What to even call it these days?

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.

Observations

In France, cities come alive their own pace. Mornings are quiet, brasseries, markets and clothing stores open at their leisure. People begin to fill the streets, walking to their destinations, or just walking. Carousels and parks are everywhere, well water fountains are nearly nonexistent. Wine is cheap and delicious, and drunken anywhere, anytime. Soda is pricey, lemonade is sparkling water, and water bottles cost more than breakfast. French fries are fries and French onion soup is onion soup. Transportation is easy, walking is common and enjoyed. Bikes are public and cyclers are respected, and cars are just sort of there. Parking is usually underground, streets are one-way. Sidewalks are ambiguous, Crosswalk lights are suggestions. Meals are light but definitely not rushed, waiters are kind but service is minimal, tips are included. manners are expected but smiles are not. Conversation is valued but so is alone time. Ingredients are wholesome and bread is a dork. Diets exist but exercise is just getting around. Litter is accepted and recycle bins are rare, buildings are beautiful and public spaces are used. Loitering is better than rushing, and reading is easier than watching TV. Music is American and clothes are from everywhere, tourists are the ones poorly dressed. Flowers are appreciated and line the balconies, and lawns are stones instead. But most of all, there's always a place to sit back, sleep, relax, and enjoy France.

Bones and goodbyes

For every new charm is another goodbye, to people, places, a favorite food, the list goes on. Today was my last day in Paris. I know, I've had quite a few of those... I guess it became the city I couldn't leave. With so many famous attractions and hidden gems, it's hard not to find a niche there, no matter what you're in the mood for.

Especially if you're in the mood for getting scammed. Today I waited in line with a girl I met in Bruges to buy a metro pass for the day. I was very excited because I had finally figured out the strategy for choosing a ticket depending on the day's destination(s). I've developed a love-hate relationship with Paris' transport system, which is elaborate and convenient and efficient and used... It's also a playground for bumping into irritated locals and staring at maps very minute or two. Anyway, I approached the machine with confidence in my hard-earned understanding. In line, Elyse and I wondered about the man in a blazer standing next to the machine, helping people (tourists) figure its ins and outs, so we were weary but interested. He asked if we needed help and I said what we needed but continued to maneuver the buttons myself, until he said, "no that's in zone 4"... He started pushing buttons and I changed them so we could pay separately but in the end my card didn't work (as it usually didn't in those metal beasts but every once in a while made life easy...), so he offered his own and I paid him back in cash. Long story short, he was very sneaky in changing the ticket I actually bought for one that didn't get us very far, charging me for a whole day worth of zones that I never intended to visit. Another lesson learned: when someone tries to help before asked, hold onto the confidence you once had. In the heat of the moment it's hard to accuse someone of cheating, but the frustration that follows such trickery is like a leech. Benefit of the doubt is a treasure that must be handled with care, for if you give it out too easily, you'll waste 11 euro and the satisfaction of mastering a system, but if you refuse it to anyone, why live in this world community at all? Life is tricky, just like the metro system.

Fortunately, I was not in the mood for being scammed this week, and nothing worse happened like that. I was in the mood for croissants, and I always will be now. When I wanted to connect to another lifetime, I went to a museum or somewhere frozen in time. Like the catacombs. My friend and I visited them this morning, and after waiting in like for two hours(!), we descended into the Lutetian stone, which dates back 4,500 million years. Many buildings in Paris were built with this limestone, which explains why quarries underground provided space for workers mine the rock.

Down below, 120,000 square feet hold all the bones that once rested in the Cemetery of Innocents. In the late 1700s the bones were moved into the quarries that lay all throughout Paris. Now inside the sea of quarries are bones and bones and bones. At first the bones were simply dumped underground, but the king made it into a proper memorial by arranging them. The bones are stacked and create a wall, while skulls are lined up amongst the femurs and shins to create a kind of decorum. And these walls of human bones go on and on and on. It's incredible to be amongst so many remains of unnamed figures, all stacked up and mixed together, yet somehow strong and dignified. The catacombs provided an interest glance at the interests of humanity throughout history, from the men who carved out the walls of the quarries to the king who insisted on respecting the parts, to the shutterbugs (more flashers today) that gawk and stroll pass the explanations. So the underground scene was worth the wait, and we enjoyed two crepes to weigh us down.

Crepes, scenic walks, new friends, quiet time...all things I felt for and found. Days and nights on the Seine became my favorite pass-time, and exploring without much of a destination was always in the cards. Traveling alone gave me complete freedom to pursue my own singular desires, and how often does one get to do that?! What I heard was true, that it's harder to find time without others when traveling alone, as many have experiences to share and words to get out (especially to someone who can understand them). But what I've also discovered is how easy it is to be alone, and how rewarding. The freedom to focus on everything surrounding you while at the same time what's happening within... It's beautiful, really. And it creates an energy for times when you are with others and makes those moments all the more special.

Especially those at McDonald's. Ha! Just kidding, but I did to to McD's today. The last place I expected to go, but it was filled with Parisians and I went for the wifi. I also was curious about the difference between the countries' head honcho of fast food. And it was. Somehow the French even manage to have classy McDonalds. Let's just say they know how to sauce up their fries.

So goodbye for now is what I'll finish with, for who knows when Paris will lure me in again (I'll admit I've already started planning my next trip to Europe, but I'll focus now. Inspiration is oozing). On with the show. Next stop: Carcassonne, south France.

Sweetness

In my scramble to see all of Europe in two weeks, I bought all my train tickets for the rest of my trip, cramming my visit to Bruges into one day. While I was disappointed to have such a short time there, it was a great little trip. I arrived in the morning and walked to my hostel, which was the coolest place. There was a bar inside and my room had fourteen other travelers staying in it, two of whom sang California Dreamin' to me as a welcome. We had a great time getting to know each other that night in the hostel's lounge, but first I spent the day strolling the streets of Bruges.

It was a stroll for two reasons, the first being that if I walked too fast I would miss the street signs, which from my experience are very discrete in Europe and mostly aren't on any map. The second reason is that in Bruges, everyone is laid back. Bikes outnumber cars by a great margin, and people are in no hurry to get around. Maybe that's because in this small town, everything is there, especially chocolate. Every other store front lined their shelves with Belgian chocolate and more precisely, Praline chocolate from Bruges. My first task was to buy a mix of this famous treat, which was easy to say the least. Bruges reminded me of Paris with its beautiful little buildings and cobblestone streets, without the harassment from people trying to scam you, and without the big-city feel. Canals wind throughout the town and are lined with windmills.

I bought a hazelnut burger (YUM) and vegan fries with curry sauce from a local joint and carried my dinner up the hill to a windmill with a nice view of the old towers. Although I was soon surrounded by groups of tourists taking pictures in front of the scenery, I enjoyed every bite (and probably featured in the background of many photos, chomping away...).

Earlier in the day I walked to the top of the Belfry tower, 366 winding stairs to the big bell at the top, and could see its workings spin and move to make the quarter-hourly chimes. The view was nice, and the "museum" of information on the way up was mediocre... But the people watching was quite entertaining. The stairwell is narrow and the steps are small, and tourists are winded. I watched the look on their faces as they considered whether the entrance fee was worth the hike, the view and the body heat from other like-minded sightseers. Now on my list is to see the film In Bruges, in which two men travel around Bruges and make their way to the top of Belfry.

I visited little art galleries and shops in the area, stopping for the serenity of the canals, which were filled with swans and boats. I bought an antique spoon for my silverware collection and took my time exploring, passing many flower pots and bicycles.
That night I went back to the hostel to enjoy Belgian beer with my roommates. It was very tasty and went well with the fun atmosphere of the hostel's bar. My British and Australian friends had some lingo that created a funny language barrier even between English speakers, but that was a funny relief in relation to the actual divide that in which I've existed for the past week. In Belgium it's especially interesting, since their primary language differs depending on the region. In Brussels, it's all French and very little English. In Bruges most people speak English, but the main language is Flemmish, a Dutch dialect. Many of the locals, especially older generations prefer French, while the younger generations choose to study English. Being the tourist destination that Bruges now is, they also provide translations in Spanish and Netherland's Dutch. Soooo.... Lots of language is happening. And when people greet each other or run into each other, people have the same stuck expression as they don't know how to react.

After such a short trip to Bruges, I left very satisfied with my experiences, and I definitely want to go back one day. I returned to Paris and cancelled my train to Bordeux, as I wanted to rethink my plan for my final days before Seville. I spent yesterday walking around Paris, maintaining the relaxed ease I captured in Bruges, found a used book store that finally had English ones, and went to a local flea market where I bought a handcrafted leather notebook after talking to the Frenchman who makes them about his process and his artistic passion.

With a bag of remains from the hot, humid week I went to the Laverie, where someone taught me how to use the machines, since the directions were in French. I was surprised that people sat and waited for their washes, often just sitting and watching the spins. There is something about actually doing something, going to the Laverie and doing laundry and being there until it's done, that takes the stress away. It's funny to think that devoting one's time to a single activity is uncommon in the states, and I can say that we're really missing out on something here. I thought about time and the way it feels differently throughout the days, years. I thought maybe when we are presented with time each moment, and we try to use that single moment in multiple ways, we are creating a great illusion for ourselves. Often we think time is flying by, when really we are chopping it all up and expecting whole results. I think this is one of the things that the French and people of Bruges have done well, spending their time strategically. More simply maybe, leaving out many extremities that Americans are proud of , but they find complexity within it, in time as a whole. While it's uncommon to smile at passerby's in France unless more is expected to come beyond that, there is a kindness in saving these greetings for more genuine moments of interaction. It's been interesting to see how our views really create our realities, and it's amazing in many ways to feel that the world can be anyway we want it to be.

So there it is, the sweet fruit of my labor, the enlightenment I came here for. I am overwhelmed that it's only begun.

My missing blog

You might have noticed that I skipped a day on my blog. I'm upset about it too, but I have a good reason. On the evening of my boat ride, I watched the people on the Seine with warmth, and some jealousy too. I didn't know then that in a few short hours, I would arrive at my hostel and meet a girl and boy from California, who go to Westmont College and are close friends with my friend in high school. Being in such a small world, they invited me to their table full of students from the US and Great Britain. Before I knew it, we were on the metro on our way to the Seine to do just as the Parisians do (Well, in English). This was the night of my first European all-nighter, and it was fantastic. We shared our experiences, suggestions, horror stories, and ideas. When we asked the British boy questions, he often wouldn't answer, as he refused to shout over everyone like we Americans do. I laughed at this and admired his acceptance. One of the great things about being abroad and around other traveling students is that nearly everyone is open to understanding one another, nonjudgmental, and not afraid to make mistakes. People have embraced the bittersweet fact that the others you meet are in your life briefly. There is something magical about not getting too attached to people and places and things. Or to plans. Many travelers I've met have missed a train or don't know where their next destination might be, and there is an ease that comes with that. My itinerary, while I tried to restrict it to my first four days, would have brought me out of Paris early this week. But because of my inexperience at reserving trains, finding stations on the map, even having to pay for wifi all led me to stay for six days in Ile d'France, four of them in the heart of Paris. I had many amazing experiences during that time, and despite the Euros wasted on cancelled bookings and last-minute train reservations, I couldn't be happier with the journey it became.

So I continue on now to Bruges, Belgium, with a heartache for the city of love but a comfortable au revior, which if I spoke French would not be goodbye, but see-you-soon. (Although I will pat myself on the back: at every brasserie, I ordered in French until I reached my limit of communication or until the waiters noticed my accent and quickly switched to English, of which most of them knew at least a little. During my time in Paris I quickly became impressed with the number of languages that Parisians and European travelers could speak. I think it says much about their cultural views.)

Now on the high-speed rail to Bruges, I've enjoyed the scenic views as I flew by them from my window seat, and the darling, delicious breakfast on the train. Since I missed my train, evidenced by the gnarly scrape on my knee I got from running for it, I had to take the next one, which cost me a little extra sum, but for two Euros more I could ride first class, which served the dainty breakfast that made up for my mistake. Plans change and things happen, but I'm learning that it's all about letting go and enjoying the ride.

Pictures: okay, so I went back to stay longer and took a picture of the tower at night... Let's say I did it for you ;)

I had the best French onion soup ever before I parted with Paris... although here it's just onion soup.

Capturing the moment

Since my last entry, I spent my day at the Musee Louvre. I arrived around noon and didn't leave until its closing five hours later. With no one to pull me away from the pieces of art that fill the exquisite structure, which was erected as a castle outside of Medieval Paris as protection, I dwelled over every beauty with my favorite companion, the audio guide.

The Louvre... a beautiful castle filled with glorious works of art

My listening tour began underground in the moat that surrounded the old castle, leading me through the so-called masterpieces and stopping at great works along the way. There's so much to be said about the contents of the louvre, including the people who spend time there. Tourists filled every space of the gran place, snapping picture after picture. It was interesting to watch them step in front of one work to the next, getting their picture and moving on, and I wondered if they would look back at their photos having even remembered them at all. Note to the world, when you are capturing, or trying to capture a historically renowned image, TURN OFF YOUR FLASH. I cringed at the lights as they slowly damaged the works of art and added to the collection of what in my mind become lost moments for the enthused tourists. Not to say I didn't capture a couple here and there... I understand the excitement that causes one to want to preserve every overwhelming feeling of artistic brilliance, but sometimes you have to forgo the postcard to retain the memory.

Me and Mona Lisa!

I experienced such enlightenment later that night, as I rode on the Batobus down the Seine and watched the river glisten under the Eifel tower. As the lights shone on the tower and flickered in the water, I was sad at first not to have my camera and instead a dead battery on my phone. But it didn't take long for my mind to change, as I looked around at the picture-takers and thinking back to visitors at the Louvre. Looking through a screen, my memory of the Tour d'Eifel would be much different, because no matter how many times I would look back at that image, I could never get those moments when I was taking in all the beauty back again. I realized that when a moment passes, it's passed, no matter how well you've captured it. So I hummed a soundtrack to my view of the Seine from the balcony of my tourbus, trying (and failing) to match the beauty to my French-ish tune, but it surpassed me. They say Paris at night is a whole different experience, and it's true. From the people sitting along the Seine, drinking wine and having conversation, to the sparkles of light, everything feels calm and alive all at once. Everything feels beautiful.

So I captured the moment in the best way there is, by just being in it.

A day in Paris

I spent my third day in France in the heart of Paris. I am proud to say I made it from hotel to hostel without missing a train or getting lost-- a great and first-time success. On my walk to the Young & Happy Hostel, I stopped at a brasserie and enjoyed my first croissant, and I mean I enjoyed it. I couldn't have been in a better mood, walking the streets of Paris with flakes of my croissant blowing away as I sacred every bite. It's safe to say I know what I'll be eating for breakfast tomorrow (and maybe every day after that). I dropped off my pack in storage for the day and headed out with no destination in mind. I checked out the shops and made my way to the Seine, where I got a 2-day pass to travel by boat from one popular destination to another. Since it was mid-afternoon by the time I got there, having cruised by boutiques, the Pantheon, and Notre Dame on foot, I decided to save my trip to the Louvre for tomorrow and headed to the Eiffel Tower.

I can't say it was something I was dying to see, but I knew I couldn't leave Paris without a visit under my belt. I brought a brie sandwich along and sat under the tower as I enjoyed the cheese and the view. I took my share of pictures along with the rest of the tourists, but many folks, I assume the locals, we're napping on the grass. So, I decided to nap too. It was a peaceful way to enjoy the historic monument, especially in comparison to those who waiting in line underneath the tower to climb in an eyesore of an elevator taking them to the top. I guess I'm a little bitter about the blury line that divides art and attraction, as the iron lady is the most visited paid-attraction in the world. It was created as a centerpiece for the World's Fair in 1889Erected in 1889 as the entrance arch to the 1889 World's Fair, which would celebrate the centennial of the French Revolution. As the tallest structure in Paris, I first saw the tower from the Pantheon, which was a pleasant surprise that made me think, 'Wow, I'm in Paris'.

After my nap I had an Italian ice cream and made my way back to the hostel, where I worked up the courage to introduce myself to two girls who spoke English with a heavy accent. Although we parted ways, they later invited me to share wine, and we talked about our travels. They are from Germany and traveling around Europe before starting at the University (not college, as that equivocates high school). They are 20 like me, but because of Germany's education system, they have yet to start secondary school although already know more about what they want to do with their careers than I do, and have been studying for them since sixteen. I got a glimpse of life as a teen in Europe from Nastia and Jana, and we parted with Facebook contact information and tired legs from all the walking that our travels require.

Basilique Saint Denis

Today I took a trip to the first Gothic cathedral, the basilica of Saint Denis. On the way, I stopped at a brasserie and had a crêpe banane-- it was almost as delicious as the café crème. The waiter as usual seemed disappointed when at first I spoke very little, and awful french. I kept trying, and before I left he had asked me where I was from and told me he liked Americans. (He laughed when I replies that I liked French people.)

I got to the basilique after a couple hours of travel (mostly consisting of getting lost). In the 12th century, Abbot Suger rebuilt parts of the abbey church using artistic and structural techniques that would make it the first of its kinds. Although I didn't get to find it today, Suger signed his name in the stone, an uncommon practice of the old ages to take credit for such work. He must have known what a masterpiece he was creating because boy! is it beautiful. Despite the construction happening to restore many of the stained glass windows that have been destroyed time and again, the cathedral was a sight to see. Filled with tombs of nearly every French king from the 10th to the 18th century and many of their family members, the church became a place of pilgrimage and honorable burial place.

My favorite part though, as maybe Suger intended, we're the windows. The cathedral, with its incredibly high ceilings for that time period, is filled with colorful glass including cobalt blue, and when the sun shines through, rainbow specks decorate the architecture. I learned today that Suger focused on the stained glass windows as a symbol of God, as light shines through the windows to create such beauty without harming them. I learned many many things on my audio tour, much of which went in one ear and out the other (history has never been a strength of mine). I spent hours in that cathedral, listening to every bit of commentary on the tombs and architecture from the audio guide. With his French accent, it was the most English I've heard in two days.

French people like to sing. As I sit outside of my hotel, I hear men singing classical music to one playing violin inside, and the ones outside decided to join in. Another is playing a little guitar on the lawn. Every other metro I get on has a musician or a dancer performing for change or just because. It's funny what different cultures do with free time.

French people also like cheese. See that photo? That was my salad... Ad yes, somewhere underneath the delicious mountain of cheese lie cucumbers and tomatoes in dressing, the tasty dinner I had after a great visit to the Basilique.

Send me on my way

"There are two basic approaches to dressing: stay in the same town and change clothes every day, or wear the same clothes and just change towns," says my most adored summer read, First-Time Europe. So here I am, having just finished packing my Vegabond Tour 40 backpack from REI to accompany me on my journey abroad. OK, maybe I packed more than one outfit, but I'm excited to say that everything I need will be on my shoulders, and beyond that is pure experience.

I can guess what my feelings will be getting on the plane tomorrow morning, as I'll try to grasp that my trip is actually beginning. I can reckon my thoughts in Toronto during my layover will be more along the lines of an anxious haze from long hours in crowded airports. But I can't imagine how I will feel stepping off the Boeing 777 airplane in Paris. After a summer of neurotic preparation, resisting the urge to plan out every minute of my travels, I will finally be in Europe, where I can do just about anything. Wow, am I lucky. Lucky and grateful, and more than ready to embark on this adventure. One thing I do know is, my luggage won't be weighing me down.