There are quite a few differences between Paris and southern France: the accent, the transportation, the scenery, the crowds... But one part of French life holds true: the breakfast. This sweet spread includes baguettes with butter and orange marmalade or berry jam, a croissant, orange juice, and coffee or chocolat, which is a thicker hot chocolate. Croissants can be dipped in chocolat or in honey, but they have almost been too delicious not to enjoy plain. (almost.) As you can tell, I miss French food already, and I'm still here!
Anyway, I've had a nice final stop in Carcassonne. My hostel is actually an old castle in Malves, a little village outside the city, where there's not much except the cafe and a market, which are open just a few hours a day. I rode a bike 11km into Carcassonne yesterday to visit the Château and ramparts of the city. The medieval city of Carcassonne bustles inside ramparts (walls) that were built during the reign of Louis IX when the viscounty of Carcassonne became part of the royal domain in 1226. 
The city was originally used to protect the border between France and Aragon, but was abandoned by its people beginning in 1659 when the region was annexed by the kingdom of France. In 1844, famous architect Viollet-le-Duc was appointed to restore the city, becoming one of the largest restoration projects in Europe's history. At first Viollet-le-Duc, also known for his historical yet creative restorations and additions at Notre Dame, had modest to restore the towers of Carcassonne, but in 1862 he put forth a second proposal to fully restore the full inclosure. So today we have a grand little city, frozen in medieval time, with shops and restaurants featuring regional specialties. After my tour through the castle and ramparts, I took part in Carcassonne's regional specialty: Chateulet. It is a local dish made of duck and pork (Eek!) that tastes like a chili. I put my thoughts aside on this one, determined to taste the local cuisine as I sat at a restaurant beside the château. I have to admit it was tasty, although I wouldn't be tempted to have it again any time soon. I guess I put my vegetarianism on hold for a reason. 
Learning about the walled castle as I walked through centuries of history and hard work was a lot to absorb. It's amazing what was done for protection back then: ramparts, moats, slits in the walls for shooting that surrounded the entire city! It's funny to think about what we do now in the name of defense. Later that evening I was able to see the castle at night, which was just magnificent.
I sat in front of la Basilique Saint Lazaire, Carcassonne's old Roman-Gothic cathedral, waiting for the restaurant to open to get my taste of Carcassonne. I began to look back on my trip, unable to help thinking about its near close, and I began to feel anxious. Putting my pen to my journal I wrote out my anxiety, naming it excitement for the new type of adventure I will have in Seville. Then I started thinking about home, how comforting it is. But maybe it seems more so that way because I can appreciate it in a different light, having spent some time around other ways of living. I wonder if traveling would be such a beautiful, wonderful thing without home to return to. Compare, compare, that's all I can do. All that really matters at the end of all this is what I will bring home. Yes, the one-night loves and the passing moments of overwhelming experience are all part of my grand adventure, and they will make their marks no matter what I do. But... I don't know, is there a but? It's hard to say now, at this moment, when I feel every shifting who I am. Will I lose it all when I return to the place that grew me? I don't think so. I surely hope not. I have my journal at least.... It's all so bittersweet, the passing of time. Like the stone and brick of the walled city, every moment will make its claim, lost in the crowd of the rest, but nonetheless invaluable.
As I sat and thought, as I've done often these past weeks, I asserted in my ink that life doesn't move in one direction. Moments are fleeting. Decisions are inevitable and sometimes hidden and sometimes bot your own. But one thing is always for certain: life will move. The question is, will it move you?
I'm not sure what these blogs are meant for. A record of my paths? A history lesson? A way to release my inner philosophy major stuck without a classroom?
Well, stuck is one thing I'm not. I can assert that with some sense of certainty (although modern America might disagree if I continued on like this for the rest of my treasured future...). Anyway, I'm torn between treating this blog as a scrapbook and a diary, as everything I've experienced thus far affects me in different ways. So I'm sorry to say, if you're confused by my jumble of writing styles and vomit of thoughts, I can't help you. I can hardly grasp it myself... One minute I'm washing my clothes in the sink, and the next I'm learning how to taste wine (swirl, smell, a few slurps, and some air-bubble swallow make up the gist of what I gathered from the French woman who wasn't exactly intending to teach me). So here I am in my hostel on the day before I take flight for Sevilla, where my whole new adventure begins. I am experiencing a mosh posh of nostalgia, excitement, nervousness, anxiousness, courage, hesitation... Pretty much name it and I'll add it to the list. I also recognize many of these emotions as feelings I had before coming to Paris, and I don't think that could have turned out better.
So I hope you'll hang in there with me, as I spend my semester in Seville and hopefully many other places. I've enjoyed sharing what is probably a sliver of this journey with you, or at least imagining someone reading this blog, so that it begins to feel like more than a dream.
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