Of pebbles, sunsets, and castles

8/13/2009

Dear Blog,

Went hiking on the rocky cliff-ish hills that line Marseilles coastline, otherwise known as the Calanques [Kal-onk]. It was Joel, the sea, and me for 45 minutes. Oh, and that Frenchie who was hiking back wearing only his speedo, backpack and hat. I often underestimate the French's appreciation for nature.

I saw this:













I spent three hours in and out of the water, which was blue and crystalline and just the right temperature. I laid on my back in the water, laid perfectly still, and let the water and my deep breathing keep me there. The water make a weird clicking sound and I tried to not think about the boats next to me and how polluted the water must be. I wished I knew water yoga. And that they would make an underwater mp3 player complete with waterproof headphones/buds.

Then I fell asleep on pebbles listening to three French kids building a stone and stick castle which they abandoned to play other games. One girl, two boys; brothers, Arthur and Frederick. I learned the names quickly because the girl did most the talking and was always calling them by name, giving orders. Some things have nothing to do with culture and everything to do with chromosomes.

We hiked/walked back to the sun setting. And I couldn't help but to think that you know, with the wind blowing in my hair, Marseille is worth the hot days. I just need to get out and enjoy them is all.







Sunsets. They're like that.

P.S. It's about time you get a nickname. My current proximity with the French language has me thinking about the gender of nouns. I want to say that "blog" sounds like a masculine noun. So your nickname has to be manly. Manly nicknames? Not exactly my forte.

Monstrous Liar

I am literally melting as we speak. It is 8:31 pm and I am fanning myself with my hand it's so wretchedly hot here. I have been sweating since I woke up (10:45). I haven't changed out of my pajamas because honestly, what's the point? I'm just going to make anything I change into gross too. I HAVE brushed my hair, my teeth, and washed my face. Go me. I also made Navajo tacos for my family for lunch today, did some dishes, vacuuming and mopping and that's about it.

I know I am going to have a hard time leaving this place but I am glad that this life is not my fate. I haven't worked out in probably a month, my clothes are starting to dig into my waistline, I spent all day eating candy. Not chocolate; candy. I never waste my time with candy normally. And the worst part is, I don't even care. I am not depressed; I am melting. I was not made for the French life of having 5 weeks of summer. My new motto is "vacation kills motivation". I can't wait to get back to my JOB, my kids, my room in the basement that is so cool it doesn't even need air conditioning in the summertime. Friends, I like you too. Family, don't whine, you too.

I could have just said that I was grateful for a job, air conditioning, and my normally healthy lifestyle. But they would have been empty words without my whining coming first.

Anyway, lately all I feel like writing on this blog are things that would strictly infringe upon my "discretion policy". Which leads me to a pretty good question: what is the point of having a blog and knowing interesting people if most of those interesting people read your blog and wouldn't appreciate my insightful observations of them in all their glory?

I don't know what this says about me, but it seems like a lot of said observations are often incriminating. Especially when they concern me, and they often do. So I keep my mouth shut. Does this mean I am living a lie? Or that I am one of those monsters of a person who only derives meaning from life by mocking others?

I'm reading that silly girlie book still. Actually, I'm on the second in the series. I laugh out loud every time I read it. It's basically a fictional character's journal. And it's hilarious. Everyone I make read it hear agrees with me that it's funny. Even the guys. I'm seriously considering contacting (like I know how) the publishing powers that be to see if I could do the English translation. I'm sure I would do a good job, reading that book is like reading my life. And then my French would actually be useful. When I told people that I was a French major they wouldn't do that nod where they mutter something like "nice" all while checking out my shoes. No, I could say "yeah I'm a French major and I translated that hugely successful girlie book you've heard all about". Because it would be hugely successful. Trust me. Though that would be an ironic entry into the world of publication; not publishing my own work but translating someone else's. It's so ironic it just might happen: irony is one of my life's operating principles.

All this to say that I love this book that is like a girl's journal, or blog. And it's gotten me thinking. Conclusion, if I weren't me, I would find my life hilarious. And if I were to write a book about my life, people would read it, dangit. But no self respecting person can sell themselves out like that. I think we only laugh at fiction like that because we relate so much to it. Laughing is like a confession, it's liberating. But if what you were to read WEREN'T fiction, well reality might make you blush instead. I know I would. And you know what, I bet everyone feels the same way; that their life is publishable material but that they couldn't look themselves in the mirror knowing that everyone knew their deep dark oddities. It's like they say, about truth being stranger than fiction. Too much truth is too much strangeness, we can't handle it.


You know what I think I'm going to do? I'm going to start a whole new blog, entitled Monstrous Liar. I will be the only one able to access and read it and at last I will be able to write whatever the heck I feel like. No editing. No lies. I won't tell anyone the address but I will leave it in my will, by way of clues in the form of lyrics. It's really a shame. I live a funny life surrounded by amusing and interesting people that don't always know they are amusing or interesting. Plus I inherited the art of exaggeration from my father so even if they aren't amusing or interesting, I can usually make them sound that way. I can do wonders with people who are annoying. The world at large could benefit from my humoristic if not tactless and sarcastic observations.

But until I die and the person who I deem worthy of my blog password finds and makes public my blog, the world will have to wait for my translation of this book, which is basically the equivalent to Monstrous Liar aka My Life.


If you have to know, Prague was wonderful. Remember that bit about lacking motivation? Yeah, well details and pictures are coming. Later.

All these people that you've loved they're all bound to leave keepsakes

I seem to not have the energy for a blog right about now. Even though I'm a week behind. I'll spare you the whining I just highlighted and deleted. If only I could do that with my conversation. That would spare me so many nights mulling over all the idiotic things I wish I hadn't said. My life in rough draft. If I had a super power, that would be it: to have a rough draft and final version of everything I undertook. Maybe even two rough drafts, for good measure.

Speaking of life, William provided me with some great insight a couple weeks back at the dinner table. (Yes, the dinner table. In light of my last post, this is hardly astonishing). We put the dinner table pretty much right in front of the big screen every night. I normally have the best seat and the best view, as it's me that faces said tv screen. On this particular evening, we had some tall plastic water bottles on the table instead of the usual pitcher. These bottles inevitably blocked my view and I didn't really realize it until I poured myself some water and then tried to put the bottle back somewhere where no one's view would be obstructed. It just wasn't happening, such a place did not exist. Then Will takes the bottle from me, pours, and puts it back where I got it. "C'est ca la vie," he adds. That's life. "Parfois on n'a pas la belle vue. Parfois oui." Sometimes you don't have a great view. Sometimes you do.

My twelve year old philosophy was something like this: life should be fair. Fair meaning of course that everyone was entitled to great views all the time. I'm still suffering from disillusionment but it's not like I wasn't warned, though. Dad was always telling me that life wasn't fair and I was always telling him that he was wrong and that it should be. Maybe if he had said it in French it would have sunk in. Maybe if he had said it over the dinner table. Maybe if I had rough draft super powers I could rewrite myself more realistic.

I think I'm going to work on this one in spurts. It's bound to be random but less forced.

Right now I feel like telling you that I am going to Prague on Friday. I may not even publish this before I go. I am pretty excited, I guess. James and I were talking the other day about how when you first get to a place you have all these "holy cow I can't believe I'm here" moments. You start living in a place long enough and those "wonder moments" get fewer and fewer. Like everything else in life, they need maintaining. We had this conversation on a boat on our way to see the Calanques. I remember saying that I was enjoying myself but I was especially enjoying thinking about how a year from now I would look back and think what a lucky girl I was to have the chance to go boating on the Mediterranean. Just thinking about the nostalgia I would experience made enjoy myself even more.

Then, I am reading this hilarious girly book to pass my time on public transportation. The narrator is complaining about her sister, and in reference to the Harry Potter books she says "I wonder what my sister prefers: standing in line to buy the book or reading it. I think it's standing in line." While yes, I love reading the books, I definitely love the standing in line part. And then I love talking about it afterward. The actual reading process is a bit hazy, in all reality. So I suffer from anticipation and nostalgia, both of which prevent me in a sense from living in the present, one might say. It's a tendency I can't ignore. But since I am not working myself up over Prague I can't decide if I'm just in denial that I'm going (something like it being too good to be true), if I'm in "wonder moment" overload (numbness), or if maybe for once I will manage to enjoy myself in the present instead of exhausting my enjoyment before the fact. I'll let you know when I get back (Monday). In the meantime, I'm going to bed.

So today is Monday. It was was actually Monday when I wrote that last bit. Monday the 3rd, early in the A.M. We are now at Monday P to the M. I went to see La-Haut (UP) with Louise and her brothers. I think I honestly understood every word. Expect when the dog's voice collar gets all high pitched. But I was encouraged. Looks like all those hours I spend watching French movies all by self back home are finally and eventually paying off. Now that I am fluent in French movie watching I'll go back home and spend even more time doing it. And you people wonder why I'm introverted. It is entirely not my fault that you don't enjoy watching subtitled films. I seriously wonder when I'm going to get over French. Or if. I wish I knew so I could start planning for it.

Speaking of planning for things, Drew and I had this conversation the other night. As a matter of fact, Chris and I had about the same convo a couple months back. It all revolved around answering the following question: if you somehow knew now that you would end up never getting married, never having kids, how would that change your plans for the future? Planning for a solitary life presents endless options. Mine would involve going between the perpetual student and the exiled traveler/struggling author. Not to mention a plethora of movies to watch by myself. I think I'd eventually get bored of French and move on to Spanish, then Japanese, then Russian. Except it's hard to find subtitled movies in Russian so maybe I'd have to move there.

It's weird to think of my alter-existence. Mine presents itself way too clearly before my imagination. Or maybe my imagination is just overly active. Either way, it's an utterly selfish existance, I'll tell you that. Without people around me to live for, I would definitely revert to the most selfish version of myself. There are people whose alter-existences would involve humanitarian work and living for others in a different sense. I feel like a horrible person but I'll admit that I would have stints maybe of good deeds but I don't think my life would be dedicated to anything like that. I think that's why the following poem, entitled "To my Child", quoted by Gordon B. Hinckly in this general conference talk always gets to me:

You are the trip I did not take;
You are the pearls I cannot buy;
You are my blue Italian lake;
You are my piece of foreign sky.

I remember the moment I realized that my parents actually lived other lives before I (child number one) came along. I was flipping through old photo albums and found a section or an album of a once-upon-a-childless-time. And I was totally in shock at the realization that they had once been something other than "Mom" and "Dad". It was a humbling moment. I think I can safetly say that it honestly changed me. To think that all parents everywhere abandon that hypothetical alter-and-likely-selfish-existence for the sake of family. It's really something. I think I'll find out once and for all how to enable comments on here so there can be a discussion in response to that golden question of what you would do differently if you knew you weren't going to have the responsibility of one day having a husband/wife/family.

Anway so today I was walking home from the film listening to my music. I wasn't really in a hurry to get home so I took a detour through downtown Marseille, where I go about once a week at least, and walked around a bit, ran a little errand and such before heading for my tram. There I was, just walking and I stepped onto the street, looked both ways at Marseille spread out before me. And I most definitely had a "wonder moment" and realized I was in France. Like, for reals. And then I had a revelation: I have these moments most often when I am alone and when I'm listening to music. In that order. The music only takes effect if I'm by myself. Then its effects are disastrous.

Let's just say that I have been known to find myself walking home from the tram past midnight with no company but my itouch, and- for lack of a car to sing my heart out in-I out loud it from the sidewalks. The brick and cement garden walls combined with the narrow streets make for great acoustics. It's frankly better than the shower.

They say here that it's not a good idea to have headphones in at night since potential harrasers will take advantage of the distraction/deafness. Don't worry Mom and Dad; I only leave one earpiece in for my moonlit sidewalk serenades. Plus, I tell myself, who's gonna mess with some chick straight up singing to herself in the middle of the night. Maybe I am crazy, but no one's gonna mess with the crazy chick, right?

So I'm going to be honest: I've been rambling so as to avoid posting photos. They are a royal pain even if they are the best way to give an idea of what I've been up to. When it comes down to it, I'm not really in the mood to talk about dates and events. I'll eventually get around to it, don't fret, but in the meantime let's just say that I've had two very enjoyable past two weeks. I have been getting out more with Americans and Frenchies my age alike. We even planned a fajita night last week (guess whose idea it was to make fajitas). All this hanging out means only one thing really: I'm starting to adore everyone here. When you see people 3 times or so a week, what with summer fever and the ever carefree french mentality, it's bound to happen, friendships, attachments and all. This is my favorite part of traveling. It was my favorite part of the mission: the people. It just makes me start to believe again that moving here, well, that wouldn't be so bad after all...

Food for thought

Sunday evening. Dinner, you have been had. I know some people who (with reason) mock other people who talk about what they had to eat that day. But the following can't be helped; I am, with out shame, a passionate food lover. And nothing comes between my words and my passions.

See, I am not a cook. And not elaborate. But when I eat my spinach salad with strawberry slices sprinkled with freshly squeezed (Why does squozen sound right to me? Apparently squoze is not even a word, let alone squozen. Maybe its all so confusing because squeeze is one of the weirdest words in the English language. In fact I just looked up the etymology of the word and its origin is unknown. It is supposed that it was some alteration of a word in Obsolete English. No wonder.) I have to start that sentence over again. Note to self: do not put a whole paragraph in parentheses. Dickens can pull it off without the use of parentheses but he does not go obtusely off topic. So don't even try it.

Let's try this again: But when I eat my spinach salad with strawberry slices sprinkled with freshly squeezed lemon juice, I feel like a queen. You can't imagine how posh I imagine myself as I then eat a desert of plain yogurt with slices of banana and strawberries. Oh the bitterness. Oh the sweetness. Oh the bittersweet. I may be alone alone (twice for emphasis; and irony) in my love of my many, weird, as many have told me "disgusting" , "healthy" concoctions, but I am happy. Because it is all worth it when afterward I reward myself with half a bar of chocolate and a bowl of French ice cream and have absolutely no guilt. Yes, I get two desserts because I am a big girl.

Now I'll tell you what this has to do with my French travels, since this "is" a travel blog after all. Five years and 4 months ago in Rennes I met a boy. His name was Romain. Romain was obsessed with English, United States, England. Yes. But he never denounced his origins and was a frenchie, through and through. One day while chilling in his apartment I found myself complaining to him about my weight gain there in France despite walking everywhere and eating vegetables for like the first time in my life. He was obviously a true friend because he let me complain. And listened. And then offered wise French counsel/explanation: "it's because you don't love your food," he says. I then persist in telling him that that was exactly my problem-I loved my food far too much. He continued "No, you're an American, you do not love your food; because after you eat you feel guilty. You cannot truly love while you are suppressing guilt." Profound, no? A life lesson on love from food. Only in France. And it is true, we Americans are a guilty species. According to a comparative studies book entitled "Francais Americain" I read back in college, this is due to our nation's birth in the context of strong religious traditions. And with that underlying quaker mentality, ensuing guilt.

As a side note, Romain, my long lost food and love connoiseur is going to be coming to Marseilles mid-August. Hurray for old and long lost friends.

Thus began, at the ripe age of 19, a love for food and a dismissal of guilt in that arena of my life thanks to a little trick called self justification. I encourage you all to therefore do as the French and love your food. Chew slowly, savor the texture, the taste. Swallow, then repeat. Do not eat with the tv on. Do not eat standing up. Set the table with the same kind of excitement as you would when putting Christmas decorations.

On my mission I started a new tradition by adding a little foreplay into the whole love affair with food: singing to it. Telling it how delicious it was going to be. How juicy. How sweet. How fresh. How crispy and full of "greesy goodness" (a term reserved for my infamous quesadillas). And no, I would not use a gollum voice. My companions got a kick out of that, my impromptu lyrics usually put to the tunes of Christmas or primary songs. Of course, I don't eat much meat (remember, I don't cook and meat involves too many ways to mess up) and so singing to my food is a perfectly humane thing to do. It's not like I would dream of singing the following to a hamburger (to the tune of O Christmas Tree), "Oh hamburger, oh hamburger , I am so glad you died for me. You were a cow, and now you're not. You were cold (in the freezer), and now you're hot. I'm grilling you, I'm grilling you, you love my spices, yes you do". Loving your food is a subtle art. You have to know when you're crossing the line.

I held so many people in my suitcase heart

So. Several people here and at home have recently shown interest in reading my blog. This has created the need to do some back-editing and may (read, most certainly will) affect future entries. I’ve kind of spared nothing up to this point; discretion amongst my close relations never really was my forte. Given that, you would think I would love to write in my journal. Au contraire my friends, au contraire. I have a really hard time of it, writing to my future self or my kids I don’t yet have or complete strangers who might come across my words “one day”. A concrete audience is what I require; you know, the kind that breathes and feels. In the present. So maybe I’ll have to create another more journalistic blog with a limited audience composed of people that my candidness won’t take by surprise. But for the rest of you, this is goodbye to my blog “a la journal”.

But the beginning of something wonderful, nonetheless.

My dear friend Winston, known to some of you as Elder McCarthy, inspired the theme of much of what I will write in this next blog. See, he posts a link to his blog on his facebook and probably got more than he was betting for when I decided to check it out. His original intention in writing a blog was to write “just a journal, nothing more”. So yes, I essentially stumbled onto his journal. (I will add as a side note that this also kind of made me realize the need for discretion in my postings. Not that big W wrote anything indiscreet or anything; he limits himself to toe stubbing incidents and one, two paragraphs max. Rather the reality that anyone can access my blog was what I gleaned from my readings.) He remarked that a general authority, I don’t know who, had recommended that in your daily journal writings you include something you are grateful for from that day. Impressed, yes I was.

So I don’t mean to disappoint here or anything, but I’m not going to outline every hour of the past two weeks here. I’m going to have some photos, some descriptions, preceded by a lot of gratitude. My English teachers of yesteryear would be so proud of me and my introductory paragraph complete with topic sentence. I blame them for my inability to relay information like a normal human being. I have taken my revenge however by starting sentences with 'so', 'and', and 'but' as a rule of thumb and writing incomplete sentences altogether. So wrong. And yet so right.

Yeah, I know. Only a huge nerd considers violation of the mechanics of writing as a sort of rebellion.

With discretion will come a lack in context in some cases. You will pardon me this, of course. (I thank you for your magnanimity). In order to avoid jealousy between my subject matter, I leave you by way of an update of these last two weeks, in no particular order, what I have recently found myself grateful for:

1) American customer service. Not only the fact that in the good old US of A the consumer is recognized as the means of keeping businesses running but also the general patience towards customers. And, because I am impatient I have to add that I’m grateful for respect of the customer’s time. Example: I spent 30 minutes in line at the local grocery one morning to buy 2 croissants and a pack of laughing cow cheese. And I had a tram, then a metro to catch. Starvation seemed a better alternative than being in the claustrophobia inducing lines but as my hypoglycemia makes my starvation a miserable experience for those around me generally, I remained standing there. And I didn’t move for another 6 minutes. My stomach tightened at every six minute interval I was able to take a step. I never thought I would more appreciate the fast lane, or, even better, the self check lane in grocery stores.

2) By the same token, I’m grateful-even though I don’t like it-to learn a very important life lesson that my head phrases something like this: get over yourself, you are not as patient as you think you are and even at that you knew you had a ways to go.

3) Good luck. Call it what you like, a little prayer never hurt anyone. Like that time I lost my newly purchased tram ticket (12.60 with 10 euros, that’s $14, remaining). This was actually the same morning as the waiting in line incident and as I was in a hurry I figured I had put the pass some ridiculous place in my room thinking I would remember and decided to just worry about finding it later and buy a one day pass. I was walking to the tram and worrying about it. I said a little prayer in my head, crossed the street and decided to listen to my music to de-stress. I turn my bag around to the front. I start to dig around for my itouch. Inevitably, my eyes grace the pavement. And there I see a tram pass. I pick it up and give it a good look. It has 12.60 punched on it and that’s when it hits me: the night before when walking home my hands full of bags of books and clothes I had decided to listen to my ipod at that exact same spot. I had swung my bag around front and doing so had dislodged the tram ticket from my back pocket. If you had asked me earlier if I had lost it on the way home I would have said it was a possibility and that it probably fell out on the tram, while I was sitting down. Only hindsight made me realize how I had lost the thing in the first place. Who says independent women don’t manage without a little help from lady luck and the man upstairs?

4) Growing up with a limited television privileges and lots of chores (even though in hindsight lots may be an exaggeration here). The former because I learned early that I was capable of entertaining myself and the latter because I learned early that I was capable of contributing, responsibility, and hard work. To a degree, we'll say. Respect for time and property came with that too, I think. A weird and unrelated and possibly cultural and therefore egocentrical anecdote: Bastille Day, July 14th, is the French equivalent to the 4th of July. I spent the day at the ward, barbequing followed by fireworks at the beach until 12:30. Am. While the fireworks weren’t all that great and we arrived late, it was an experience, the whole beach bit. On the 25 minute drive home we passed 2 burning cars and 1 burning motorcycle. Fireworks, you might ask? No. Just people-not necessarily teenagers either- who were bored and derive joy vandalizing other peoples things. Vandalism is quite a problem here. As is littering. I’m not trying to get to the root of the problem here or anything, because obviously taking away the television and heaping on the chores does not ensure responsible citizens. But let’s just say I am grateful to be an American raised in an educated, hard working home. And by that I imply more that I can possibly explain right now. And I also don't mean to sound self congratulating, or snobbish. I really am just grateful. Thanks Mom and Dad.

5) Homeopathic doctors and remedies. Because despite a gluten allergy I am able to counter the effects of all the pastries and french baked goodness with a couple of pills. I think it's catching up with me, and I still feel like my muscles are weaker than they should be but it sure beats having a constant stomach ache.

6) French chocolate. That pretty much says it all.

7) Bookstores. Especially French ones. Facebook may have informed some of you that I just dispensed of over 100 euro (yes, that is $140) at the local and then used "librarie" (bookstore). Thanks to the hours I had to explore I found a couple of good (read, interesting/cheap) finds. One of them I started last week, it's called "Demain la Lune" (Tomorrow the Moon). I bought it because it sounded like a coming of age story. A big fan of adolescent literature I seized the chance to expose myself to the French adolescent experience. True, it takes place in the 70's but it is a story of a boy who is from a town 20 minutes outside of Rennes (where I studied abroad) who has to spend his summer vacation with his newly divorced father in Provence (where I am now). I seem to have unbelievable luck here; everything coincides perfectly. Where this kind of luck is in Utah, the real world, I would really like to know. I should add here that this is my 5th book I'm working my way through now. I just finished a Marie Antoinette biography and now I'm itching to spend more time in Paris. I'd be very grateful for that, but I may be getting ahead of myself since finances are tight. Here's a picture for you of my purchases :)


8) SISTERS. And Dave. Seeing the workings of a household with an only child has made me shudder at what life would have been like-and would be like-without them. Seriously, I see this shadow, a phantom, of the child I might have been. She's kind of monsterous in thick, pink rimmed glasses. I'll spare you the sociopathic vision.

9) My friendies. Amis. Amigos. Because for some reason this 2 month excursion of mine has me missing hanging out with you more than a mission or study abroad (various theories to explain this phenomenon will likely follow) and because you've been so awesome at indulging me and keeping in touch. And again, talk about luck, I'm glad to be one of 4 Americans here in the ward. Not only does it make for more of a party but I can hide the fact-by degrees-that I'm a shameless tag along.

K, 10 would be a nice round number to end on but I have to stop this sappiness before I CTRL A and delete this on a whim. And now ladies and gentlemen, for some pictures. Possibly some videos if I can tap into the tech-savy mastermind within.


*************************************************************************************************

I came bearing gifts. This is the night of my arrival in Marseille with Chrystèle and William.



Plume the cat likes to sleep in my drawer. Hmm, reminds me of a little black monster I know back home.



This is the cereal I hold fully responsible for my weight gain in Rennes, five years back. 2 bowls a morning of this stuff and fatty french milk will do that to you. I've found a new and improved version. At 2.50 a box and gluten free, I pretty much have to eat the stuff. I have no other choice but to eat spoonful after spoonful of oat granola swimming with shavings of dark chocolate. It's a matter of health. No choice whatsoever.



Florence countryside by car. Yes, those are grape vines.



My freezing my tail after getting out of the water at plage d'estagnol. We went two Wednesdays ago.



Joel taking a picture of me taking a picture of plage d'estagnol. This place could compete with Hawaii in my book. Awesome.



Plage d'estagnol cont....



...inued.



Aix-en-Provence. Cezanne and I, we're tight. Drew and Mathias (les Americains) and Slyvia, a girl from their program, bussed it out here last Saturday to be given a guided tour by Marie and Elodie, natives to France but not the region.



Provencial streets. Yes, I am still obsessed with windows.



Aix marketplace. I took pictures of the flowers instead of buying anything. Had to save my mula for gelato, breton (think Rennes) crepes, and renown pasteries. OOh. La. La.



Marketplace continued.




Friends and family, please take note. This is how the French decorate the cars of newlyweds: ribbons and flowers. Classy inside and out. When my big day comes, I want (read: have to have) this. I have other pictures, should you need further inspiration.



Notre Dame de....Aix?


No window? No door? Don't worry, they'll grafiti one in for you.


Fountain I-have-all-ready-forgotten-your-name. Aix.



Sylvia, Polish, bears a frightning resemblence to Dr. Brennen in Bones. She thought it was hilarious to sneak up behind me when I was taking pictures. I have 3 other similar shots and in all 3 she refuses to take off her sunglasses. Which is a shame because you can't see the resemblence really here.



Drew, the Narrator. He takes videos and narrates them. Inspirational, really. I regret not having
more videos from my mission. So now I'm following Drew's trend, minus the narration.



Sylvia, Mathias, and I. Aix. Drew is the photographer and all the group photos we had other people take of us are on his camera and I'll get them later.


Chrystèle bought me this recipe book of regional delights.



Notre Dame de la Garde. Google images took this picture for me. We visited on Bastille day, July 14th. It's one of the most known icons of the city. You can see her lady from almost anywhere in Marseille and from out on the ocean too (I've been told).


On the inside of the cathedral of Notre Dame de la Garde. Because she is both a landmark and religious icon of a city built on a port, there are a lot of themes about water and boats in the decor. There were boats hanging from the ceiling all over. I now want to decorate a room in my house like that. This is one of the most colorful cathedrals I'd ever seen.



Notre Dame de la Garde.



Marseille minstral (wind) meets Sunny at Notre Dame de la Garde.



View from Notre Dame tower.



Here I am in front of the entrance to the catherdal wearing my hope and peace shirt on Bastille day. It's as patriotic as I get here.



Last Saturday Joel drove us out to the Calanques. That's a french term for cliffs meeting ocean in a particular fashion I can't quite describe. We weren't able to visit the Calanques we wanted to, nor do the hiking we planned on doing there due to the heat and winds which resulted in fire risks apparently. Mathias and I were dumbfounded at the alarm the heat and wind caused because seriously, all the coastline was closed off. We ended up in Cassis, about 20 minutes out of Marseille. It was absolutely pictoresque. Fellow travelers were Mathias (obviously), Louise, and Jonathan, from the ward.


Jonathan and I in deep conversation.


Mathias and Louise. Mathias had that towel wrapped around his head at one point to avoid sunburn. Classic. Louise got sunburned for like the 2nd time in her life. She's got a great tan line from her cast to prove it too.



Voila, the Calanques meet the port.



The brave and sunburned travellers.



The Cigales (Cicadas) are infamous here in Provence. Like crickets in the mountain, they set the tone for summer. Jonathan made friends with one here. Gross.



Sunday we picnicked and then headed downtown to visit the Palais Longchamps. This is the view of the palace from the back, you can see me there walking on the right.



Chrystèle and I at the Palais.



Palais arches.



Coming down around the side of the Palais.



"I was a statuette". (See previous photo)



View from the Palais.



Almost down to the street.


In contemplation.




So, I've discovered how to post a video. Now I just need to learn how to edit them. The new iphone can do that but apparently my computer can't; go figure. If you go about 25 seconds into the film you'll see me standing at the edge of the rocks, preparing to get in the ice and I mean freezing cold water. I was nearly ready for it but this wave came and I lost my balance and well, you'll see. Make sure you have the volume up so you can hear me screaming. I didn't last long in that water and it wore me out, I'll tell you. That's the most interesting thing about the video though, in case you want to keep watching.



And voila, the adventures end. I've been keeping myself more busy, as you see. I feel real lazy, a lot of the time and know I will have a hard time coming home to the pace of the real world but I'm not letting that interfere with my here and now. I'm in France and la vie est belle.