Munich, Germany

When we crossed into Germany the day after Strasbourg, I knew that I had come to a place which I would thoroughly enjoy. On the outskirts of urban areas in Germany, one can find tiny, rectangularly-shaped plots of land with tiny tool sheds and rows of vegetables, which serve as short reprieves from city life and a little gardening recreation for the urbanites. In many of these spaces, a family and/or friends sit around a fire, enjoying a picnic and a few stories, and in others you will find a serious, lone gardener out on his or her knees, trying to make the most of their over-priced possession. The plots were the beginning of my interpretation of the German people as being a proper, disciplined and tidy lot.

At the train station in Stuttgart, there are smoking boxes dispersed along the platforms, and smokers must be within their perimeters to smoke legally. The smokers looked like inmates confined to their cells, the dregs of society whose stain must be limited to a 10 ft. x 5 ft. allotment. What a comical scene it made, especially when the smokers would come to the edge of their enclosure, peering out longingly at the smokeless freedom they left behind, or, even better, when they would pace the box’s boundaries either inspecting to make sure that they indeed did have as much space as surveyed previously, or perhaps to enjoy what little exercise their tobacco cloisters allow. I often wandered if the smokers felt some sort of culture shock upon liberating themselves from their receptacles and reintegrating themselves back into society. Do they feel suppressed? Although they may be detained and separated in temporary exile, do they not feel more freedom in their box, where they can smoke to their heart’s content and truly express who they are? While in captivity, do they speak of the outside world, the mass of society which places them in their seclusion, as being exterior from them, much the way someone in France speaks of the United States or vice versa? I could also see it as sort of a country, where the area around its boundary lines are of highest values because of their views and the space by the ashtray was the middle, heavily industrialized region of the state. By now, this subject has been exhausted, but I can't help exposing some of the hardships of our oppressed and banished co-humans.

Five hours after leaving Strasbourg, we had arrived in Munich, a city-state in the Bavarian region of Germany. The ride was pleasant. I love the six-seat compartments in trains, as I can stretch out my long legs and be as comfortable as I would be in my bed at home. The scenery was beautiful and different from what I had seen in France. Shortly after our arrival, we checked into our hostel and made our way to the center city. Immediately, I found an interesting mannerism of the German population. At each and every cross-walk, pedestrians wait for the sign allowing them to cross before crossing. Even if there is no traffic to be seen or the tramway has already passed, at a time when the only injury that could occur is a trip and a fall, they will wait for the sign to walk. The reason for this lawful fidelity is that there is a fine of forty euros for anyone who crosses before they are allowed. It is a small aspect of the German society, but I found it very interesting, especially when compared to France and the United States and their more liberal interpretations of pedestrian rules.

The city of Munich is new and massive. The streets are clean and packed with promenaders enjoying the sights, smells and shopping of Munich’s center. There is a massive market in this area, where you can find many different, regional products from cheese, sauerkraut and several types of meat to herbs, fragrances and steins. Beer was everywhere. The market was set up in several different kiosks, and flowers and herbs hung over their rooftops. The scene was a pungent mix of sweet, floral, funky (cheese) and smoky scents. Beer, hot dogs and bratwursts were always at an arm’s length away, a very comforting setup when you have an empty stomach. For lunch, we went to a beer garden at one end of the market. The food, mostly potato salad, sauerkraut and sausages, was in a hut at the front of this area, next to a similar building which served as the beer trough. We sat down with a “brat” and a liter of beer, and I could not help but draw parallels to a baseball game back home. The garden was around thirty yards wide and long, its massive interior being a dense conglomeration of long, wooden picnic tables. There were men in lederhosen carrying around five, one-liter steins to friends and family back at their drinking stations, a most impressive feat. The atmosphere was quite merry and relaxed, and people would sit for hours drinking beer and talking. With as much beer being consumed at one time by so many people, I would have thought that there would have been some insensible actions, but everyone was tame and fun-loving. Like the cafe in France, the beer garden is a place to come together, consume a spirit or two and enjoy the day. It was a far cry from the arm wrestling and keg lifting that I had expected to encounter, as it is a most accepting family environment.

After resting away a bratwurst and beer-filled stomach, we went back down to the center city for the evening. We shopped and walked and were lucky to have nice weather. After a few hours, our stomachs were once again depleted, so we made our way to a hofbrauhaus. The hofbrauhaus is much like a beer garden indoors. It was situated in a two-story building. On each floor, there were several halls of wooden picnic tables, where people ate and drank to their fill. In the center of the building was a courtyard of tables surrounded by the exterior walls of the different halls. We found a table on the second floor in a small alcove overlooking the courtyard, as the first floor was packed with patrons. The scene was a little more raucous, as every now and then a group of men in lederhosen would break out into song and dance, but many families were there with small children as well. The liters of beer, the sauerkraut and the bratwurst were very satisfying, and the cool, black sky and golden candlelight upon the walls and tables created a very agreeable ambiance. It was lightly drizzling outside and a strong gust of wind would penetrate an unclosed door from time to time, but all of these elements only served to lend to the coziness of our situation. I can’t explain it, but the setting was as I pictured Germany to be. Germany has a romantic roughness to it, in my opinion. The weather is harsh, and I still couple lederhosen with axes and chopping wood, but their homes are warm places of reinvigoration from the taxes of laborious toil. I have told my stereotype to my roommate often, who comes from Germany, and she knows exactly to which I refer. The “meat, potato, wood, axe, stein and lederhosen” stereotype of Germany was very real to me when I was there, but, as a tourist, I come into contact with these elements more often. They are the romanticized aspects of Germany not shown by all, but, nonetheless, characteristics which I admire and respect. Their upstanding, prudent and disciplined manner comes into the mix as well, and the whole of it creates a very pure, innocent and simple account of the population. I saw much of the U.S. in Germany and much of Germany in the U.S., a relation far stronger than that which I had previously recognized.

Nice, Monaco, Paris and Strasbourg

For my five followers, ever loyal as you are, I apologize that it's been so long since I wrote last. For me, it's bittersweet. The root cause of my distraction was that I did more in March than I had done in previous months. If I wasn't somewhere else, I was recuperating from being somewhere else, and laziness ruled the day. Yet, one of the greatest things about France is that I get to write about it. More than I had ever thought would occur, this blog has been an activity from which I have realized what I have experienced. So often things just happen, and their explanations and appreciations lag far behind, showing themselves the moment I start to write and analyze them. Therefore, I hate to have not done something that makes me feel so good, and yet am very thankful for a month I will never forget. I'll try to get it all out here and do justice to a time that I will remember forever.

During the past month, my visitors arrived, and it was my task to show them a good time, as well as keep them out of any unfortunate situations. My girlfriend arrived the last few days of February for ten days with me in the south of France. We had planned on going to a few cities in different countries other than France, but, when the time came, I thought it would be best to take her to a few places I had already been and loved. First, we went to Nice. When I was last in Nice, I thought it could not have gotten any better. But, shortly after arriving, while we sat at our breakfast on the Riviera, I realized yes, the colorful buildings, the sea, the hill, the flower market are wonderful, yet the face staring across the table at me beats them by a wide margin. The first night we were there was the last night of Carnival. In one section of Montpellier, the streets were blocked and two grand stands were put up overlooking a passageway where those with enough holiday fervor would dress up as clowns, or as whatever else they chose, stood to be admired. For anyone who is squeamish of clowns, Carnival is no place for you. We saw the floats, mostly massive clowns with jester hats and face paint, and the whole event had a sea world type of a feel to it, in the sense of mermaids, not the amusement park. After walking through the confetti and silly string lined streets filled with dressed up parents and children, we made our way to the Riviera, where we were lucky enough to catch the closing ceremony, a firework show over the sea. I am not a huge fan of fireworks, but the setting was surreal, something of which you dream yet never expect to come to reality. To this day, I think the firework show was in celebration of our arrival, and not of Carnival. What a magnificent night! The events we saw we stumbled upon, yet, nonetheless, they made an excellent introduction to the city.

Day two in Nice was spent going to many of the places I had been my first time. I was eager to see them again and show them off to another. We started the morning off at a cafe on the Riviera for breakfast and coffee, as well as enjoying a view of the aqua blue seas. After breakfast, we ascended the mountain to the chateau at it’s summit for a panoramic view of the bay, the snow-capped Alps to the south and the red-tiled jungle known as Nice. There is something sublime about this hill/mountainside park. It serves as a transport from the chaotic to the serene, the calm, and the beautiful. It’s one of my favorite places on earth. After our descent, we walked the streets of Old Nice, shopping, sight-seeing, and meeting a very friendly orange cat on our way. We repeated this that afternoon, walk a little, shop a little, and be happy.

The following day we went to Monaco, a short 20-minute ride by train from Nice. The track ran along the coast, so we were able to see several scenic coastal villages on our route. Monaco itself seemed too perfect to be real, a truly fascinating place to walk around, which is exactly what we did while there. The city is constructed into the side of a mountain, so to get from one street to another, you must often walk up steps or, if you know where to look, catch an escalator. I loved the underground walkways which connect different streets. The city is literally built into, not on top of, a mountain. The buildings and streets were extremely clean and colorful. Decadent stairs led you to the parallel street below you, and fountains and engravings serenaded the journey the entire way. While there, the image I equated with Monaco was that of a gingerbread village. Neat, tidy, decadent, colorful, much like Nice, but with a stronger hint of richesse, not that Nice is lacking in that regard. I felt as if I had leaned too strongly upon a building, the construction would fall over and collapse, much like the set of a play. After walking around the city of Monte Carlo, and seeing the much famed casino, the Monte Carlo, we ascended a large plateau, where at it’s peak lay the old city of Monaco. The top of the plateau offered a wonderful panorama of the city of Monte Carlo, the bay and its beautiful yachts, and the mountains that lurch to the city’s rear. The plateau is completely different than Monte Carlo and its more modern atmosphere. The tiny village at the top contains the prince’s palace and many other governmental buildings. I was stunned by the amount of cannonballs aligning the peripheral walls of the village. Call me crazy, but I don’t see, or could ever imagine, Monaco being or ever having been a belligerent nation. Nonetheless, everywhere one turns lies a pyramid of cannonballs at the side of an old cannon. We saw the church where the current Prince of Monaco had been ordained, and walked the narrow streets of this most scenic and quaint of hilltop hideaways, all the while taking in beautiful views of the many spectacular harbors and homes. At this point, we were tired and foot-worn, so we headed back to Nice for chinese food and a night’s rest. I’ve been to many cities, and Monaco struck me as the most surreal, a place too polished and decadent to be real. It seems to be a place where life is played by its inhabitants and not lived, a seclusion and a haven from many aspects of the outside world.

The day after our return to Nice from Monaco, we left to return to Montpellier. Over the next few days, we visited the attractions in Montpellier. The Jardin des Plantes, the Musee Fabre and others were as wonderful as the first time I discovered them, only made more special when one is able to show them off to another, much like a souvenir or photo from a past voyage. That weekend we took a quick trip to Avignon, which is one of the great, hidden jewels of Provence. Of course, people know of the town and its palaces, but the crowds are subdued and the atmosphere is calm, it's truly one of the most agreeable spots in the south of France. It’s hard to describe, but the pace is more mature than many other cities. Everyone is nice, and the beauty and history of the city inspires a respectful disposition in its admirers. We went to the Pope’s Palace, where we traversed its massive interior and climbed to the top of its tower for a peak at the surrounding mountains and rivers. Seeing the city from a great height brings a new perspective to the town, as one can see the composition of the city, which made the town such a valuable piece of property in the past. The bridges of Avignon are beautiful as well as famous, being the subject of many songs both in Europe and elsewhere. The oldest and the most famous bridge, serving as the central lane of commerce flowing into and out of the town for many centuries, was, to my surprise, only half the length of the river, but, nonetheless, a most beautiful piece of architecture. I guess it was necessary to boat across the first half of the river. The bridges are necessary because the town sits at the convergence of two wide rivers, which form something of a river peninsula. Upon entering the gates forming the perimeter of the city, I felt as though we had entered a secluded piece of property where the beauty and history of its contents are all one needs to be content and engaged. For a few hours, the town itself takes over and operates separately from its exterior, a fully self-sufficient element of civilization without any urge or need to conform to the trends of other cities, holding faithfully to its image as a living relic of the past and of harmony in the present.

A week after my girlfriend returned to Kentucky, I met a few friends in Paris for a few days of traveling. Paris is the first place that people ask about when I tell them I'm staying in France for a year. I had heard many great things about the city, and yet I had had no real ambition to travel there. Whatever anyone had told me, Paris met and exceeded all of my expectations. It needs no description, like New York or Hong Kong, we all know the world’s greatest and largest cities often better than our own hometowns. My favorite place was the Louvre. I did not expect its size to be as large as it was, and the expansive park just outside its gates was a lovely atmosphere to pass a few hours, even without the art. The night before we went to the Louvre, I went to my first “real” night club, where upon arrival I promised to ban myself from all such venues in the future. You have your club people and your non-club people, and I am content with residing in the latter category. We walked around the city for the rest of our visit, seeing most of the important sites and missing some as well. Overall, I loved Paris. Like New York, I was blown away by its size. The grandeur of the streets, monuments, museums, bridges and towers are beyond comparison. Standing amongst the history of the city is a very special feeling, and its romance is easily discovered. The size of the city is different than any other town in France, especially in the south, and the mixture of languages was impressive. I felt as though I had left France and entered an internationally homogenized territory with no single claim upon it, where a population of every shade, creed and tongue makes its niche.

Our next stop was Strasbourg en route to Germany. We spent an afternoon, evening and night there, enjoying what the city has to offer. Quaint and laid back, Strasbourg is a town of timber-framed dwellings of a decidedly germanic persuasion, and an elaborately constructed sandstone Gothic cathedral, which rises above the town at a towering height. I can remember how ghastly and emaciated the church itself looked to me, not out of any lack of maintenance but by the rigidity and sharpness of its ornamental outer layer, much like a skeleton. Inside the church, we found an astronomical clock which rotates several characters involved in various activities, such as playing an instrument or operating a tool, around a spool and, at each hour, landing and holding itself upon one specific character, which puts itself on display with a dance or serenades the church with a tune or two. According to legend, the creator of the clock was forced to gouge his eyes out afterward, to keep him from reproducing the work. I think we should make many of our modern artists do the same thing. I loved the canals of Strasbourg. We watched a white swan fish for his dinner for fifteen minutes. When you put the two together, swans and canals, they add to the fairy tale atmosphere of a given location. After walking and seeing the streets for a few hours, we settled down for dinner and a few belgian beers, which put to shame what we consume in the United States. The timing of our visit to Strasbourg was perfect. It served as a natural breakpoint between two large cities, Paris and Munich, and as a healthy respite and breath of fresh air from the chaos and clutter of a large city. It is a less ostentatious version of Europe, more quaint and quiet than grand and opulent, a natural haven for a long, slow walk gazing at the beautiful modesty of its structures.

February 25, 2010

As I sit waiting for a certain redhead to arrive, I can't help but think of the first time I came to France many months ago. What comes to mind is a sad, pathetic image of a boy who was, and is, happy to be the sole member of his audience that somber day. I think I first realized what I had gotten myself into while waiting for my flight to Paris. I was sitting in the international terminal of the Atlanta airport, and, suddenly, everything changed. People, language, dress, and my comfortability began to shed its american skin. I can remember taking great strength from my biography of George Washington. Could there be a better model for strength and courage when you begin to doubt yourself than Washington? George was my cocoon, my shield from what was changing in front of me, as I moved further and further into a world I struggled so painfully not to enter. I always told myself I accepted everything, could adapt myself comfortably, and pleasantly, to what was different and unknown. But, I didn't know what I would come to feel. In truth, when put to the test, I became, and was for a long time, the exact opposite of what I had once thought I was capable of. When it came time to put up or shut up, I shut up and wondered why I had put myself in the position where choosing to put up was a necessity. Difference and the unknown are much easier to confront and experience when seen on a television screen or through the pages of a book. I wish I had known this at the time, it might have changed my pathetic appearance. But, how was I to know? Who, what would have prepared me properly? When the world shakes you up a little, I have noticed, it's not so bad.

The international terminal put me in the international world. The Air France flight to Paris put me in the world of the french. I can remember not being able to understand the flight attendants as they spoke french over the intercom. My incomprehension led to what I would consider my longest, most pathetic cram session of my life. I dove deeply into every french grammar book and learning CD I owned, in the vain and unrealistic hope of making myself fluent by the time I reached Montpellier. For once, french was spoken without an english word or phrase after it, and I realized how little I knew. The flight attendant, who seemed to be one of those intellectual types who fit the mold of an intellectual because they try to look and talk like one, made a joke I didn't get. The joke had to do with my studying, a "you are doing a so-and-so" type of joke. Whatever it was, it fell flat with me. I can remember his response. He patted me on the back, looked at me with sorrowful eyes for my lack of intellectuality and said "nevermind." It might seem trivial, but, when uncertain of your own capabilities to the point I was, any slight rebuke makes your whole world seem more ominous and ill-fitting. So, not only was the language problem first surfacing, but I also felt that someone such as myself was not fit for this experience. Whatever it took to be international, I didn't have it. I was a kid from Kentucky who had a dream once and should have left it at that. When it came down to it, I thought I was of the wrong mold, that the place for me was with the same people, in the same city, in a world of custom and the common.

Three things repetitively crossed my mind when I reached the airport in Paris. First, this place is depressing. I find it interesting, from coming and going to France a few times now, how ugly and depressing the terminals are when you arrive, and how beautiful, clean and pleasant the terminals are when you leave, at least that is the case in Paris. The only reason I can fathom is, once they have you in their country, there is no longer a need to mesmerize you with luxury and pageantry. Once you've arrived, you are stuck as a purchaser in a foreign land, and their work, getting you to that point, is done. When leaving, it's simple. They want your business to come back, and a nice memory of your last hour-and-a-half in France helps this cause. Now that that's over, my second thought was, "oh shiza (used different word, which is far less poetic, but

I don't want Mom to see me cuss)! What have I gotten myself into?" My world was spinning as I passed the morning work crews and bright advertisements, written in french, for french companies. I couldn't understand anything at the Customs' station and got lost looking for my terminal. In the plane, my introduction was blunted, but, when I reached Paris, it came at me in full volume. Before, despite the lack of confidence, I took comfort from the situation still being in the future. As far as I knew, miracles were possible, maybe I would receive one. However, as I tried to answer the customs officers' questions about what was in my bag, my situation was in my midst, there was no more time to ask myself if I would be alright. My third thought arose from the second. Once I cleared all official areas, I stopped caring. Whatever happened, happened. If I was to fail myself or surprise myself and do well, I no longer cared. Perhaps, it was the lack of sleep, but I stopped foreshadowing and worrying. I was there, I wasn't happy about it, yet the moment became more important and irrelevant to what I had once thought and predicted. My last memory of the flights was seeing the monuments as I flew above Paris. The crazy blank-mindedness was to only grow with time, but the serenity and beauty of the moment made me realize how lucky I was to be in such a special situation.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Sunday, we set out to see the french infantry museum in Montpellier. Two germans and two americans walked across town, befitted with a panoply of jokes and a thimble full of respect for the modern french infantry, or even the entire french military in general. We couldn't help ourselves to pry at some of the french blemishes of the past. Flanks and feints were far from our minds, and the way to a fashionable retreat was what we thought we stood to learn. Nevertheless, despite our jokes, we trekked a few kilometers only to find ourselves at a military base, sight of the museum, with closed gates and abandoned halls. At some point in the recent past, the museum had been closed and, as of now, is in the process of being relocated to a more prime piece of real estate in the area. Perhaps, we should have taken it as proper amends for our jokes and lack of respect during the walk. Or, maybe we were right. An infantry museum in France is similar to the bocci ball club at the ice rink in Louisville, destined for failure. Sometimes it's not the building, but what the building stands for. Of course, the french infantry and military are respectable, as well as warranting a museum, and we were genuinely excited to hopefully see it. But, I can't help strike at what squashed our hopes for a nice, Sunday afternoon. Add one more to the countless times I have walked far for a bona fide cause and walked back after realizing it was, in reality, not possible. At the same time, my frustrations coordinate with an admiration of mine. The french population seems to really relish the present moment. If you spend more time waiting than doing, you might as well enjoy it. Whether sad, mad or happy, the small stuff warrants concentration and effort, passion and interest. I see far fewer sales clerks ignored by busy-body citizens who find whatever errand they might be on as far more important, and warrants more attention, than human interaction and communication. In France, people seem to treat people more as people and less as a means to attain something. The ice cream vendor and/or waitress are people with opinions to be valued, not skills and a "know how" to be exploited. Perhaps, they hold the solution to your problem or confusion, and you hold the same for them. We, as americans, could improve in this matter, in my opinion. That is not to say we are all "scrooges," walking from place to place and spattering humbugs at those we meet, nevertheless, I think we forget, at times, that we are around people and not objects or objectives. If we give a chance and expend some energy, maybe we could have a little more fun.

This past Sunday, football came to France. Throughout my stay, when asked which sports I prefer to play and watch, I have received cold replies, just as I bevy injustices towards soccer, to my life-long attachment to football. So, when I was informed of a Super Bowl party put on by the local, professional football team, I gravitated to it with excitement. Finally, I was to be around a handful of men and women who shared my hardiness for the game.

The game started shortly after half-past midnight Sunday night. Having to be up the next morning for class, I made it to shortly after the start of the third quarter, returning then for a few hours of rest before class the next morning. What did I find? Mostly, it was much as you would see and experience in millions of american homesteads the night of the big game. If one can imagine, or retrieve from memory, the sight of a large quantity of food, beer and stereotypical football fans equipped with a beard and a beer-belly, you have an exact mental image of my setting. The game was viewed on a large projection screen at the far end of a reception hall at the International Relations House, my office. From the screen, spanning more than two-thirds of this rather large hall, were seats for nearly one hundred football rowdies. Towards the back of the room sat the buffet tables, which, although far different from the nachos and hamburgers I am used to on the "Big Night," were filled with excellent, non-healthy, belt-severing appetizers and entrees. The buffet, or at least my abuse of the buffet, was what made my bed look awfully well by the start of halftime. It was interesting to watch the game broadcasted by a french television station. I am convinced that the only thing that sounds more beautiful, as far as languages go, than the french language, is english with a french accent. Needless to say, the names I know so well took on a sweeter tune that night. Other than french being shouted and not english, the fans cheered much the same. Big hits with arms and legs flailing, as well as a high probability of injury, drew the more fervent bursts of enthusiasm on display Sunday night. All in all, the setting and the inhabitants, coupled with the refreshments and the fare, made an excellent evening and a wonderful night's rest.

I understand I have not written in a while, so I will try to update certain things I have done and particular projects and routines I have going on at this moment. My schedule this semester could not be more perfect. Monday and Tuesday are long days, as I total thirteen hours of class between them. Other than that, I have school one other day, Thursday, to give me sixteen hours of classes per week, three days each week. I work Wednesday and Thursday at the same job, doing the same tasks. Recently, I received a new project from a local organization which hopes to promote and celebrate the 150th anniversary of the relationship between Louisville and Montpellier as sister cities. My job is to present Louisville, through photography, personal stories, advertisement, and personal presentation, to the best of my ability and, hopefully, generate some enthusiasm for french students doing the reverse of what I have done. Therefore, if one sees a sudden spike of french-born immigrants to the United States over the next few years, we all know who to thank for it, me. School and work have kept me busy and, overall, very happy for the action.

Socially and culturally, new events have surfaced in my station as well. As of this past weekend, I am the proud owner of a theatre pass which permits me to go to any four plays, concerts, and/or other spectacles, I would choose to choose at the beautiful Place de la Comedie. Last Wednesday, I went to a chinese party for the beginning of the new chinese year. Coming up is the year of the tiger. I'm not sure what this is supposed to symbolize, if anything, but will post any information I find of interest. I am sure I have left something out, but this is all I have for now.

Written 23 January 2010

The following happens often in France. One day, one moment, one series of events, or even a single event, lead to a fresh outlook or insight, which may perhaps be overturned tomorrow or the next day but, at least for now, becomes transparent, over-arching, and complete. Tonight, after eating with friends, a realization set in and it is as follows.

I enjoyed an american majority around the table this evening. Given our superior numbers, we pushed our preponderant agenda and established english as our language for communication. By the time we broke away for the evening, we had weaved a labyrinth of topics: politics, film, art, food, music, social and personal economics, college and our futures. The conversation was comedic, sympathetic, broad, particular and, at times, serious and austere. We would talk of the ridiculous style of fashion during the 80s, then switch to race relations in the United States or religious differences in France. I was at home, in a place I wished to settle as a repetitive part of my life, maintaing the same subjects, thinking abstractly and speaking in an exhibitive, intelligent manner. Yet, I noticed something unsettling about it all, something of a kick or a shiver which awakes one in the midst of a dream to a cold, dark reality. We live separate lives, one french, the other english, with correlating attitudes and personalities. That's not to say at one moment I love fast food and large cars and, the next moment, prefer small cars and foie gras. It's more of a definition of my means and abilities. In french, my world is what I can understand. What I can understand in french is a needle in a needle stack, when compared to my understanding of the english language. What does this mean? While in France, I stay on a fringe, in a mist of ignorance, naivete, and simplicity. Yet, when I have the ability to change to english, I hear what could not at one time be heard or understood. Suddenly, the mist clears and sight returns.

What do I see? Well, I see a darker side of life. I understand stories and experiences of the human appetite for vice, our weaknesses for prejudice and discrimination, our allurements to the debased, sordid sides of ourselves. In short, what I can see and, for once, understand are the problems I know from home. Montpellier is no longer a playground of education and new, fresh experience. Just like any other city, it has it’s cobwebs, it has what most want no part of and would feel completely content with pretending it wasn’t real. It is not that the enlightenment came as a huge surprise, but, for the first time, my cocoon of educational bliss was penetrated. For once, things aren’t so personal, they aren’t so defined by my own comprehension. It’s sobering, that in a place I found so intriguing, so enriching, can be a cesspool of pain, suffering, crime, greed, compulsion, and debauchery. In the end, I am thankful for the station I can claim away from all the madness, separated from severe pain, a situation in which I choose what to take away and what to leave, rather than being stuck in the mire of its woes. I can claim myself as what I make of myself and not what the city does. For this, I am lucky and forever thankful.

Each monday and friday I head southward from my apartment to the center city and my place of occupation, the International Relations House. Three stops and a seven minute tram ride, or nearly thirty minutes by foot and stride, I descend the tram at Le Corum, a tramway stop and major convention center in Montpellier, and begin my ascent of seven flights of stairs to the foot of l'Esplanade de Charles de Gaulle and the street level of downtown Montpellier. Facing the center city, and to the left and right of the staircase which snakes its middle passage up the modernized acropolis, lie Le Corum and La Maison des Relations Internationales, my building, each forming the final border of its respective side. Taking a right from the top step, I find three long, tree-strewn lanes leading through the park, l'Esplanade de Charles de Gaulle, to la Place de la Comedie and the center city and, to my right, a panoramic view of the north side of Montpellier, culminating in a mountain range, les Cevennes, at its far-off horizon. Continuing straight ahead, I pass through a gate and onto a path which leads me from my point of entry through a garden of palm and cypress trees, colorful flowers, and brown park benches, and eventually terminating at the arched entryway of the International Relations House. In the mid-section of each rectangular block of concrete making up the walkway lie marble plaques dedicated to each of Montpellier's sister cities. The building itself lies at the very edge of the right wing of the acropolis, offering the same panoramic view as listed above. Built in a colonial style of red brick, pale blue window boards, and creamy white cornices around each doorway and window, the two-story house is beautiful and picturesque.

Inside and up two flights of stairs, at one end of a narrow passageway, is my place of work. In the center of a large, rectangular room lies the table of my toils, flanked on both sides by two desks, one for the director of students such as myself and the other for a very hard-working, very over-worked secretary. On the opposite side of my position, separated by table and mine and her computer screens, is another office worker. To this day, I am not sure what all they do or if they do all they are there to do. The atmosphere is chatty and convivial, conversation is easy going and time never seems to be lost or squandered. At certain times, the boss of my bosses will come into the room to assign chores and ask for help on one of her seemingly endless projects. Overall the workplace is laid back and ritual. However, when a task duffs its ritual and seeks to be independent and unique, the place, as a result of its habitants, turns colorful, chaotic, and passionate. It's best at these moments to stand aside and keep to yourself lest you become the target or accidental victim of a flailing arm or an indecipherable, yet highly affective and hair raising, tirade my colleagues possessedly fall victim to.

As far as my tasks go, I run documents over to the hotel de ville, the sight of many government big timers, and research and/or suggest possible events or activities that link Louisville and Montpellier. I write articles on upcoming events and track down possible sources of coming-togetherness between the two cities. My research and writing has included the Derby, football, baseball, Kentucky bourbon, Joan Baez, writers from Louisville, Thanksgiving traditions, and, my personal favorite, Buffalo Bill. Today was a good day. To test the fluency of possible french exchange students to the United States, I had to make an english exam. I can proudly say I did not let the sudden power go to my head. I created a very thorough, but not extremely difficult or tricky exam made up of grammar, as well as, reading and writing comprehension segments. It was nice to be the warden for once and not the prisoner.

My sole ambition today was to re-introduce myself to the city I absented myself from for the past month. As if the quite pungent visit to my packed, poorly circulated gym without, at this moment, a serviceable air-conditioner was not enough to thoroughly satisfy me that, indeed, I was back in France, as well as service me with enough culture shock to keep me secluded in my room for the next week, I took to the streets tonight to see the town after dark. Montpellier puts on a new face after dark. During the day the city is a busy town: people hurrying from place to place, scents emanating from cafes, street vendors, and unscrupulous washers, sights of sunshine, brightly colored graffiti, the yellowish, cream coloring of stucco offset by roofs of navy blue, black, and red spanish tiling create a quite chaotic atmosphere. As the sun fades, the life, the color, the scars of a town packed with college students shed their poignancy; the city polishes and bathes itself in the white, golden hue of it's lights. The well-trodden town takes a much needed break from the pounding of its promenading populace, licks its wounds and offers a wonderful show for those who wish to partake. Its morphosis is complete and dramatic, ever evolving from that which thrusts itself upon you by day and coddles and pampers you by night. Throngs of busy-bodies going each and every direction are replaced by couples, groups of men and women with interlocked arms, the lonely photographer, those lost in sight, thought, and sensation, all quietly enjoying a private reunion with the streets and buildings they may know so well, yet appreciate only seldom. Shadow and darkness create a scene of the surreal as churches, cinemas, private dwellings, fountains and parks transform to literary, cinematic objects where beauty and perfection transport the viewer to heightened, dramatic senses of seemingly fictitious splendor. Perhaps one must read a book or watch a movie which romantically portrays the ambience of a European city to get this feeling. I know I feel it each time I am in the city at night. I feel a part of a world where its beauty and mystery can never be mastered, never understood or found dull, uninteresting, or uninspiring, a world apart which has a firmer grip on me than I have on it..

Written 15 January 2010 at 11;35 am Montpellier Time

I am glad I waited till today to write a blog. I can tell my story as a detached outsider looking back in time at a pitiful, distraught, and pained young man without being him, without being the story, as a mediator with a keyboard writing to mend the incongruence of yesterday's passion and pain with today's more settled perspective and outlook. The melancholic mists of despair dissipated with the night's rest and the morning's coffee and rising sun; I can be my own judge today, can escape being the prey of my fears and loneliness.

The fatigue of overseas travel will be my scapegoat, for I choose not to think I can be as emotional as I was yesterday without a dose of extraordinary circumstance. Nonetheless, I felt as if my world had fallen apart. Lonely, pathetic, miserable, disheartened, I moped from flight to flight, train to train, hoping for an invisible hand of fate to come down from the skies, scoop me up and drop me back in my home with friends and family. Needless to say, the hand of my escape never heard my cry for help, either taking a day off or being too busy with others in more desperate situations, I arrived at my planned destination last night at 7:30. I couldn't and can't help how I felt. I tell myself to stop each time, to be a man, to stiffen the upper lip and take what is on my plate without grimace or reservation. Each time, I am swept away by the moment, by the loss of those I left and will not see for some time. I know the time is not long and the situation I go into is not horrible, but it is not home and it is not with the ones I love, therefore, I come kicking and screaming. The frenchmen and women I see along my way become the handlers and creators of my pain, I glare at them with spite and malice, asking myself why I would want to leave loved ones in favor of the company of such miscreants. I tell myself the feeling will pass, tomorrow and the next day will be better, but, in the moment, I seem to be stuck in a quick sand of sadness that will not leave until it has sucked every last ounce of life out of me. This is how I felt; I can't claim it as mature or reasonable, it is what it is and will be how it is as long as I have leave those I love.

I feel better today, a little less lonely, a little more occupied by what I want to accomplish here, and, overall, like the French. I grew and grow to hate the feeling of yesterday, the way I am each time I leave my home. I wish it was as I feel today as part of a new chapter, the inevitable turn of a page at the end of another that creates a more beautiful, full, and better story.

Written 23 November 2009

Saturday, I went to the train station for a trip to an undecided location. Examining the train schedule, I realized I wanted to venture out a little further from Montpellier than the previous trips. I saw a train to Nice was departing soon so I went for it. Nice, I knew, is in the south of France and, with this knowledge, I expected a short train ride. Only when no information for Nice appeared in my Languedoc-Roussillon travel guide did I realize I could be going a little further than expected. Nonetheless, it seemed to be the right thing to do.

The train ride was a little more than four hours to Nice. If I had had to turn right back around and come back as soon as I got to Nice, the money and the time would have been well spent. The scenery was beautiful. Normally, on trains, I read the majority of the time. Going through Provence on the way to Nice, the book was in the bag and the head was turning from window to window. One side was mountainous, hilly countryside of vineyards, mountainside villas, red clay and rock. The colors were amazing. Sides of mountains were set ablaze by the reds, yellows, and oranges emanating from vineyards, farms, rooftops, rock and earth. It was more than the color, the earth was a beautifully formed, rugged and harsh land of dramatic slopes and rises. It was quite the show. On the opposite side of the train, I could see the Mediterranean. As mentioned above, my neck was sore by the end. Look one way to see a vineyard, turn to catch a wave crashing against the side of a cliff, and repeat again.

In Nice, I spent most of my time on the french riviera and in old Nice. I climbed to the top of a mountain/large hill to an old fort that was once the city's defenses. At the summit was the remnants of the old chateau and, what I was really there for, a panorama of the city and its harbor. The old parts of Nice looked like a spanish-tiled jungle. The rooftops canopied the streets and people below. I thought I could walk from one end of town to its opposite, never having to jump from rooftop to rooftop. The bay is crescent shaped with both tips extending rocky arms out into the sea. I could see further than the harbor and the town to the mountains that separate the city from the rest of France to the north, bays farther down the riviera to the west and east, and miles of sea to the south.

In the city itself, I walked around the old section for most of the time. There is a beautiful flower market which, in the morning, includes many products (fruits, vegetables, olive oil, soap, etc.) made and/or grown in Provence. Adding the colors and smells to a square of old, beautiful, and colorful buildings, it is tough to out-do. Old Nice is a maze of narrow streets filled with restaurants, bars, shops, markets, churches, and old government buildings. I thought if I extended my arms full length, I could touch the buildings on both sides of the street. One of the neatest shops I saw was one where you could create your own pasta from scratch. The restaurants were diverse. Being as close as Nice is to Italy and northern Africa, the culture is much less french and more of a eclectic mixture of just about anything and everything.

Saturday night, I went to a russian cathedral in town and missed my train. I had no problem missing my train, the extra night made it more of a vacation. For dinner, I wanted a good, french meal, but was lured by a fantastic, turk dinner instead. The hotel was nice, I always enjoy staying in one. Sunday morning, I awoke early and watched the sunrise on the french riviera. I started with a walk up the rocky beach and ended in a cafe for breakfast. As I ate, I watched a sail boat race in the harbor and looked out on the water, the cliffs, and the pink and blue sky. I wanted time to stop and stay the way it was forever, great vacation.

Written 8 November 2009

Wow, it is amazing how fast time flies. I see my last entry was nearly two weeks ago. What to write about? What is there I would want to share? I face not a lack of subjects, but an overflow of material. So much is done in so little amount of time, each event seems a blur. Yet, there is a design to it all. Exact events and experiences are washed away by the streams of a continuous, chaotic schedule. What is left are the remnants of past experiences in the shape of new knowledge and understanding. Not everything seems as new and strange, yet, nothing is sedentary, nothing is ordinary.  I continue to learn, continue to lose myself in what was once unknown. Looking back, it seems so much. Like reading far too many pages in a book in too short a time, you progress in understanding, yet, you strain to isolate a single event and its impact on your overall outlook. I am lost, yet, there is something detached from it all which seems to take comfort in the course of events. I can't explain it, but there is an over-arching sense of progression and satisfaction I have yet to experience. 

Three weeks ago, feeling a little fatigued from a week of school and work, I promised myself I would travel to a different city each weekend. With a friend or alone, it didn't matter. Each Saturday, go to the train station and see something new. I have done just that the past two Saturdays. Two Saturdays ago, I went to Avignon. It is a beautiful city in the south of France. I spent the afternoon in the city, most of which was taken up by a tour of the Palais des Papes. I was amazed with it all. The luxurious, voluptuous halls of the palace, the seat of the church's once all-imminent power as ruler of man and territory, seemed so foreign to the church I see back home. There is no better place to see what once was and, now, what is than Europe. The sights from the palace's terraces were amazing. I was there at sunset, the sky was lit purple, pink, orange, and gold by the fading rays. The view was expansive, capturing an entire region it seemed from one high vantage point.  I could see where the rivers ran and collided with one another, the entire river-island city of Avignon, as well as hundreds of miles of countryside, was at my viewing disposal. It was magnificent, a place and a feeling with no match.

This past Saturday, I went to Toulouse. I was surprised by the size of the city. For some reason, it reminded me of the historic district of Philadelphia. There was a big difference between Toulouse and Montpellier and Avignon. This might be obvious, Montpellier and Avignon are more "mediterranean" style (don't know enough about the style to call it anything different), stucco, romanesque style buildings. Toulouse is more colonial, red brick buildings, beautiful palaces built for le "gloire" of past monarchs. It is a beautiful town, called the "rose city" or something to that effect (it appears a pinkish color at certain times, in certain light). I, like usual, wanted to get lost in the town, see as much of the city as possible. I did indeed do just that, making it across a great portion of the city in one afternoon. The only negative was the rain. It rained very heavily shortly after I arrived. There was no way I was wasting the afternoon and the money, so I stayed out in it and got soaked. I had to walk around cold and wet for the majority of the day, but the sights were worth the efforts. I went to a beautiful park, found a very neat, outdoor antique market, and saw a couple beautiful churches. If I was to rank the cities I have been to, Toulouse would be at the top. This Saturday, I think a trip to Lyon is in order. 

25 October 2009 at 9:02 Montpellier Time

My activities this weekend were very representative of my overall experience in Montpellier up to this point. These events or experiences often involve the uncovering of new realities and the suppression of past prejudices, stereotypes, and expectations. Personally, socially, educationally, and in many other areas of my life, everything seems to take a different shape, breaking a shell of immaturity and ignorance piece by piece, allowing its contents to seep and form itself according to its new environment. It occurs in simpler environments like a Joan Baez concert or gym, as well as in the necessities of life such as school and work. I have come across so many things that tweak previously held opinions. I might not have been completely wrong before or come to find a truth in its final form, but, nonetheless, each event provides material for a much broader database of intelligence, confidence, and well-roundedness. I have not come close to reaching the full potential of my stay, but, only after this short amount of time, I take notice of immense changes to the point in which it is hard to relate to that person I was before I came. 

The change and constant revision is rampant, but not the only characteristic. Another aspect involves the senses.  Sights, smells, sounds, and touch creating a collage of the most beautiful and the most hideous things I can register to memory. Tonight, I will write of what truly disgusts me. The aspects of Montpellier I have detested from the moment of my first encounter, to each and every moment I am unlucky enough to come upon them. I have several examples and can cite many different experiences. I will only write of what occurs each Sunday morning when I walk to church. I start from my apartment down a road overhanging with trees and bordered by two stone fences, one on each side, providing the partition between the road and the park on one side, and the road and a cemetery on the other side. It is pleasant, tranquil, and set apart from the hustle and bustle of the main road which the stone-fenced road runs into. I cross a tramway line and a main road, then begin down the road leading into town. The first five to ten minutes is lovely. I pass the famous and beautiful Saint Lazare cemetery, a park, several shops devoted to creating marble tombstones and crypts, and a few boulangeries and flower shops. As I get closer into town, the scene becomes more depressing. Most of the buildings look the same as those I pass in the initial five to minutes of my walk, but the wears and tears of the night before become oppressively much more visible as I continue. I pass a night club that continues its operation until Sunday morning, serenading and infecting the early Sunday air with techno music and the sounds and smells of those who have been partying from Saturday night to late Sunday morning.  Around these parts, the passer-byers carry all the traits of extreme intoxication, the glazed eyes, the wobbly stature when walking or standing, the slurred speech, breath you want to keep your distance from, stained and unkempt clothing. The sidewalk is littered with broken bottles, bags of fast food, and torn beer boxes. Today, I saw, in the middle of the sidewalk and covering the width of the sidewalk, vomit that had, by the smell of it, been sitting there for a few hours. A few weeks ago, I saw a man much like me (by this I mean, not homeless, a student) passed out in the middle of the sidewalk. He was there sleeping when I went to church and, again, at the same spot, in the same position, using his shoe as a pillow, when I returned from church. Knowing I will arrive at a church always keeps me from feeling completely miserable. However, even a church, a place of such beauty and goodness, is not spared the over-indulgences of a very over-indulgent youth. Today, each step (there is about twelve long steps from the street to the church entrance) was littered with broken wine, beer, and liquor bottles. You could not avoid stepping on something, it covered the steps as a finishing coat of paint covers a wall. And here, the church and the walk to church, I find what I hate most about Montpellier. The aspects of life, the products of too much youth in too small of a city, I will have no problem getting away from. 

I took things fairly slow this weekend. The highlights were a wonderful Joan Baez concert, a nice evening out on the town and a couple of culinary accomplishments. Other than that, I filled the rest of my time with studying, reading, exercising and running. 

Written 15 October 2009 at 9:41 p.m. Montpellier Time

It was a regular day of school and lifting. I am happy Thursday is coming to a close, I look forward to this weekend. I have several activities planned. My roommates and I are going to the Indian festival Saturday afternoon, a nature preserve Sunday, and, of course, football on Sunday night. If the advertisement for the fair is any indication of its content, we are in for a real treat. The advertisement is of a Maharaja riding an elephant, an immediate attention grabber. I love indian food. One would think at an indian-themed fair one could find indian food. However, this is France, certainty is uncertain. I hope the weekend lives up to the anticipation. The weather has turned cool in Montpellier. I don't know the temperature, but it's long-sleeve, hands-in-your-pockets weather in the mornings and evenings, warming up slightly through the afternoon, often leaving you regretting your decision to wear the long sleeves. I am greeting the cooler weather with open arms. The crisp, cool air seems to accentuate the smells of the city. The boulangeries baking bread, homes heating their night with wood fires, the freshly cut lawns along my route to school, all pungently provide a sensuous and unique aroma one captures with the brisk wave of the breeze. It is lovely. Although it arrived later, it is not much different than autumn in Louisville, which, in my opinion, is the best time of the year. it should make my swim in the Mediterranean a little more painful. Nonetheless, let's see what I can handle. 

Written 13 October 2009 at 9:14 p.m. Montpellier Time

My language class is split into two parts. Half of the time is devoted to grammar, the other half is designed to enrich our language comprehension skills. Grammar is self-explanatory, verb tenses, relative pronouns, and every other element of the french language. The language comprehension portion of the class is most entertaining, as well as, at times, the most painful. Often, we read a text, watch a television program, or listen to a recording and discuss the meaning of the passage. Our topics range from consumer products to politics and religion. It can be very dry, like last week's discussion on e-bay and how it has revolutionized the shopping world. I prefer the deeper subjects, politics, weighing in on theoretical laws, or gay marriage. It provides what I have come to value the most from France, learning about different cultures and how their environment back home has shaped the beliefs they hold. The conversation is contained within the boundary of our language skills. Nonetheless, if you take the time to piece together the broken french, you can learn a thing or two. Of course, there are sources that provide the views of distant places and people. I knew a thing or two about many of the cultures I have come in contact with before I arrived. From my experiences, I found this to be only half the story, the sum of facts and majorities. There is no back story, no way of piecing together why one thinks the way they do. Here, through daily interactions with several different shades and sizes of people, you get the real story, the backgrounds and influences that craft the religious views of someone from China and those coming from England or Sweden. I find it incredibly stimulating, far better than the beautiful buildings and castles lining french streets across this beautiful country. We have vast differences in the United States. If we take the time to research our history, our failures and victories, we can find the roots that lead to the flowering of our diversity in all its different forms and points of emphasis. On a much grander scale, the same is true of the global population. However, there is no common starting point to draw from. Each place has its own isolated story. We might share cultural similarities, we might practice the same religion or claim the same form of government. However, what did it take to get there? How has the past shaped our minds? How does it affect contemporary social structures? Each day, I keep these questions in the back of my mind. I am lucky, in Montpellier, the opportunities to crack these queries are all around me. It might be only one person's point of view from a land far away, but they know their home. They are a product of their environment and, like me, have an educated knowledge of what paints their country's picture. We, exchange students, have the privilege of being strangers. Our loneliness leaves us receptive and giving. We want to talk about things, we want to have friends. In this environment, we have no cliques to cling to other than ourselves, no security blanket of individuals who think and act in the same manner we do. We are united by our differences and have no problems sharing the stories of what separates us. For example, today, we continued our discussion on gay marriage. Mr. Gomez provided the topic, we had to choose whether we were against it or for it and state our reasons for the opinion. The conversation highlighted our differences with each, individual stance. Most people relate their opinions to home, to how such a subject is thought of and acted on by the cultures that make up their world. At times, I found my expectations of how one would respond disappointed. At other moments, I found them supported. Once class has ended and I have the benefit of hindsight, I always wish I could have said more, could have asked more questions, could have understood more of my friends' french. However, regardless of the difficulties, the conversation is always transformative, always expansive. Each one makes a dint in a generalization or two. Each stretches the sources of your opinions and beliefs, annihilating those that lean on falsity, ignorance, and prejudice, strengthening those supported by fact and feeling, and leaving unknowns, those social mores we accept because we find them all around us, yet claim no part of our spirit, a little more questionable, a little more uncertain and changeable. We become a little less american, swedish, or ghanese in thought and adopt a much more worldly outlook. An outlook concentrated and devoted to a certain region, yet can claim the influences of a dozen places. Perhaps, this is too dramatic. Maybe, this will fade with time and distance. Nonetheless, we have the chance to understand a little more about the lot of others. It would be disappointing to misuse this gift.

Written 13 October 2009 at 9:51 p.m. Montpellier Time

I had the best morning most men could ask for. Yesterday, I subscribed to a program through NFL.com that allows me to view any game live and in high definition. I just can't live without football on Sundays. This morning, I awoke at 5 a.m. as usual to make breakfast and prepare for a small test coming up in my first class of the day. I have grown to love early mornings, but this was no ordinary morning, at least it wasn't today. I had awoken early enough to catch the final quarter of the Monday night game. I can't think of a better way to start out the day than live football, coffee, and a large bowl of fresh fruit. I was in heaven. It was a great preview of the type of access I will have each and every Sunday. Football is back!!

I strolled into my afternoon class today as usual, tired and ready to get as far away from my aesthetically challenged university as quickly as possible. Standing outside of the classroom, I talked with friends, telling them my stories of my voyage home. Patiently listening to each and every detail from my trip, my fellow pupils had news for me. During my absence, they had elected me as one of two representatives for our group.  I immediately looked for the balloons and the streamers, the band to burst out of the phonetics classroom and serenade my triumph with the Marseillaise or university fight song (if one exists). I would be disappointed, no balloons, no band, no celebration. Instead, the conversation drifted to the obligations and responsibilities of the office I was about to swear an oath to. In broken french and a little english, we patched together the duties I would be expected to fulfill. Similar to a labor union representative (on an extremely, extremely small scale), I take grievances and complaints from my constituents and report them to program directors. I am the middle man, the guy who runs between those that run the system and those that are run by the system. I still don't have a good picture of what I am expected to do but, whatever it is, I hope to satisfy those I serve. The campaign was hard fought, a lot of mud-slinging and muck-raking. I drew from my domestic situation and bribery to secure my election. We have a large asian majority in our group. I live with two asian students. Running up to the campaign, I studied my roommates' moods, memorized what made them happy and what disgruntled them. I took what I learned to the classroom, trying to place myself in cordial friendship with the majority. When the ice wouldn't break, I resorted to a warm baguette or croissant in the morning and a thirst-quenching boisson froid in the afternoons when the wears and tears of a long, hot day at school begin to show. Obviously, as my victory shows, I must have crafted quite the relationship with my asian friends. In the case of uncertainty, I thought I could use my size as an intimidation factor. On average, my asian friends barely measure up to my chest. I thought a scowl and flex on election day would secure any dissenters from my camp. I didn't even have to go that far, the impact I made was so compelling I didn't even need to be present to get voted into office. In truth, there was no campaign, no machinations or strategies to get elected. I had forgotten about the elections until I found out I had been chosen. I find the other story much more entertaining though, I might have to stick with it. 

Upon my return, I found my removed introspection had rededicated myself to experiencing everything I can in France. I am starting from the bottom, the seemingly meaningless activities that are special because I do them here. I have had several similar experiences so far. I find them so compelling and new at the time, then realize I can do the same thing in a similar fashion, yet much less satisfactory way in Kentucky. The cafe seems to be the best example of this experience. I start small this weekend, at a place I have been several times but failed to experience fully. I promised myself that I would swim in the Mediterranean this weekend. From there, a hiking trip to the Cevennes, hopefully, reaching the summit of the mountain, is next on the agenda. I want to test myself, see what I can do both physically and mentally. I will start with a swim and a french novel and continue to progress from there. 

Rep. Patrick H. Mcdonald

Written on 12 October 2009 at 9:15 Montpellier Time.

Last Wednesday, I left Montpellier for the first time since my arrival. My destination was not Barcelona or Italy, but Louisville, Kentucky. Yes, I got to go home for my sister's wedding and four days of relaxation. I had heard of the dangers of such a voyage. What can, at first, seem like a wonderful deviation from the new status quo back to the old status quo, I have heard, can make the return to your home abroad completely miserable. The old taste comes and besmirches all future encounters and the new routine you have settled into. I kept this in the back of my mind and began to worry when my stay turned out to be completely flawless. It could not have been orchestrated any better. I was lucky to spend each moment with someone I care dearly for. I could hardly contain my satisfaction and happiness, it was spewing from me each moment, in every situation. Even the eight-hour flight went wonderfully. I found myself dropping the books and thinking of the activities I had been lucky to take part in, barely containing random smiles that would have made my neighbors question my sanity. And yet, I had no apprehension, no depressive feeling about returning to Monpellier. I was actually looking forward to getting back, to putting my ideas of bettering my situation in France into action. There were so many unknowns when I first arrived. My mind was full of questions, not answers, when I made my initial journey. Did I have what it took to live in France, to thrive in a situation so far from what had become customary in my life back home? I had failed to adapt to Thomas More College, could I really handle France on my own? Through time, many failures, adaptations, growth, and some improvement, I started to find that I had an answer to these questions. I realized with effort and patience, I could do it, I could accomplish my goals. I settled into a routine of school, exercise, work, and social activities, the way of life I, at some level, doubted I could handle. With this in mind, it was not difficult to return to my sunny city. In five weeks, Montpellier had transformed itself, in my mind, from self-orchestrated, not to mention unhappy, exile into a home. I have learned to no longer fear it, to stop looking past it, and enjoy each and every situation. From sunrise to sunset, I have so much to learn, so many ways to improve myself. It is satisfying to come back to something that challenges you especially when you think it was starting to sweep you away. It is a life laboratory and you hold the chemicals and instruments in your hand. Finding which hypothesis and which combinations work the best is what is fun, what has made my time hear seem to be a blur of exhilaration, a memory mixed with several tones and patterns. Each element is not beautiful in its singularity, but they come together to create a very agreeable conglomeration of feeling and experience. I am looking forward to continuing, to correcting the faults and errors, and completing the next stage of my stay. The break was beneficial in several aspects, it offered a chance for a distant perspective, for a refreshment of energy and discipline, and time to enjoy those I love. I am happy to be back.

26 September 2009

I had my first full, real week of classes this week. Tuesday through Thursday, my schedule is grueling. Most of my classes are two or two and a half hours long and I have three a day. I leave each class fairly exhausted. With the different language, I have to really stay alert the entire period. There is no oppurtunity to allow my mind to wonder if I want to know what is going on. However, I can tell my courses are improving my language skills already. I can comprehend and contribute much better to conversations with native speakers, people I thought spoke a different language than french a week ago. Seeing the benefits of attending class for this short, beginner’s phase, I am very enthusiastic about the improvement I will have after a month or a semester. Other than the work, I find many aspects of the class very amusing. I attend classes with other exchange students, no locals. I believe we are good students or else we would not have had the oppurtunity of studying abroad. In our own language, we have the capabilities of toppling all the loftiest subject material the academic world can throw at us. However, in a different language, we have trouble forming the simplest ideas into writing or speech. Our minds encompass far greater knowledge than what we are able to actually get out.  We could speak knowledgeably on the writings of Cicero in our native language, but we are confined to the types of clothes we like to wear or the meals we like to prepare in french. These incapabilities, mixed with confusion over what the professor tells us to do, makes a very enjoyable scene upon reflection. At the time, it is not funny. It can be exasperating, frustrating, and nearly impossible to surmount such difficulties. Our language classes are broken up into two sections, grammar and oral comprehension, which encompasses listening and speaking. We had an exercise last Thursday in which we had to describe to a classmate something we knew how to do and they didn’t. Our broken french left all explanations nearly incomprehensible. A chinese girl explained the traditional way of creating a dumpling, supposedly a must know in chinese culture. I have many chinese people in my class. One or two of the other chinese girls found her explanation at odds with the traditional chinese way of creating dumplings. This led to a thirty minute conversation about the proper way to prepare a dumpling. One of the girls just would not let it go. She insisted on correcting the fallacies spoken by our instructor. It was comical. Not knowing myself the truth of the matter, I sat back, twiddled my thumbs and chuckled at the intense discourse. I don’t see how my professor does it sometimes, but he is very good with us. He has to be a very patient man. Such confusion is common when we enter a subject other than verb tenses. We are uncertain about many of our exercises and instructions, so we do our best with what we are certain of, which is usually something a little different than what the professor had in mind. We all make a good effort and, despite our difficulties and blunders, I think, after repetition, we make a dint in the subject assigned to us. It is not pretty, but I think it is effective. At least for me, I can see the fruits of our labors. I am excited for the future possibilities such hard work will bring.

27 September 2009

The weekend went extremely well. Friday night, I went to dinner and a movie with Suzanna. It was a wonderful evening. We went to Subway for dinner and saw Inglorious Bastards. When looking for a place to eat, I was surprised when Suzanna chose Subway. I have always loved Subway. I love it so much, I had to have it as my last lunch in the United States. I couldn’t believe it when she told me she shared my passion for this wonderful place. Like me, she would go to Subway often with friends back home. It was splendid sinking my teeth back into my familiar tuna club, nothing can compare to it. The movie was wonderful and in english. It was a typical Tarantino film, so if you are fan of Pulp Fiction, I would suggest seeing the film. We walked around the city center after the film. It was my first time in the city late at night. The place really comes alive. It is jam-packed with the old and the young, all walking with friends or enjoying a few drinks and a snack at one of the many cafes or bars. The french love their frites, also known as french fries. It was a wonderful setting and a very pleasant evening, made better by the immaculate weather we have here in Montpellier, especially at night. 

We have a tradition in our household. Each Saturday night, we come together and share a meal. One member assumes the burdens of cooking, the others enjoy the food and clean up after the meal is over. This week, it was my turn to cook. Last Saturday, I very hesitantly claimed my role. I had never cooked for others, only myself. The most I have done to prepare a formal meal are the very simple tasks my mother would give me when we would have relatives or friends over for dinner. She was always there though, ready to take over if I started down the wrong path. Needless to say, I was on pins and needles. I like my cooking and feel I do a fairly good job. However, I am not a picky eater and felt as though my standards might not be as high as more experienced chefs. I was extremely nervous. First of all, I didn’t want to be that guy who sends a friend to the hospital because he serves a dish not much better than poison. Secondly, I didn’t want to embarrass myself and be the only member of the household who can’t cook. All week, my mind churned thinking of the different foods I would be capable of making. Saturday afternoon, I settled on my course, shrimp and fish with fruits, cheeses, lentil salad, nuts, and white wine. I played it conservatively, trying to keep my friends out of the hospital and make something at least I knew I enjoyed. I make fish often at home and I had confidence in my abilities. The shrimp were a different story. I had only seen those made. They seemed easy enough, why not give it a go. As Saturday evening approached ever closer, these were my thoughts and my plans of action. Thankfully, Suzanna was nice enough to acquiesce to my request and stay in the kitchen while I cooked to prevent any catastrophies. I was extremely nervous, yet, excited about the opportunity to please the palates of my friends with my own creation. I fried the fish with butter, salt, lemon, and a spanish spice I had found at the grocery store. For the shrimp, I boiled them in water with tomatoes (Suzanna’s idea, I can’t take credit) and salt. The cooking was very simple and amounted to more slicing and arranging than actual cooking. I won’t lie, in mere aesthetics, the meal was beautiful. There were so many different colors, at least I knew what was spread out on the table would be pleasing to the eye. Then came the moment when we took our first bites and I would see the product of my labor. Thankfully, we all loved it. Each shrimp and each slice of fish was eaten, all the fruit, nuts, and wine were consumed (Fruit selection that I prepared: dates(my favorite food), kiwi, bananas, peaches, and oranges), and only a small portion of the lentil salad and plate of cheese was left. I was successful. I can’t explain how proud I was of myself. I know it seems so minor, but it is and was a big deal to me. I wanted to call my Mom and Dee, report my triumph and share the feeling of a successful chef, the feeling they must have each time I eat their cooking. It is funny, now that I know I can do it, I can’t wait to cook again. 

Two aspects of my life have changed over the past week,I have given up public transportation and I finally joined a gym. I walk everywhere know. The walks to school and the city center(work) take only twenty minutes. I found public transportation to be horribly unpleasant. It is so crowded and everyone seems to be in the worst mood. I try, like most, to stay away from places that bring my mood down a couple notches. I think my decision to ban myself from the tram and bus stop will make me much happier. I can’t explain how happy I was to get back in the gym Friday afternoon. It is a beautiful place, rather expensive but worth every penny. Lifting had become an everyday activity for me in the United States. Without it, I was not a happy camper. I already feel better, more active, alert, and in control. With the gym, successful dinner, challenging week of school, movie, and lack of public transportation, I had my best weekend and really feel settled in a life I will enjoy.

29 September 2009 at 7:56 Montpellier Time

I feel so fortunate to have a happy home in my new country. Despite it’s problems and defects, it is a pleasure to come home each night. With so many differences under one roof, so many different ways of doing things, it amazes me that everything runs so smoothly. I was lucky to be placed with roommates who are tidy, respectful, and responsible. It makes what I am here to do much easier to do. I find this amusing. For the first few weeks, I would look for any and all opportunities to be away from it, to be out, engaged in something. Now that I have school, work, and the gym to go to, my time is limited. I actually have something to do, which makes me appreciate and relish the moments when I have nothing. I find my two favorite times of the day to be at home, before and after my daily activities. First, I love to watch the sunrise with a cup of coffee each morning. In my opinion, there is no better way to prepare yourself for the day than seating yourself outside on a crisp morning, watching nature’s free film. Second, not surprisingly, I love to repeat the act for nature’s closing performance before a night’s rest. About the time I finish dinner and fill my first cup of coffee, dusk is upon Montpellier and, each night, is nice enough to soften the wears and tears of a long day. Everything seems to go by so quickly, going here and there, doing this or doing that. I won’t complain about it, I love it. I think to devote your time to something other than what pleases you works in reverse at times. It makes familiarity and sedation much more pleasing. Relaxation and leisure is no longer seen as what deprives me from being active in my world. In the end, at least for me, I love the work because it satisfies my ambitions, talents, and interests, but it sweetens the time where I do not have responsibilities, when I can kick back and relax at home with my friends and my thoughts. However, it is not work alone. When you live with others, your world depends, in some aspects, on them. They often dictate the effort you must make. With the home I have here, we have found a simple formula. Take care of what is yours and the other roommates will reciprocate. So far, we have stayed loyal to this creed. We do what we need to do and we do it promptly. I think at times, in a defective apartment, it may seem to be all but a wasted effort. They place us in a place that is sub-par, why should we keep up with it. That’s simple, we must live in it. We might as well make it as nice as our abilities can make it. We could be in much worse situations than what we are in now. I think that effort pays off each day. Perhaps we haven’t gone as far as eliminating all the household problems, such as the small leak in our kitchen, but we do enough to make it comfortable and sanitary. It gives us what we need, a place to relax, a place to enjoy the sun rise and set each day. 

6 October 2009 at 8:26 Montpellier

I am afraid I have neglected my blog for far too long. I became absorbed in my new schedule and routine, I lost my emphasis on transcribing my experiences in familiar words. I have had concerns and disappointments, misfortunes and failures, successes and  improvements. I have met so many new people. Their backgrounds span the globe, touching each continent, all with a separate story and way to be related to. This weekend was rather calm. A few of Suzanna’s friends from Germany came down to see her late last week and stayed through the weekend. They were all very nice. We went to the beach Saturday and had dinner together Friday and Saturday night. Since my successful dinner last Saturday, I have been dying to cook again. I had my chance this weekend. Once again, I prepared fish. I thought, why change what you have had success with, why diversify and run the risk of losing the trust I built last weekend? I didn’t think I was ready. I need time to grow, to study the skills of my roommates. Suzanna calls me her protege, which, without a doubt, accurately describes our relationship. She supplies me with not only friendship, but a veteran of Europe. She knows the language and the culture, she knows what it is to be european. She helps to bridge the gaps between books and reality. She introduces me to the things that differentiate our cultures, aiding me in aspects I fail to comprehend and emphasizing a total immersion in the features of our new home. When she cooks, I keep an eye on her tactics. When I cook, I always ask for suggestions and corrections.I supply what I can. All I have to offer is friendship, the self-satisfaction of seeing me grow under her shadow and guidance, and my best attempt at colorful and intelligent conversation. It seems, so far, to be enough. What fuels the friendship, in my opinion, arises from the inevitability of  our situation. We both want to see and experience something new, the quest provides a rallying point. Our curiosities are our bind. We meet such interests everywhere we turn. We don’t even have to leave the house, a conversation with our roommates is a course in international relations. I often find what I do away from school makes a much greater impact on me than the lessons I learn in class. You learn to use the language, the features of distant cultures and its impact on the character of an individual, the skills needed to relate to others with far different points-of-view. It can be frustrating and embarrassing, but it always keeps me coming back for more. 

Today, the sixth of October, is no ordinary day. In my home, I believe the day will be celebrated as a holiday for years to come. It started out no different than any other day. Late in the afternoon, two arrivals would bring sheer joy to our household. I arrived at five o’clock (not the arrival I was talking about) to find my roommates impatiently, yet cheerfully, waiting for me at the kitchen table. The customary bonjour and ca va were left unsaid, a greeting of a different kind was in store for me. The first words out of their mouths were, “nous avons l’internet (we have the internet).” Yes, it has finally arrived after weeks of waiting. We were all so happy. There was an energy and excitement in the air rare to any other day other than Christmas. We were also visited by the apartment complex’s mechanic who fixed my shower drain and a couple other problems we had had over the past few weeks. It was pandemonium. It would have been great if only one of these sublime events occurred, the fact that both occurred on the same day and left out house fully functional is, in my opinion, an act of God. I must leave tonight to go back to Louisville for my sister’s wedding. I know this brief taste of Kentucky will embitter my return. However, I already feel better. Coming back to an orderly house is much more reassuring than the continued dilemma of our once seemingly endless list of domestic issues. I can’t wait to experience our new conveniences. 

20 September 2009 at 8:24 Montpellier Time

I didn’t do anything too exciting this weekend. I ate far too many french pastries and miscellaneous desserts. Ever since I first introduced myself to the art that is french pastry cooking on Wednesday, I had been craving some more. This weekend, I had eclairs, croissants, cakes, and more, all delicious and all worth it. Other than the chocolate and bead, I attended the honey fair that took place in Montpellier this weekend. It reminded me of the events I see up north when I go to stay with my Mom. I guess it was my version of the Southington apple or italian festival. Montpellier has tons of events such as this. I have seen at least three separate festivals during my stay already. I love it, they foster a real sense of community cohesiveness, yet supporting community outreach. People who live in the same neighborhood have a place to go and chit-chat, as well as learn of a trade or aspect of the world they might not experience regularly. For example, there were honey farmers from Iraq in attendance. The subjects of these fairs and festivals might not be exciting, however, their true worth, in my eyes, is their promotion of constructive, positive community interaction, recreation, and diversification. Learning or seeing something new is always exciting. Getting past the sweets, I went to mass at a beautiful 14th century cathedral named Saint-Pierre. It’s stunningly beautiful both inside and out. It has everything you would expect a cathedral of some prominence to posses: the large nave, bell towers, stained-glass windows, gargoyles, etc. Surprisingly, I comprehended the better part of both the sermon and the biblical readings.  The service was much more informal than what I am used to in Louisville. The service seemed thrown together at the last moment. It wasn’t nearly as polished or fluid as mass at St. Louis Bertrand. Nonetheless, I enjoyed it and am hoping to make it a weekly habit. Other than these activities and a couple of dinners with the roommates, that was the weekend. It was rather slow, yet relaxing and rejuvenating. I am ready for a new week.

Since I do not have much to report this weekend, I thought I would describe my living situation here in Montpellier. I mostly share the experiences and activities I encounter outside of my home. Obviously, these aspects of my life are far more entertaining. However, I would like to share what I do day in and day out, what my home looks like and what I do when I am not in the city center. For me, the sights and sounds of downtown Montpellier are far less dissimilar from my past than my home life. I find it entertaining to compare the differences, to weigh the positive and the negatives of both existences. First, I will describe the aesthetics. My home is a two-story apartment situated in a sleepy suburb about ten minutes outside of downtown Montpellier (twenty to thirty minutes outside when you add the walk to the apartment from the train station). The apartment complex sits between a neighborhood of middle to upper class housing and a beautiful park. There are really only two directions you can go from our apartment building. If you take a right out of the complex and follow the road towards the main road and tramway line, you will be journeying along the outer walls of the park, down a narrow street lined with stone fencing. If you cross the main road and tramway line, you will be going towards St. Lazare cemetery, known as the most beautiful cemetery in Montpellier. Passing up the cemetery, you will find several small shops specializing in crafting marble tombs, a few apartment complexes, and a couple parks. The road is lined with trees and the buildings are very quaint, giving the area a very small-town feel. This is my favorite route to get to different places. It is beautiful and secluded from the hustle and bustle of the main transportation routes. The other area around the apartment, traveling away from the park, is far less pleasant. Their is a neighborhood that, save for a few pretty houses, is rather dull and unimpressive. If you walk out of the neighborhood, you reach another street with a shopping center and other small stores on it. This area is far busier and much less pleasing to the eye, I avoid if I can. The apartment itself is nothing special, but it gets the job done. My possessions include my room and a bathroom and a one-quarter share in the common area made up of the kitchen, a small dining area, stairs, and storage space. My room has a bed, desk, a book case, and a closet. As for my bathroom, it has a shower that does not work properly, a sink, and closet. It’s all the basics, nothing too fancy. The rooms on the second floor are much nicer than mine and Tiangia’s on the first floor. Qibin and Suzanna have much more spacious rooms, each with a most coveted balcony. When alone, we usually stay in our rooms doing whatever it is we do. I have no tv, radio, internet, or phone. My free time is divvied  up between reading, writing, running, taking walks in the park, and studying (other than adventuring around the city and hanging out with the roommates). Life is much slower and simpler here than in Louisville. I find myself taking more walks or reading in the park after dinner or before lunch. I run three or four miles daily and read, write, and/or practice french for the rest of my alone time. It is a simple existence, void of all aspects that can distract or postpone things. You can’t stay out too late because the tram stops running around midnight and the bus even earlier(unless you want to walk back from the city center). I find myself enjoying many aspects of life I simply did not notice or have time for in Louisville, a nice walk after dinner, a reading session in the park, and the pleasure of a nice sit-down dinner with friends. All in all, I enjoy it. It is a far cry from what I believe are many people’s expectations of a college trip to Europe, but I am not disappointed, I enjoy it for what it is.