the vast majority of my interactions leave me feeling sharp and improved.

A real pumpkin pie! The French find our use of canned pumpkin laughable.

Et voilà, a succinct update to my doings and thoughts in France. Of course, I feel more American than ever before being glued to screens of news and numbers. At time of posting, the jury is out, the counts come in. The States seems to shiver. The race for the future of a precarious democracy turns out to me much closer and fear-inducing than we were led to imagine stuck in our online echo chambers. There’s a lesson here I’ll mull over more later. Now we wait.

Emily

Moments in Montpellier

My bus arrives at the outskirts of the Montpellier metropole and dumps us contents out between parking lots and tram stops. As is my habit, I open Maps to orient myself in the city lines and to find the correct tram into the side of town where I will find my Airbnb. Unfortunately, the program tells me all public transportation is unavailable. I look around to assure myself this is not the case and see a mob of people hovering around the tram’s automatic ticket station and paper map. The crowd does not thin, so I start the long walk into town parallel the tracks. At the next station, I use my human navigation skills to select the correct tram. My host messages me and pushes back the arrival time by three hours, stranding me with my weighty bags downtown in the nearly seaside city. I pass the time wriggling around the narrow, hilly streets crammed with fashion, overpriced knick knacks and jewellery. Here planted palm trees border wider boulevards and under blinding sun could remind you of a Californian dream. I enjoy an actual limonade and a bit of journaling time before I start searching for my lodging.

The address given does not exactly match what I see in front of me at the location. I double back on roads and peek down alleys and search out numbers I cannot find. My host stresses me via messages since she has to leave in minutes for a meeting. Through stuttered and frantic French explain myself and my confusion. I find the door to the courtyard, but the door to the building has broken buttons and eventually she caves, coming down to open the way for my teary self. Kindly, perhaps with a bit of guilt, she shows me around the airy two bedroom apartment. Between the stressful shifted arrival and the fact that the bed turns out to be a clic-clac, or futon, I kick myself for paying more to take a break from hostels. You do tend to roll the dice with Airbnbs. I crash for a few hours.

That first evening, showered and rested and at peace with all things difficult and unfortunate, I don a cute get-up and meander into town with an adventurous spirit and camera ready. The very heart of the city welcomes only pedestrian traffic into its stepped and colorful alleys. I nab pictures of intentional and unintentional street art while window shopping wide-eyed. The air bustles with the joviality of so many vacationers interacting with so many keen shopkeepers over dinners and dresses and wooden children’s toys. My browsing of pricey, unnecessary items complete by the evening’s start, I cross over to the west side where I find the city’s Arc de Triomphe, a portal to the Promenade de Peyrou, a gravelled park-like space. Trimmed trees frame the stretch that centers a bronze and majestic King Louis the 14th on horseback. At the far end, I arrive before a shallow pool looking awful green from the sun and the summer over which a marble monument stands. Beyond the promenade, extends the Saint-Clément Aqueduct traveling out over trees turning hues and industry unimagined when construction began.

With still more sunlight to burn, I loop back under the arch and into the vibrant lively city. Montpellier’s famous and sprawling botanical gardens pique my interest, so I slip in quietly half an hour before closing time. Between bamboo and palm fronds I see the verdant atmosphere turn glimmering gold. On the trek home at the onset of night, I capture space invaders and yellow vests by camera lens. Montpellier strikes me as the chic side of artsy.

I get up early to take advantage of my only full day in this Southern spot. I have a coffee and a read before arriving at Musée Fabre. The usual tour awaits me beginning with the great Flemish artists and their captivating takes on peasant life. A move to France brings class and visions of the aristocracy seen through parasols. The museum explodes on the upper floors with rooms stretching high in red and wide over marble. Delacroix makes his usual appearance as we spin into the 19th century. Higher still lies more contemporary art, symbolized here by the heavy use of monochrome and large swaths meaning nothing. In the final rooms hide the flashy names like Monet, Manet, Courbet, and Degas. All in all, an excellent museum well worth the no money I paid to gain entrance. 

My next objective is to reach the sea officially. Still without any navigational aide, I manage to take the right tram in the right direction to reach the drop off point where shuttles wait for tramfolk to cart off to the stretches of sand and limitless blue. Totally and completely unprepared, I thank my stars I find a (disgusting) public toilet in which to change. Sandaless, I flop onto the beach crowded with bodies and accents of all kinds. I find only small patches of sand left unturned where I can plant my things and soak up the sun. I alternate between snacking and reading all while being roasted alive by a punishing late August sun. The heat renders me tired not long later, and I take a walk along the crowded sand looping, looping to arrive back at the drop off location. On the bus back, the man next to me cheerfully chirps to himself that discipline is important when we are all told to fasten our seatbelts. Curious.

That evening I take myself out to dinner for empanadas, which seems fitting enough so close to the Spanish border. Over sparkling water and real spice I chit chat via telephone to those across the globe. On the trek home I slow my stroll and hatch across the pedestrian paths of downtown. The street lights cast a glow on the grey bricks below that reach out for block after block of warm air. With yet another bus in the earlier hours to find the next morning, I call it a night and a trip having only explored the tip of an iceberg-sized city. Tomorrow I’ll be off to Lyon where I plan to spend the final days of this Southern voyage.

Until next time,

Emily

Angelic Albi

My five euro train pulls into the sleepy station of Albi-ville in the bright hours before noon. In a haphazard group, we daytime visitors head on foot to the imposing rosy cathedral we can see above the skyline, across the villagesque town. We walk through a windy suburban environment with tended trees and kept sidewalks and bricks. Together we reach the famous cathedral, finding ourselves suddenly too close to capture accurate or instagramable pictures of the looming towers of red hugging walls of the same faded brick. This Southern monument to religion expands out lengthwise, giving it unusual shape. Inside, I find the usual elevated wooden organ, painted walls leading to painted ceilings, and stone carved with unbelievable intricacy. One of the small town’s main two attractions, people crowd the walkways snapping pictures of the jovial colors splashed on every available surface. Others sit in the pews admiring not a preacher, but a tour guide.

I spill out the back of the cathedral after having walked the short gratuitous loop. Now visitors face the river that sits below the poles of life on either side. With the town perched above on both banks, the river slices a valley between the two, crossed by several columned bridges. Only a stone’s throw from the cathedral, I see the Palais de la Berbie, a 13th century fortified palace now functioning as a museum. I zigzag steep neighborhood streets to find the entrance. The brick palace replicates the reddish Rapunzel towers of the cathedral. I purchase an inexpensive ticket from a cheery man who jokes about being held up by mask-wearers, then jokes about making that joke one hundred times a day.

Not your standard Fine Arts museum, le Musée Toulouse-Lautrec dedicates its space to Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, an Albi painter most famous for his work At the Moulin Rouge and additionally for many memorable prints and posters capturing different aspects of a wild and vibrant Paris at the end of the 19th century. I make an effort to read the majority of the information posted on nearly every aspect of his life. I find his style and colors intriguing in his portraits and later in his lithography. While his largest (priciest) pieces can be found in Chicago and Paris, Albi has managed to retain an impressive amount of his work. Room after room is filled with canvases, posters, and prints, sometimes side-by-side with related sketches. Upstairs houses a floor of modern art full of Rodin sculptures and paintings by names I almost recognize like Edouard Vuillard and Emile Bernard.

Arguably the best part of this palace-museum comes at the end of the interior wandering in cold rooms of academic art when visitors find their way into the walled garden of the ancient castle. In fact, you walk along the walls that overlook the precisely curated garden of shaped bushes and pockets of healthy, loudly-colored flowers to one side, and the best view the town has to offer on the other. Under dripping shade of viney leaves, the shallow forest green river foregrounds an exceptional image of red roofs slightly slanted over charming timeworn buildings all being suffocated by lively greenery. I enjoy a cheap sandwich lunch on a stone bench overlooking the vista, vibing under the clearest, bluest sky.

Next, I stroll across one of the few bridges to pass some time and look around the sleepier side of Albi. I have a coffee once I find an open cafe. I swirl around the narrow streets of downtown between slender buildings and living spaces. I cross the river again on another bridge and sunbathe my exposed skin. I attempt to enter another museum that had caught my eye earlier, one dedicated to sea travel and exploration, but I am turned away when I don’t have two euros cash. The woman behind the counter’s complete disinterest and sour attitude prevent me from searching out an ATM. It grates me that someone working in the domain of cultural education wouldn’t be more interested and inviting. I’m being overly critical here, but it’s only because I love museums, and her attitude turned away one of the very few visitors of the day.

I stretch my legs again walking back over towards the palace on the main side. I jaunt down to the riverside and find the banks littered with people and ice cream and dogs and books. I find a flat grassy patch to dig into Orwell’s Fascism and Democracy, a collection of political essays from a name we all know well. Fascinating stuff from the guts of 1940’s England. The tranquility of a sunny, quiet, semi-studious afternoon takes over, and for the first time in ages I catnap outside. Bits of dry grass in my hair, I finish reading and hop up. I mount the stairs to find the town above, feeling heat-induced fatigue. As late afternoon arrives, I meander back to the train station to meet my blablacar back Toulouse. The car contains commuters who find my Americanness uninteresting. Fair enough. We skate by rush hour traffic, and I take two metro lines to arrive at my hostel for the final night. Tomorrow my bus leaves for Montpellier at 7:10am, so I plan for a quiet night in.

I would recommend Albi as a day trip for all and any passing through Toulouse. The town is not only adorable, even gorgeous, but the Toulouse-Lautrec Museum absolutely justifies the travel. Plus, dipping out of large, boisterous cities for a bit of clean and clear quiet always does us some good.

Until next time,

Emily

Times in Toulouse

I glide into Toulouse along the Canal du Midi rendered hazy green by the calm water and riverside trees below the dazzling sun. From the station, I head straight in towards the red heart of the town. Called la ville rose, Toulouse sprawls out in sandy, brickish colors. Rather than the grey limestone of the North, a softened red builds the structures around me as I infiltrate downtown. I step into the Place du Capitole from one of the many intersecting commercial streets. Near immediately, a gaggle of police officers cross my path and remind me to wear my mask. Of course for me this was not a reminder but a notification that in Toulouse, starting that very day, wearing the mask had become mandatory within city limits. I slip on my floral facial fabric and continue on to my hostel.

I find where I’ll be staying the next four nights tucked into a colorful sidestreet dripping with ivy and political graffiti that borders the Saint-Sernin neighborhood and basilica. I settle into my room, shared with three others, and arrange my things on my bed near the in-room kitchenette. We make small talk in French, and the conversations follow a similar pattern each time as they work through why I speak French as someone from the United States. To brag, I’ll add that one girl incredulously asks how many French parents I have.

Unlike in Bordeaux, I thought ahead before arriving in Toulouse, and already have multiple meet-ups planned. I infiltrated a Facebook group called “Toulouse Blabla Exchange” some months ago, and a week before arriving, posted there explaining I would be passing through the town during my vacation. I made it clear that I was looking to get a group together for drinks, but of course messages from guys misunderstanding the definition of ‘group’ inundated my inbox. After shifting through the creepy messages, I successfully cobbled together a group of about ten for a drink. Besides that, I was able to get into contact with a few women happy to meet me for lunches, bike-riding, and even a trivia night.

Comfortably situated in the hostel, I meander out and into the surrounding streets. At the base of the photogenic Saint Sernin Basilica, I snap photos of angled sun over rising red and white bricks foregrounded by gilded intricate fencing as green leaves of thirsty trees frame the idyllic image. I do the regular circular tour of the glowing interior plastered with ancient religious frescoes depicting a hierarchy lived and learned in chipping paint. This tour has an additional subterranean loop where we gander at ornate altars housing remains of priests and bishops long past. With a historic site seen, I switch gears to the social side as I stroll back downtown in search of a bar not far from the Garonne riverside where I will find an American who has found a welcoming French board game community.

She strikes me as eccentric and kind. Having not met too many Americans in my months abroad, I enjoy hearing her experiences in Toulouse as a Tapif assistant. She rattles off her personal culture shocks, her grasp of the French way, and bits on her corner of the United States. We have a charming evening together with the large Toulousain group playing Loup-Garou and a French version of Cards Against Humanity. We make plans for lunch the following Monday before parting ways at the end of the jovial Franco-american evening.

The next morning I set out to meet another girl near one of the copious rentable bike racks. This friendly character moved to Toulouse for her university studies, and left her family back home not far from Besançon. She I find atypically French when it becomes clear I will describe her as open, chatty, and kindly curious about foreign cultures. We greet each other warmly under the shifting playful shadows of enormous trees above. She shows me the bike trail we’ll follow along the Canal du Midi out of town to a well-reviewed restaurant canalside. Google Maps promises just under two hours by bike – a challenge, but not impossible. So, we rent the bikes for the coming hours and set off along the green water Southward. We peddle the heavy city machines, all while swapping stories of studies, of regions, of travels, of interactions, and of boys. Small family tugboats of baby blues and pale yellows line alternating sides of the flowing canal itself lined by tall flowering trees in full summer bloom. Farther out, the city and its sprawling aeronautics industrial structures fade into the distance. Beyond the canal we see heavenly fields of corn and wheat sail into view under the August sun.

The dreamlike effects of the gorgeous environment evaporate slowly, subtly as leg muscles strain. About an hour and a half into this first leg of the journey, I ask like a child of five in the backseat of a suburban minivan road tripping between flyover states if we are almost there. Not only are we not, we are not yet to the halfway point, meaning there has been an ever so slight miscalculation of time and distance. Of course, I have verified on my own phone and am equally stumped as to why we are not making the time given by Maps. We continue. At the three hour mark, we see that a third of the journey lies ahead, and while Maps says 25 minutes, we will not be fooled again. Lunchtime hunger sets in and the bikes become heavier as we begin the return without having found the restaurant. To make matters worse, we have now missed the two hour gap designated for the midday meal, meaning the restaurants we pass on the way back do not serve. Not in as good of shape as I thought, I have to take multiple breaks since my thigh muscles refuse to coordinate with my heart’s desire to reach the destination. At long last we reach a suburb of Toulouse, Labège, where we find chain restaurants denying the social customs of small business France by serving lunch past two o’clock. When we roll back into Toulouse, our receipt states seven and a half hours on the bikes.

We weave our way to the bar where the get-together of internet strangers will occur in a few minutes. We find terrace seating on the crowded patio covered with black awnings and British logos. Others stagger over in ones and twos until we have a healthy mix of tourists and students, and myself the teacher, and my friend the sole Francophone. After introductions and drinks, stories and country counting, we feel at ease among expats and swap tips and tricks and politics. I smile at the ease of throwing this together, writing a paragraph post that got foreigners out and connecting through multiple languages. Long before the wee hours, I call it a night, legs wobbly and weak from my day on the bike.

I greet the next morning with an espresso and a chocolatine, for which I fumble the delivery due to my effort to use the correct lingo. The man behind me in line makes no such effort and orders a pain au chocolat from a hesitant barista. I tour the Saint-Raymond museum that sits just facing the Saint-Sernin cathedral two steps from my place. I pay three euros for access to the temporary exhibit on the Wisigoths. Called “Savages” by the Romans who in retrospect meant “Non-Roman”, this community moved Westward in Europe in the first centuries, eventually clashing with the Empire at the end of the fourth century not far from Toulouse. The exhibit includes lengthy panels of information on all domains of life accompanied by interactive elements for children, children’s texts, and audio guides with stories, jokes, and music. In all, I found the temporary display more intriguing than I did the upstairs rooms of Roman architectural remains and bust after bust of Roman man, unnamed.

I grab lunch in the sunny Japanese garden with an au pair from Barcelona. We nibble our cheap sandwiches throughout our conversations on life in France, Spain, and the United States. Through the exchange of stories and facts and histories, we spend a pleasant afternoon. We stroll downtown to reach the Place du Capitole again. She shows me that the now administrative building actually accepts visitors, and we need only to have our bags checked to walk around inside. The imposingly grand walls of the age-old palace exhibit light and dreamy neoclassical canvases stretching ceiling to floor. We reach the final hall, not unlike the mirrors of Versailles, where instead of reflections, we have a perch from which to overlook the bustling square below a sun that splits cumulus clouds to highlight the bright white sky.

In the next couple days, I trod the paths of Toulouse constantly, finding cafés, English-language bookstores, peaceful park benches, restaurants specializing in duck, infinite cathedrals, tea shops with expensive sweets, and friends of friends who invite me for pizza and board games. While I don’t hit every museum within a bus line radius like usual, my time in Toulouse feels well spent, having connected with people over coffee, meals, and games of all sorts. For my final day in the Occitania region, I actually travel out of the city and to the nearby, riverside town of Albi. Hot and heavenly, I’ll write about that in the next post.

Thanks for reading,

Emily