One of the many fountains in Aix.
Unfortunately, I’ve neglected this dear blog of mine when I should have been using it to it’s fullest.
To update: these past few months I’ve been studying studio art in Aix-en-Provence, France.
In order to spare you from a pile up of journal entries about my experience here I’ll share the highlights, then move on.
Sunday, January 25th
Day two in Aix
I made it. After fourteen hours of traveling I had made it to the Marseille airport in Provence, France: “La Cote d’Azur”. It was grey and rainy but I could see the water clearly- hovering uncomfortably low to it in the little jet piloted by the Irish mafia. It looked like the water you find in a mini golf course that’s been died blue. I wondered if it was actually safe to swim in.
After the most turbulent landing I’d ever survived all five of us onboard climbed out of the plane to find unmarked hallways leading to what I hoped was the exit. I found the waiting area where a cheerful man waited waving a sign that read “American students”. He smiled and said “Bonjour! Liz? My name is Leigh Smith, I am the director of IAU. You can go grab a seat with everyone right over there!” I sat down next to ten other students who looked as tired as I was and equally miserable. Each person clung to their baggage like they clung to the US. I did not, however, have anything to cling to.
I had left my bag in the airport terminal.
Mortified, I walked over to Leigh and admitted I forgot to stop at baggage claim. Within 30 seconds I was running through the back-way into customs with a French customs officer. The first bag on the rotunda? Mine. It wasn’t the best start to the trip but all was not lost. In America, it would’ve taken me hours to get my bag back. I wondered if French customs was that lenient of if Leigh was that good.
We filed into the shuttle bus with sloping shoulders and tired eyes. The bus driver was sprite and cheery and French. He made fun of my large suitcase and apologized for leaving it last.
After an uneventful bus ride from Marseille to Aix, I was introduced to Madame Le Rouge. In my jet-lagged, nervous, anxious state- I immediately became frustrated with the language barrier there was between us. I became even more anxious when she forgot the name of my roommate and started mumbling things. She asked me a few questions and I struggled to answer them in broken French. After 30 hours of travel, I wasn’t ready to articulate my life story for her. So she kept rambling on about the right time to take a shower, random things about her life, and how she was going to run things around the house. I immediately felt suffocated and out of place. Did she really just say her son is in Polynesia or is she asking me if I have allergies?
After settling in a little, I took a short nap then awoke to find an apple on my bedside table. I had told Madame that I liked them. It was such a nice little gesture.
I got out of bed and was finishing to unpack when my new Swedish roommate Katrine invited me to come along to a café with her and her Swedish friends. I thought “This is the new me who takes full advantage of everything France has to offer. Why not?”
Minutes later I’m sitting at a wonderful café with seven Swedish girls explaining the American education system. They all spoke English but were studying French so the table toggled between our three languages. They were so lovely and so down-to earth. I was happy to have found such great European friends on my first day. So I naturally accepted when they invited me to go out with them again later that night.
Now, this was a very important night because Sweden was playing France in handball. After learning I had never heard of handball, the Swedes refused to let me stay home. Apparently Sweden needed my support- face paint and all. I couldn’t believe that less than 24 hours ago I was eating lunch in a restaurant in the city and now I was in the middle of Southern France at a random bar with a Swedish flag on my face. Despite my jet lag, I ventured on into the night with the crazy Swedes, hopping from bar to bar to discothèque. I experienced what felt like the entire club scene of Aix in one night. I’ll never forget how freeing it was to dance in a club completely filled with foreign strangers who I may never see again. The night was a blur of French slang, flashing lights and walking arm and arm down cobblestone alleys with an amazing group of new girlfriends. I walked home at what was eight a.m. U.S. Eastern time completely euphoric but somewhat delusional with exhaustion.
You can find more of my photos of the weekend market on facebook here:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2131894&id=6912703&l=90b5
More posts and photos to come…
