Using Charlala for Card Talk

Card Talk:

In the world language classroom, Card Talk is a great way to facilitate conversations that are unique to each group of students that you get to work with. The traditional approach to card talk is to give each student a piece of paper (card) and markers, some sort of prompt, and a few minutes to draw. At the end of the drawing time, you show off a couple of cards around the room and spin a conversation about it.

The beauty of card talk is that you can spin it in any direction you want and reinforce important words and phrases in the target language, and each class period winds up with something different, making everything more memorable to the students because it's actually about them instead of a generic textbook. Some possible prompts for Card Talk include:

• What do you like to do?
• Where did you go last weekend?
• What is your favorite food?
• Where would you like to go on vacation?
• What do you wear in October?
• What do you like to do for yourself?
• What do you do for your loved ones?
• What is your favorite book about?
• What makes you happy?
• What makes you sad?
• What's in your locker?

The down side of Card Talk is that you can go through a ton of paper if you have a lot of students or if you do it very often.

This is where Charlala comes in.

If you're not familiar with Charlala, it can be used kind of like a doodling version of Kahoot, and it works great in One To One classrooms with tablets or touch screen laptops if you have a projector. You can tell students a prompt out loud, set a timer for them to draw their responses, and then everyone's drawing will be visible on the screen at the end. You can then click on one drawing at a time to zoom in and have a detailed discussion with the class.

How to set it up:

Go to app.charlala.com. You can set up an account for free. I used my Google account to log in.

From the upper left hamburger menu, select the Draw Room. There is a video tutorial that you can watch on the website, or you can follow along here.

You can set up "draw sets," but I typically don't. Instead, I just jump right into the DrawRoom session.

For card talk, I always use conversational mode. Click on "Conversational" FIRST, and then set the timer. When you select the mode, it sets the timer back to 180, so if you want to adjust the time, do that as your second step.

At this point, it will feel a lot like Kahoot or Quizlet Live. Students will need to go to charlala.com/draw and enter the room code. The most common issue is that students go to app.charlala.com instead. Students will get a doodle screen while they wait for their classmates to join the DrawRoom, and their doodles will disappear when you click "start." If you don't tell them this right off the bat, you will have some broken hearts in the room.

When you click "start," the official drawing begins! There is some cute, peppy music in the background, and it cuts off awkwardly after 2 minutes. 

At the end of drawing time, the students must click "FINISH" for their artwork to show up on your end. Have them do this before you click the "END" button; otherwise, their drawing will disappear.

Once you can see a thumbnail of each student's masterpiece, select "End Room." At this point, you can move forward in a number of different ways, but I like to have the class point to a person in the room whose masterpiece they would love to see closer. Next, you can click on their chef d'oeuvre to see it up close and discuss to your heart's content!

In a world language classroom, you can ask all kinds of questions to get the conversation going! I always begin by telling my French classes to look at the masterpiece (Classe, regardez le chef d'oeuvre de Bobby!) and applaud it (Classe, applaudissez!) From there, I begin asking questions.

I usually start off with basic questions in the target language about what students can see. For lower level classes, it's easiest to start with yes/no and either/or questions so that students can easily respond in the target language.

Classe, est-ce que c'est un pingouin? (Class, is this a penguin?)

C'est un pingouin ou un cochon? (Is this a penguin or a pig?)

Depending on where you want to go with the conversation, there are all kinds of questions you could ask about someone's Disco Piggy (or whatever else) Masterpiece.

What color is it?

What is the pig doing?

What kind of music does the pig prefer?

What is the pig wearing?

You can also ask students their opinions of things in the picture or have the group use their imagination to add more characterization.

What does the pig like to do?

How old is the pig?

What does the pig want?

Where is the pig going tomorrow?

What did the pig do yesterday?

The options are wide open from there, and it can be easy to spend ten minutes on a single masterpiece, but you can spend as much or as little time on each one as you like.

Book Post: The Labyrinth of the Spirits

My favorite book of all time (at least so far) is The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón, and imagine my thrill when I found out that it would be continued into a series! Ruiz Zafón's gothic prose flows like poetry, fittingly translated from the original Spanish text into English by Lucia Graves, daughter of poet Robert Graves. The four books in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books cycle can theoretically be read in any order, although I feel that they are most impactful in the order in which they were written. All four stories take place in Spain around the time of the Spanish Civil War, each telling a different character's story at a slightly different time, but inevitably interweaving to create a rich narrative tapestry.

Title: The Labyrinth of the Spirits

Author: Carlos Ruiz Zafón

Premise: 

This story encapsulates both the beginning and the end of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books series, telling the origins of Fermín Romero de Torres, the future of Daniel Sempere's family, and interweaving a new character, Alicia Gris, into all of it. Daniel, who the reader meets as a child in the antebellum Barcelona of The Shadow of the Wind, is now an adult, grappling with rage from recent discoveries about his family's history. In a flashback, the reader learns more about Daniel's beloved and mysterious friend Fermín's dark past, showing his connection to Alicia Gris. By the 1950's, Alicia lives a dangerous and intriguing life in Madrid, but she is brought back to Barcelona to help solve mysteries that hit closer to home than she might have expected.

My Thoughts:

I love this book. Since I have been reading my way through this series for well over a decade, I had forgotten a lot of details leading up to this story, so I buried myself in a pile of Carlos Ruiz Zafón's books in order to reread bits and pieces along the way. I'm not gonna lie -- I reread at least 50% of each of the earlier books from the series during my process of piecing all of the details together. No regrets.

As I was reading the series, I have to admit that The Angel's Game and The Prisoner of Heaven were nowhere as good as The Shadow of the Wind, but looking back on it all, the middle two books played integral roles in developing the world inhabited by these characters who I love so much. Since each book highlighted a different character at a different point in their timeline, I got to understand and care deeply about everyone. By the time I got to The Labyrinth of the Spirits, I was thrilled to piece everything together and fully understand how it all fit together, but there was no way to be emotionally prepared to let them all go. Did I cry at the end? You bet I did!

Bottom Line:

The Shadow of the Wind got a run for its money as my favorite book of all time when I read The Labyrinth of the Spirits, but the latter would not have the same impact without the influence of the former. Both books are dark, mysterious, and flow poetically from the pages like espresso from a moka pot. This is not a bright, sunshiny day kind of book; The Labyrinth of the Spirits is best suited for a cloudy winter day. When reading in the evening, you will crave white wine with this one.

Book Post: Emma

I'm starting off my book posts with what I finished most recently. I read my first Jane Austen title while in France, but really got into her novels over the last year or so. My friend Megan is owed all credit for my Austen kick, and she is the absolute best text message buddy for this type of literature, because she will switch from deep literary analysis to vulgar battery of our least favorite characters faster than Vonnegut can switch his readers from laughing to crying. If you do not yet have one, I recommend obtaining your own Megan ASAP.

Title: Emma

Author: Jane Austen

Premise: 

Emma Woodhouse lives with her dad in Highbury, England, in the early 1800s. They are a well-to-do family, and with Emma's mother long passed away, her older sister married and moved to London, and her governess recently married and moved to a nearby house, Emma is pretty used to running the show. She fancies herself a matchmaker, royally screws up some pretty important situations, and learns some difficult and important lessons along the way.

My Thoughts:

For me, this book had a slow start, but really picked up for the final third or so. Realistically, it probably wasn't the book being slow -- it was me. I felt unreasonably tired after reading just a few pages at a time, and then I finally pinpointed the issue: names. I have always been bad with names, and there are tons of them in this book. I eventually started listing them in a notebook, filling up a few pages with my "Who's Who," and I could finally cruise through the narrative.

I love the development of the characters in this book. This probably doesn't come as a shock to anyone, but this Austen lady really knows how to develop some characters and make the reader feel deeply about the story! I honestly didn't love any of the characters at the beginning of this book, but they grew on me as more was revealed about them and as they grew into better people. Most importantly, Jane Austen is an expert at creating characters that we love to hate. A lot of characters out there are the worst, but good ol' Jane's worst characters are The Most Worst. My favorite Most Worst character in this book really brings the word impertinent to life. Only Jane Austen can make me care about someone's level of impertinence.

Bottom Line:

Every book is right for a certain mood. Most books, in my opinion, are ideal for a rainy day, snuggled up on the couch with a cup of coffee and a puppy warming your feet. Being a British tale, rain is always fitting for this one. I also recommend a cozy cup of black tea within reach, maybe even a whole pot if you're in it for the long haul. If you enjoy music while you read, I accompanied this one with the Pride & Prejudice soundtrack on repeat.

Emma is a sweet, clever, sometimes frustrating, and overall wholesome read. It provides some good eye rolls about silly people. It renews one's love of love. It strengthens one's belief that people can better themselves and that good things come to good people. If you need a break from dark and heavy stories, Emma is here for you.

Let's Talk About Books

Why hello there! It's been a hot minute since I've opened up my blog, and although my European adventures have been on hold since I last posted here about them, there's plenty of other stuff that I'd like to write about.

How many years has it been since my last post? How much has changed? Beaucoup. Since returning to the States, I began teaching 8th grade French (currently in my 6th year of teaching), took up running (currently training for my 2nd half marathon) and painting, married the fella that I began dating just before writing my last blog post, and bought a house with him. A lot of amazing things have happened in my life over these years, and I feel incredibly blessed to look back on it.

One thing that has not changed is my love of reading. I've thought on and off for quite some time now about writing a book blog, so why not start now? Some of my posts will be about books just after I have read them. Some posts will be throwbacks to books that I read a long time ago but hold an important place in my heart. Some posts will have absolutely nothing to do with books. We'll see what happens.

There and Back Again: July 16th, 2013

The irony of this post's title is not lost on me; Tolkien truly hated the French.

At the beginning of the year, a version of me that retrospectively seems exaggeratedly younger than I am now left the comfort of her home country for the adventure of a lifetime. I spent an amazing semester based in France and branching out to nearby countries at every given opportunity, but all things ultimately must come to an end.

I haven't added a word to this blog in quite some time, so my catching up starts with my final couple of weeks in Europe, which turned out to be an absurd culmination of the best and the worst of the trip. Let's start with the worst.

As most of you that have spoken to me since my return already know, I got really sick in Europe. That upper respiratory infection from the week in Spain and Portugal was already uncommonly poor health for me, but the end of my semester put that sickness stint to shame. During the finals period, which would already have been unpleasant enough due to excessive amounts of studying for these foreign exams and the hurt of having to say goodbye to all the amazing friends that I had made throughout the semester, injury was added to insult. Not only did I get shingles (a disease that you may be familiar with from your 80-year-old grandfather having recently contracted it), but I also got an ulcer. At the same time. Yup.

Needless to say, this situation was rather unpleasant for me, but looking back at it, there never really was a better semester to get so sick. With the American medical system, we are largely conditioned to try to walk off most any illness we contract unless we think that we legitimately might die from it, because let's face it, our health care is expensive. In France, though, medical care is much more accessible to the public, making it far less daunting of a task for a young foreigner to finally make her way into the doctor's office and get some treatment before her condition gets irreparably bad. Realistically, I probably should have gone to the doctor about a week before I ended up going -- you know, before I lost 10 pounds from being unable to eat anything -- but chances are that I would have put it off even longer if I had been in the States at the time. I'm not sure how differently it might have ended if that had been the case, but I'm just glad that I was someplace where I could get the help that I needed without the fear that it was excessive or a luxury. I'm better now, and I have the socialist health care system to thank for that.

About two hours after getting out the hospital, I completed my last final exam of my undergraduate career (langage et cerveau, or language and the brain, by neurolinguistics class), and I had a couple of days to rest up a bit and pack before greeting my parents once more, saying my goodbyes to my France friends, and starting off on the final legs of my European adventure. The transition was bittersweet, and I still wasn't anywhere near 100% health wise, but this was where the amazing things got started up again.

Seamus and Ryktica, as I like to call my parents, took me on a perfect parisian redemption trip. Just as a review of the first trip to Paris, half of the group got pickpocketed, the other half got sick (strongly recurring theme for me), and I never saw the Eiffel Tower, Champs Elysees, Arc de Triomphe, Louvre, top of Notre Dame, or, ya know, any of the cool and stereotypically standard stuff that you're supposed to see in Paris except for Shakespeare and Company. Paris Take II fixed all of that, and Shakespeare and Co. was still magical, plus I ended up running into somebody I know outside the shop (shout out to Mackenzie McDermit, who solidified my parents' ideas that I actually know everyone on the planet). The highlight of this second attempt at the city, though, came from a magical moment while watching one of the most magical movies ever: Midnight in Paris.

I only have one movie on my laptop, and that is it, so the three of us found it only fitting that we should watch it together while reposing after a full day of parisian adventures. I knew that the movie would go through the midnight hour, but I wasn't wearing a watch, so part way through the movie I turned to good ol' Seamus to ask him what time it was. He showed me his watch, and it was exactly midnight in Paris. It was perfect.

In other news, Ryktica took selfies in front of the Eiffel Tower.

We soon moved on to the land of Harry Potter, Doctor Who, and the Beatles: London. We rode double decker buses. We got rained on. We went on walking tours. We saw Big Ben. We got rained on some more. I turned 21, and on that day I was able to reincorporate tea into my diet, and that night we saw Spamalot and walked along the moonlit banks of the Thames. I felt immensely grateful to be there.

The very last city that we went to visit was a lesser known town in the north of England, but still held great importance to my father and myself. Seamus and I made our pilgrimage to Liverpool, the Beatles' hometown. We only spent a single night in the rainy little city, but we certainly made the most of it. We saw the band members' childhood homes, the famed locations of Penny Lane and the Strawberry Fields orphanage, and the locations where the music started. I ended up having my first beer as a 21-year-old at the Cavern Club, where the Beatles had their first gigs. Yeah, I'm just that cool. You have my permission to be jealous now.

And so it ended for us where it began for them. We flew back to the States, and it was time to face culture shock once more.

Yes, I know that I've spent pretty much the entirety of my life in the US, but after so much time in France, certain things were surprising to adjust back to upon my return. For one thing, American openness had me thrown for a loop. I had forgotten that it was normal to smile at a stranger on the street, so it took me some time to not be creeped out by others doing that, and it still takes conscious effort to reciprocate rather than just naturally scowling at every stranger I see. I'm also adjusting to not being able to blatantly people watch the way we do in France; over there, you can just kind of openly stare at people and it isn't weird. That's not so much the case in this country. The one thing that would never have occurred to me as a culture shock that I would face has nothing to do with personal interactions, though. As it turns out, light switches took some adjustment for me. In Europe, all of the light switches are the flat ones that you can basically just slap with your hand and be done with. Since those exist in the States, too, they didn't take any adjustment when I first went to Europe. Coming back, though, I hadn't run into an american light switch all year, so I may or may not have slightly injured my hand on a number of occasions by just trying to slap my bedroom light on. I'm incredibly smart that way.

At this point, save for the mornings when I wake up and am unsure of what country I'm in, I've gotten past the vast majority of the culture shock, and I'm starting to see how my time in Europe has changed me. There are some obvious things, like the series of shingles scars running down my leg, but other things have taken me some more time to figure out. For one thing, I feel a lot more confident now than I was before I left. Instead of thinking of myself as a young and helpless kid, I now know that I'm capable of navigating foreign countries by myself, both geographically and in terms of leading my life. I also feel a lot less awkward in my own skin now. One of the most striking compliments that I received while overseas was that I seemed so confident, and that helped me realize that I wasn't just weird and annoying when I opened up and acted like myself, but it could actually be a good thing. I also feel more confident in my appearance now, which does feel kind of superficial to put down in text, but not only do I feel capable of putting myself together well now, but for the first time in my life, I don't feel so self-conscious about being unattractive. Maybe this just came along with growing comfortable in other aspects of my life, but it's been a meaningful transformation for me. Finally, as I've started the next stage of my life in graduate school, I've begun to actually feel like an adult. I know that I will always have more growing up to do, even if I make it to 100, but I see myself as more than just a kid.

It's been a wild ride, and I've learned so much more than I could put into words on this blog, but it's time to move on. Thanks for reading.

The Frenchest Fry

NOTE: The following story is entirely fictional and bears only loose connections to reality. Enjoy.

Once upon a time, the quaint town of Aix-en-Provence sat quietly and peacefully in the south of France, filled with old ochre buildings and plane trees smiling over its residents. The sun shined on the town's numerous fountains, and most of the excitement in the area came from the Mistral's winds ripping through the streets.

One January day, a wide-eyed and severely jet-lagged me arrived in the city, not yet knowing what the semester was to bring. I spent the next few months wandering around the city, occasionally branching out to other nearby countries, getting to know the cultures and languages as well as I could. I tried local the local cuisine, attempted to function in a foreign university, and spent a lot of time looking words up in my French-English dictionary, until one spring day when I was faced with a dilemma.

With my days in the country winding to a close, I needed to try to fit in as many missed french experiences as possible, and I realized that I had yet to eat some truly french French Fries.

"This is a disaster," I lamented to Nathan in the kitchen as he mixed the batter for some banana pancakes. "How can I hold my head up if I go back to the States without eating the Frenchest Fry? And where am I even going to find it?"

"Well," he replied, "French fries were actually invented by the Belgians. It's only the style of frying them that's French, so the most authentic fries would actually be in Belgium."

With this nugget of information, I knew who could help me best: RyanAir. Their cheap and jenky flights could get me there pretty easily, so I headed straight to their website to look up flights. The only thing that could tear my eyes from the artificial glow of my laptop screen was the presence of an additional voice in the kitchen.

"Ooh, you should throw some of this in there," Hannah commented to Nathan while rooting through the fridge and spice rack. "And is there any Sriracha around?"

"Wait, when did you get in here?" I inquired.

"Oh, you know," she replied, immediately returning her attention to the food. I really didn't know, though. As I looked through my planner for a decent remaining weekend to head to Belgium, Hannah turned her attention to me once more. "What are you up to?" My answer merited no other response than her swift grimace and review of RyanAir landing quality. "Every time they're about to land, everything is going great, then it's like the pilot just gives up and drops the controls a second before touching ground. I feel like I'm gonna die every time."

My mind was suddenly plagued with flashbacks to every RyanAir landing that I've ever experienced, which invariably aligned with her description. This reminder, along with the fact that I didn't have enough free weekends left in Aix, brought me to the more practical decision to simply find french fries in France while I was still there. For the moment, though, my attentions were better devoted to the pancakes in front of me.

After breakfast, the next stop was the Parc Jourdain, a prime people watching spot and a favorite locale for studying and enjoying the sun. Upon reaching my destination, I greeted Savannah and Victoria, and we pulled out our Langage, Culture, et Société notes in preparation for our sun-soaked study session. After a good half hour of productive studying, we digressed by catching up on what each of us had been up to, and I brought up my culinary conundrum of the day.

"Study abroad problems, amiright?" Victoria began. "Okay, but really... ummm have you tried that one place on the Cours Mirabeau, Les Deux Frères? Is that what it's called? Is that a thing?"

"I'm pretty sure that's a thing," Savannah chimed in.

"Thanks, pal!" Victoria chimed right back.

"Any time, bud!" Savannah continued. "Anyhow, what kind of fries are you looking for? I mean different places have good fries, but just different types."

"French ones," I specified. "The frenchest ones I can get."

Savannah rolled her eyes and moved on to more productive topics, and we continued much in the same fashion until the conversation fell into a lull and we took back to studying, breaking up bouts of productivity with lighthearted conversation each time that our collective attention span waned too much. After a few hours of this, we had taken in more sun than actual studying, so we parted ways and headed in the directions of our respective apartments.

On my way back, I took a stroll along the Cours Mirabeau, considering each overpriced restaurant that I passed for its fry potential, but remained dissatisfied with the cost-benefit analysis as I ran it through my head. Feeling a bit let down by the picturesque street, I adjourned to my apartment.

Moments after I entered the building, my phone began to ring. I looked at the screen before picking up, and it read "Unknown Caller," so of course I knew who it was before I hit the green "accept call" button.

"Hey Maddie" It was none other than the man of three names, Brandon/Victor/Paolo, otherwise known as BVP. "Do you guys have any dinner plans?" We did not. "Then could I come over tonight and make something for dinner?" Indeed he could.

He arrived within minutes with a baguette in hand. It was still a while before the time to start cooking, so we made a quick Monoprix run to spend altogether too much money on the cheapest ingredients available (comme d'hab), and I once more took the opportunity to seek advice about how and where to find fries of the proper level of frenchness. He couldn't think of a solution to the perplexity, but he did sing me a pretty song while charmingly throwing my name into the lyrics, which at least made me feel a bit better for the moment.

Once we returned to the apartment, he took to playing Battle Tetris on Alyssa's laptop while I tried doing some internet research on where to find the best fries in Aix. As we we sitting, we suddenly heard the door opening and felt a cool zephyr blow through the apartment, and we knew. The bros were coming.

Sure enough, our neighbors Sam and Sean, along with Other Sam (a.k.a. Joe) and a marigold clad Toler, appeared in search of Cody.

"Dude, is Cody around?" Sean asked.

"Not that I know of," I said, only to be proven wrong as my aforementioned roommate suddenly emerged from his room that I had previously presumed to be vacant.

"Hey, we're about to head over to Pascal's for dinner," Sam said to Cody. "Come on."

"Hold on, I'm gonna grab some shoes," Cody responded. "What have you guys been up to?"

"Gossip Girl, bro."

They soon filed out the door, and after a moment Cody dashed back in for a moment to grab his lighter, and was gone once more. I returned to furiously looking for really french-sounding restaurants in the area, and heard the door open again. I thought it odd that Cody should forget something twice rather than his standard single return before making it out the door, but then I looked up and saw that instead it was Alyssa returning from the APA office with the remnants of a crepe in hand and the entirety of a Mickey coming in behind her.

"What's up?" my blondest roommate inquired.

"I need to find some really French fries before I go, and there's almost no time left! What do I do?"

"Maddie, breathe. You've had moules frites before. You've also had the fries from Nabab and the falafel place. Point is, you've already got french fries covered."

I paused for a second. "...Oh." I thought it through, and as usual, she was right. I guess that as long as I'm having french fries in France, they're significantly frencher than anywhere else in the world, so I'd already had the frenchest fries on earth. As I took this unnecessarily long moment of reflection, Alyssa and Mickey took to an even more drawn out game of sloth tag. It was a glorious moment in the apartment, made even better once BVP got to work on dinner and the place was filled with the scent of delicious things.

With my renewed peace of mind, I was able to enjoy a delicious meal of BVP's carbonara, because italian food definitely made the most sense to complete my french experiences, and at the end of the night, I was able to go to sleep and peacefully dream of the Frenchest Fry.

Graduation Day: 4 mai, 2013

Today is graduation day. It's a day when people get dressed up in spiffy caps and gowns, surrounded with family and other various loved ones, celebrating everything that they've accomplished in the past few years. It's the day that people either walk up on a stage and shake some hands or snap some pictures of those that they're proud of doing the same. Save for being surrounded by loved ones (because seriously, the people that I know here are pretty awesome), I'm not doing any of that stuff. I'm slightly too in Europe and stuff to do that stuff, so I'm going to blog stuff instead.

My graduating class at Indiana University is celebrating in caps and gowns today, and although I don't get to be there for that, I'm very much okay with missing out on it. My semester doesn't actually end for another two weeks anyway (silly France), so I have yet to complete what my peers have done, making it feel a bit imaginary for me. What I'm really missing out on this weekend is the celebration of someone else that has done so much more than me.

My older brother Cole is graduating from Auburn University tomorrow, and I dearly wish that I could have been there to snap pictures of him in his cap and gown, but now I have to find another way to show how proud I am of my big bro.

Tomorrow, Cole celebrates something real; he has finished his four collegiate years, during which he not only studied and took exams, but also grew into somebody that I'm even prouder to call my brother than before. My friends can attest to how much I brag about my big bros, and now anyone reading this gets a good taste of that.

Cole has always been the funniest Stuart, but as he has grown into who he is and matured during college, his humor has developed in complement. Part of this is due to the amount of knowledge that he's accumulated in these four years, which is to be expected during college, seeing as he was and English major and thus learned more words and how to use them in increasingly clever ways, but due to his unrelenting passion about what interests him, he also researches whatever band or idea piques his interest. He uses some of this researched information to make his famously clever and hilarious quips, but also applies it wherever applicable in his life.

Anybody that has ever attempted to argue with this guy certainly knows that going against him tends to be a losing battle. At first, it can take a while to figure out why he's so hard to beat -- is it because he stops blinking and intimidates you with the glaring intensity of those ambiguously blue/green eyes? Does he have mind control powers that make you suddenly capable of only producing sub-par arguments? Honestly though, he's just so knowledgeable that he can support pretty much any argument with the facts that he can come up with off the top of his head, and when combined with his quick wit, it makes for a lethal combination.

These argumentative tactics could easily make a person intimidating to encounter, but Cole is also generous with what he knows. Especially when he knows that I'm curious about something, he makes the effort to share new information, teaching me things that I never would have known without my brother. How much do you know about the Wu-Tang Clan? Had it not been for Cole, I would know nothing about them, likely never developing an appreciation for rap music, but he broadened my understanding of the world (or at least of the musical world) and taught me some things that I'm honestly pretty proud of knowing. He also taught me everything I know about basketball, so I can understand what I'm seeing when I watch Bulls games on TV. He makes me smarter and feel cooler than I could be without him.

If I hadn't taken an entire class on the Beatles, Cole, you would undoubtedly smoke me at Beatles Trivial Pursuit.

One thing that I personally keep learning more and more, especially since Cole and I started college, is just how supportive and wonderful of a brother he is. He was my first friend. He has always kept and eye out for me, and was definitely not shy about doing so whenever boys are involved in my life, but it took me until college to really start noticing what he does for me. He teaches me things and shows me cool music. When we're in different states or countries, he finds ways to give something as short and simple as a text message the heartfelt warmth of a hug. He makes time to hang out with his little sister even though he has a lot of well-earned friends that he needs to make time for when we're home. He sticks up for me when he notices that I'm being picked on and don't have the presence of mind to defend myself, and I can never put into words how much that means to me.

All in all, Cole has been an amazing brother and person in general, and this man that I look up to so much absolutely deserves to be celebrated today. I love you, I look up to you, and I'm proud of you. Congratulations, big bro.

The Homeland: 2 Mai, 2013

MASSIVELY LONG POST ALERT

Spring break 2013 was the approximate week and a half between the end of classes and the beginning of finals that sent the APA participants scattered throughout Europe, seeking out new adventures, scenic spots, and general fun. For me, this break signified the opportunity to get in touch with some of my roots and visit the place that I've jokingly referred to as "The Homeland" for a number of years now: Ireland.

As my roommates were preparing for their departure to Greece, I packed up my backpack as space efficiently as possible (because suitcases are for wimps) for my tour through Ireland, taking me through Dublin, Cork, Galway, and Limerick. Although traveling to different countries is pretty much business as usual for the group at this point, this trip was going to be a little bit different from the rest for one key reason: I was to travel alone for the first time. Granted, I was to meet up with the man of many names, Brandon Victor Paolo (BVP) and two of his friends the night that we all got to Dublin, but on every flight that I had taken throughout my life I'd had at least one other friend with me to help navigate through the airport and to whatever hostel was our destination. This time, that was not the case.

On Tuesday morning I got up early (at least by a 20-year-old's standards), grabbed some croissants for the road, and made my way to the bus station, where I proceeded to wait in a state of severe paranoia that I had misread the bus schedule and that I was at the wrong stop, I'd already missed my bus, or that this bus wasn't going to take me to the airport at all. Eventually, though, the bus rolled up to take me to the Nice airport.

Things rolled pretty smoothly from there as I went through security, flew to Ireland, and took a bus that delivered me into the heart of Dublin city. Having eaten only a couple of croissants throughout the day, at this point in the evening I was definitely ready to try some Irish food. I walked around for a good minute or two until I found a promising pub, where I ordered myself some fish and chips with a Dublin staple, a Guinness. There was only one unforeseen problem.

I had been excited to go to an English speaking country for the first time since New Year's, expecting that the common language would make it easier to get by than in the other countries that I've been to where they speak various other languages. As I discovered at this pub, though, I don't understand thick brogues. As opposed to when I was in Italy, where I could understand at least part of whatever I heard in Italian, I didn't catch a single word of what this pub worker dude was saying to me.

Since I had already conversed with Irish people in the US and France, I figured that I understood the accent pretty well, but I had neglected to take varied accents from different parts of the country into account. I'm not sure what city this chap was from, but I didn't catch anywhere near as much of what he was saying as when I spoke to pretty much anybody else in the country. I looked like an idiot for a moment while somebody with a gentler accent had to translate his English into Also English for me.

Observations from during that meal: fish and chips are nummy, there is a condiment called "brown sauce" in existence, and pints are ENORMOUS.

After my first Irish meal, I made my way through what had turned into a significantly rainier Dublin to my hostel. While waiting for BVP and his friends whose names I had not yet committed to memory to show up, I killed some time by partaking in the hostel's wine and cheese portion of the night, making the acquaintance of a Canadian chick who had been spending the past several months with family in Sweden (Canadian count: 1), which turned into a conversation about American and Canadian sports, attracting the attention of the remaining American and Canadians in the room (Canadian count: 3). I kind of knew what I was talking about for most of the conversation. I eventually gave up and turned in for the night, retiring to the hostel room where my travel buddies were still MIA.

At approximately 1:30am, their arrival was glorious. It consisted mostly of them shuffling around to get settled in for the night, and me mumbling with my eyes closed.

In the morning, more thorough introductions of Nathan and Liz were issued, and so our Irish adventures together began. With only one full day in Dublin, we made the most of our time by getting around on the hop-on hop-off bus tour of the city, hearing witty quips from different guides and taking in as much scenery and information as we could. Our time on these buses turned out to be preferable to off, because, as it turns out, it rains a lot in the British Isles. Who knew, right?

We quickly discovered that Ireland has two weather modes:
1) Sunny, warm, and beautiful
2) Freezing cold rain and wind

It alternates between these two modes numerous times throughout the day. This is not pleasant for somebody that's been spoiled by the consistently warm and sunny weather of southern France. It's not pleasant at all.

After our daytime sightseeing, the group quickly established an evening ritual of stopping by a local pub for a pint and some euchre. Prior to this trip, I was about as knowledgeable as the average irishman of the game of euchre -- that's to say not at all. Regardless, my comrades were patient with me as they showed me the ropes of the card game, and I was soon addicted. In fact, I'm currently experiencing a case of the shakes from withdrawal. I'll be checking into the rehab clinic tomorrow.

Most of our transportation throughout the week-long trip, aside from walking, was by bus, whether taking us on a tour through a city or taking us on a three-hour ride to our next destination city. In contrast to car and bus rides in the midwest of the US, I did not see a single ear of corn. Instead, I got great views of green fields of grass, rolling hills, short stone walls reminiscent of The Quiet Man, and tons of sheep. My first major dose of this came as we headed over to Cork city.

Cork has a much smaller town feel to it than Dublin, which I really liked, and houses the greatest pub to ever exist, the Welcome Inn. As we went on a desperate search for food one night, looking for someplace that was still serving food by 7pm (a rarity that shows a stark contrast to France, where most restaurants start serving dinner at 7:30 or 8pm instead of finishing well before then), we stopped by this little pub asking whether or not they still had food. Alas, they didn't, but the bartender standing outside made the friendly gesture of pointing us in the right direction to the best of his ability. We ended up having a humble meal at Subway because it was the only place that was still open, then decided that this little pub had earned the honor of being our pint destination for the evening. As we returned to the Welcome Inn, we saw two doors right next to each other, both supposedly leading in, so Liz took the role of our fearless leader by walking into the door on the left.

As it turns out, the door on the left leads behind the pub counter. Much to the bartender's amusement, we panicked, rushed back out, and made our way in the proper door. At this point, though, the bartender invited our fearless leader back behind the counter, instructing her to pour our pints.

"Look here, we've got a new bar maid!"

The bar full of old irishmen was wildly amused by the scene, and the bartender seemed to get quite a kick out of it as well. As we were all paying, Liz was getting ready to pull out a €5 note, but the bartender stopped her, telling her that her pint was on the house.

And so the excitement in the pub settled down for the most part as we sat down with our pints and began to play some euchre. This strange and foreign game caught the intrigue of one particularly drunk irishman, who eventually had us take a break from the game as he taught us some card tricks. It's lucky that these tricks by "Drunk Irish Grandpa," as I like to call him, were explained most thoroughly in a visual manner, because I couldn't understand a darned word he said in that slurred brogue of his. When continuing conversation with the man became too difficult and awkward, we put an effective end to the convo by switching to French for a little while, then called it a night. And so concluded our experience at the greatest pub ever.

Fast forward to the morning, and it was time to head to the Blarney Castle! The castle itself was relatively small, but the grounds were enormous, beautiful, and parts of it were just straight-up cool.

Of course, we made the obligatory stop to kiss the Blarney Stone at the top of the castle, which I informed the group as we entered the grounds was the #1 thing from the entire trip that I needed a picture with. We made our way up the narrowest possible spiral staircase, clinging for dear life to the rope in the middle due to the lack of any handrail, and found ourselves in the presence of a wholly underwhelming and unspecial-looking stone, but that was it. I took pictures for the group as Liz, BVP, and Nathan took their turns kissing the stone, and my turn finally came, so I handed my camera to BVP so he could get a photo of the event, sat down, grabbed the rails, and literally bent over backwards to reach and kiss the stone.

As I got back up, feeling victorious, I went to retrieve my camera from BVP, who had a slightly guilty and vaguely bewildered look on his face.

"I just got so distracted that I forgot to take the picture," he said.

Ha ha, very funny. I took my camera back to look through the pictures to prove that he was just lying to screw with me.

Nope. He really didn't take a picture. And neither did anybody else in the group. All that was left was the overpriced souvenir photo taken by the Blarney Castle employees, which BVP offered to pay for. He didn't pay for it, though (What's up with that, BVP? I say you owe me a pint, at least).

After that, we made our way around the grounds, starting with the gardens. At this castle, there were two different kinds of gardens: Irish and poison. Yes, poison. They grow various toxic and mind-altering plants, including poison ivy, yew, and marijuana. That was the first time I've seen a pot plant in person. The Irish garden was significantly less interesting, filled with flowering plants that are out of season at the moment, so we didn't get to see a single one of the flowers.

Our next stop was Galway city, the last city that we would visit together. With a rather condensed city center, we were able to make our way around on foot, getting to the city museum, cathedral, river walk, and a local street market. My favorite part of the city, though, was probably the street performers. Especially along the main shop street in the city, there were musical performers abound, doing anything from electric guitar and vocals to traditional harp and accordion.

After our relatively brief time in Galway, the time had come to part ways, and so I was on my own for the remainder of the trip.

I started my solo trip by taking yet another bus your, this time taking me through Connemara and Cong villages, one containing a famous abbey, and the other housing the cottage from the movie The Quiet Man. I was super pumped about the latter. The bus driver was a pleasant old irishman who made witty and lighthearted quips along the journey, also teaching us a lot of interesting tidbits about the sites that we went by on the 7½ hour tour.

The Quiet Man house was the highlight of the journey for me; it still had those iconic green doors from the film (pronounced "fillum" by many Irish) and faced a quiet stream that, perfectly enough, carried a swan along its waters, being the first swan I can recall ever having seen. Ireland must have planned that out for me. They knew I was coming, so they were like, "Hey, let's just place a perfectly white swan in this pleasant stream. Then let's hide a whole bunch more in Limerick for her."

And yeah, I ended up seeing two more families of swans when I was in Limerick, my destination immediately after the Cong and Connemara tour.

During my full day in Limerick, I had planned on walking through the medieval quarter and spending most of the day at King John's castle and the city museum. As it turned out, though, those main two attractions were closed for remodeling until June, so I found myself with a lot more time to kill than I had originally anticipated. I wandered around the quarter for a bit, feeling a little let down by the city, then noticed the swans. There had to have been a good 30 swans there, split between two separate groups that were about 15 meters apart from one another, and it was certainly the most swans that I had seen in my life. I picnicked with the swans, enjoying the sun and their company, and wrote a limerick about Limerick for one of my brothers that requested one once upon a time.

I passed my afternoon at the thoroughly creepy Hunt Museum, got some dinner, and then realized that there's not much to do in Ireland outside of pubs after 7pm unless you're with friends. It didn't make for a very interesting evening, but at least I got some reading in.

Next day: back to Cork to fly back to France! But I have bad aim, so I wound up in Nice for the night instead of Aix. I was too tired of traveling to really do any more sightseeing, so I immediately retired to my hostel, where I socialized a bit with some of the others that were there for the night (Canadian count: somewhere around 15), and headed to bed. The next morning, I had breakfast with some Americans from the hostel, then headed to the train station to finally get back home, hoping to avoid any more human interaction than absolutely necessary, and consequently got asked out multiple times by a creepy middle-aged frenchman, asked for a meal by a random woman, and asked if I was Italian or Irish by another frenchman. Eventually, though, I made it to the train, where nobody else bothered me, and got home in time to take a long relaxing shower and a good nap. I had survived my senior year's spring break.

Things We Say: 21 Avril, 2013

Throughout the semester, there have been a lot of things that we've said over and over again. Most of them are really awful jokes.

We make a lot of Aix puns, including the name of this blog (Aix marks the spot), our facebook group (S-Aix-y Betches), our nickname for the semester (Aix-en-Vacances), and a lot of our photo album titles (Aix-pat).

We also make Marseille puns. Well, "Mar-say-what" is really all we've got. Basically, we make as many puns off of city names as possible.

"What the FAC?"

We congratulate ourselves on what we think are good jokes with one of the following:
"Nailed it!"
"Killing it!"
"Point!" *draws tally mark in the air*

"I don't speak French."
"I don't speak English."

We throw French words and phrases into English sentences because we don't really speak either of the two languages fluently anymore, and sometimes we just think of the word in another language first. We also sometimes think it's funny. Then we found out in a linguistics class that this phenomenon is called "code mixing."

We say "miel" instead of "honey."

"Anybody want to go to Crepe a Go Go?" The answer is invariably yes. This applies pretty well to Nabab and Boca Loca as well.

We say a lot of things about how much we hate and/or want to kick the pigeons.

"I drink coffee and red wine all the time. I don't understand why I'm so dehydrated!" Oh. That's why.

Sides are decisively taken on how we feel about chèvre. You either love it or hate it. There is absolutely no middle ground.

"It's near the fountain." Aix-en-Provence is often referred to as the city of a thousand fountains. You need to specify which one.

"I'm heading to (insert country name here) this weekend." RyanAir flights make the world go round... except for during the landings.

"I though I was going to die when the plane landed." RyanAir has never once had a smooth landing.

"Ça va?"

"A little bit of this..."

"You, me... bailar?"

"En épie!" In our Anthropologie de la Provence class, we learned about various styles of stone construction, including en épie. We made a little dance move to go along with it.

"Oh-bri-GOD-a!" The Portuguese word for "thank you" is "obrigada" (or obrigado when said by a man). We've also turned it into an exclamation.

"Monoprix? More like multiprix! Or n'importe quel prix!" The biggest store here, Monoprix, is functionally similar to a Super Target, except way more expensive. In fact, the one here just so happens to be the most expensive one in the country, suggesting that the prices aren't as fixed as the store name seems to claim.

Any time a beach is mentioned, at least one person breaks out into "Starships" by Nicki Minaj.

We repeatedly quote certain professors and friends.
"Qui est disponible?"
"Oh, la!"
"Vous risquez rien!"
"Je m'appelle Brandon, mais je préfère Victor"
"Ohh!"
"Plus two? What do I do with this?"
"UNO!?"

We make fun of each other's Wisconsin and Chicago accents.

We whine about the things that we miss from back home.

We whine about how much we're going to miss each other when we're back home.

On the Boston Marathon: 15 Avril, 2013

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/16/us/explosions-reported-at-site-of-boston-marathon.html
http://edition.cnn.com/2013/04/16/us/boston-marathon-explosions/index.html

In my generation, a decent chunk of our lives has been dedicated to mourning terrorism and other tragedies in the United States. My childhood was marked by the attacks on September 11th, 2001, and although I was too young to fully grasp the gravity of the situation, I understood even as a nine-year-old that something terrible had come to pass. After all these years, I've heard and read about the other tragedies befalling the country, such as last year's Newtown, Connecticut shooting, and I've felt more and more of the meanings of these situations. Tonight, I gained the news from afar of the explosions at the Boston Marathon.

After a dinner of chicken and pasta, some friends and I were lounging around the table, digesting our meals and enjoying each other's company, as Alyssa walked in and asked us if we had heard about what happened at the Boston Marathon. Living under a rock as we do, with no TV or newspaper, we didn't know any details yet, but our Facebook and Twitter feeds were suddenly alight with vague reports of the explosions. We turned to news websites as soon as possible in an effort to learn as much as we could about the situation.

Never in my life had the Internet seemed to work so woefully slow, but we pulled up every article that we could, and eventually gathered around Alyssa's iTouch to watch the latest CNN report. Even in that moment of being so far away from everything that was happening, only seeing it on that tiny screen, I felt so deeply struck by the event. This marathon included parents from Newtown, who had already seen too much tragedy in the past year, and now they've been faced with even further devastation. Today was supposed to mark hope for them, and now it's a day of further loss, having already taken two lives according to what I've read thus far. The number of lives feeling this loss is so much greater than the number of people present at the marathon.

The song "The News" by Jack Johnson keeps playing in my head. If you've heard it, you'll understand.

I feel so deeply for what happened today. In the american microcosm of my apartment, I know that I'm surrounded by similar sentiments, but I don't know what I'll find when I go out into the streets of France tomorrow. Maybe some of them have family in the States. Maybe some of them know. Maybe some of them care, and that would be more than most Americans I know could give if the tables were turned. I don't know what to expect of this situation and its aftermath in the context of this country. I can't help but to wonder if it would affect me any differently if I were back in the States right now.

I don't remember much about September 11th, that vague concept of a day from my childhood, but I know that I'll remember today. I will continue to pray for those affected by today's explosions.

Day Tripper: 9 avril, 2013

Just so you know, repeatedly listening to the song "Day Tripper" by the Beatles is obligatory while reading this blog post.

Throughout the semester, the program provides us with a few day trips around various cities and sites throughout Provence, and this past Saturday's trip took us to Bonnieux, Roussillon, and L'Abbaye de Sénanque.

Provence is a notably sunny region, typically having around 300 days of sun per year. As I woke up on Saturday morning, I rubbed my eyes to find that it was one of the region's few rainy days, so I grabbed an umbrella, picked up some warm pain au chocolat from the closest boulangerie, and wandered my way over to the 50 seat bus that would be taking the 15 of us around for the day. I was not the only one to stretch out along the excess of seats to catch some naps during our day's drives.

Our first stop was a graveyard in Luberon, which at first seemed to me like an odd idea, but seeing the place took away all questions of why we were there. For one thing, this was the graveyard where Albert Camus, author of L'Etranger (or The Stranger, in English), was buried. He was a literary great, meriting mention in my past English and French classes alike, so I would have expected a grand grave to house the man. However, his grave was by no means anywhere near the largest in the cemetery. I still wouldn't call the grave underwhelming by any means; instead, there was an overarching beauty of the entire cemetery, which Camus's grave certainly contributed to. I always expect to simply get used to the beauty of southern France. I expect to see it as commonplace rather than exceptional, but everything here, from the simple houses and streets to the graveyards, never ceases to blow me away.

After we had looked through the graveyard, we moved on to Bonnieux, a perched provençal city. This is where the stairs started to become the theme of the day. Although the word "perched" tends to suggest beautiful views and all that lovely stuff, it's also a slight euphemism for "so hilly that your legs are going to give out." And so we headed off to a little old church whose name was Eglise Vieille, or "old church." I have a sneaking suspicion that this was not its name when it was first built. This church, as chance would have it, it situated at the top of an obnoxiously tall hill, so we climbed up a gentle-ish slope to reach some stairs, which led to another set of steeper stairs. It was great.

When we finally huffed and puffed our way to the top of all of these stairs, we got a wonderful view from our perch, and my primary thought was, "How does anybody ever make it here for weekly church services?" Seriously, most of the people there looked pretty well aged, and while it would be no small feat to make it to the top at any age, I can't imagine how people would do it week after week as they progress through the years. I hold a great respect for this pilgrimage that they must make so often. My fellow program members and I, however, celebrated making it to the top by climbing the really awesome tree that we found there. I'm amazed that we never got yelled at, but I get the feeling that it must happen fairly often there; that tree just looks particularly climbable, and somebody that looked like a groundskeeper or something drove through in a truck, just going on with his day comme d'hab.

After those antics, we found some quiche and café, then piled back into the bus to head on over to Roussillon, specifically heading there to see the ochre quarry. I hadn't really put much of any thought or research into what this would be like before I got there, so this was another one of those views that blew me away.

We were surrounded by vibrant orange and yellow rock that felt almost like clay to the touch -- and stained like paint. It was absolutely gorgeous, with the colors brought out even further by the rain, but there was no shortage of stairs and hills. It was there that my friends developed the motto that we like to complain (especially about stairs) in really pretty places.

Once we had finished hiking through the ochre, we still had another two hours to kill in the city, but the rain provided us with few options other than finding food and drinking coffee, so we passed the time by drinking our second and third coffees of the day. That being said, we were good to go for our third and final leg of the journey, L'Abbaye de Sénanque.

As we pulled up to the abbey, the weather was dreary, rainy, foggy, and perfect. The 12th century building houses a lavender field as its front yard, and is backed by green hills. Since the lavender won't be in bloom until June, the delicate pastel color that is normally associated with the area was lacking during our visit, and the dark and heavy fog made for the perfect complement to the scene, showing an entirely different flavor of the beauty of Provence.

We had a relatively short visit within the abbey, taking a guided tour through its quiet corridors. We passed through the rooms where monks still live in almost complete silence, wasting no words during their days. As we emerged into the gift shop, in contrast, we spent a lot of time repeating phrases along the lines of "Look at this! This smells so good! Ooh, I want to get this!" I feel a bit of guilt in admitting that this little shop was the most exciting aspect of the interior of the building. It was filled with products of the lavender grown right outside, along with other scented soaps, perfumes, foods, and oils. Seriously, though, it just smelled so good!

We came back outside into the rain and soon noticed that all of our coffees had worn off, so we packed back into the bus and headed back home through the rain and fog. I popped in my headphones and let Carla Bruni lull me to sleep, adding a French cherry to the top of my provençal day.

Soundtrack to the Semester: 2 avril, 2013

In a semester filled with new experiences and memories, one thing that I know is going to be a powerful link back to these times when they're long gone and I'm back in the US is music. There are certain songs that have been played FAR too many times here to not associate with these people and places, and sometimes parts of them are oddly fitting for the memories that they're linked to. Others lyrically have nothing to do with anything.

One Day / Reckoning Song

by Asif Adan

"One day, baby, we'll be old, oh baby we'll be old

And think of all the stories that we could have told"

This is one of the songs that has been pretty much inescapable this semester, especially if you go to any bars or clubs. While the entire group is in our early twenties (save for Savannah, our sole teenager), we're certainly young and trying to experience life to its fullest, checking out foreign countries, learning about new languages and cultures, and quite simply having adventures wherever we can find them. We're creating the stories that we'll be able to tell for years to come, and who knows, maybe years from now this song will be playing in our heads as we tell them.

Forrest Gump

by Frank Ocean

"My fingertips and my lips,

they burn from the cigarettes"

People smoke in France. Granted, I myself am not a smoker, but basically everybody else in the country does. I used to hate the smell of cigarettes, but through the combination of past roommates and my time in this country, I have developed a bit of a nostalgia for the smell that tends to accompany a lot of the people with whom I've listened to "Forrest Gump." 

I Follow Rivers

by Lykke Li

"I I follow, I follow you

Deep sea baby"

I couldn't really tie the lyrics of this song into anything meaningful and relevant to this semester, but this is another one that is played absolutely everywhere. The first time I heard this song was the first time I went to a bar, socializing with these new acquaintances that have since grown to be important friends of mine, and getting to know the city that I now call home.

Scream and Shout

by Will.I.Am and Britney Spears

"We are now now rockin' with

Will.I.Am and Britney bitch"

Once again, these lyrics are completely devoid of meaning. I also personally find this song to be pretty abrasive for the most part, but this song is also EVERYWHERE. For the longest time, I legitimately had no idea what this song's title was; its name was "Will.I.Am and Britney bitch," and it was the center of numerous jokes. Despite being annoyed by the way it sounds, this one is still liked to fond memories for me, and I at least somewhat like it for that.

So Fresh, So Clean

by Outkast

"I'm dressed so fresh so clean"

Honestly, if I heard any part of this song other than the chorus, I wouldn't necessarily recognize it. The reason why this one is here is that on my first trip to Marseille, my friends and I made up an imaginary band called Cody Rhône and the So Fresh and So Cleanlies. Our lead man, Cody Roehl, is known by the name of Rhône because of the wine called Côtes du Rhône. It is probably the cheapest wine at Monoprix, and sounds way too much like his name, so it was fate. We drink it a lot. The backup band, the So Fresh and So Cleanlies, was obviously named after this song that I had not yet heard before, but I guess we were particularly fresh and clean that day? That's a lie. We were staying in a hostel in a gray and rain-soaked Marseille. The song still makes me think of that group and that day, though.

Pretty much any song from Glee

or Pitch Perfect

I have watched altogether too much of each with my roommate/cousin Alyssa (did I mention that I found a long-lost cousin in my apartment?) and our friend Brandon/Victor/Paolo (who clearly has dissociative identity disorder since he can't just pick a name). When we're not watching the show Glee or the movie Pitch Perfect, we're often singing along to their soundtracks in the kitchen.

No actual French songs.

At all.

The just don't like their own music here, I guess.

What's In Store: 29 mars, 2013

One cultural element that is effectively unavoidable and shows a significant difference between the US and France is the the shop setup of each country. The stores in a city not only provide for its citizens' needs, but they can also be rather telling of the city's culture and values.

There are certain stores that can be found all over Aix, but are far and few in between back in the States, such as fromageries (cheese stores), crepe stands, and bakeries on every corner, but I find myself equally interested in that which one cannot find in France.

For one thing, I have no idea how french people watch movies. There are enough theatres in the city to provide the opportunity to watch a new release occasionally, but paying €10 per person every time you see a movie would add up way too fast, plus that only accounts for the newest movies. I'm sure that DVDs exist here, but I don't know how people find them. There are no video rental stores. There is no redbox. There is no DVD section of Monoprix (basically the french equivalent of Target). I have yet to spot any electronic stores that would have CDs or DVDs. Netflix and Hulu don't work in this country. I simply have no idea how they do it. Black market? That must be it.

Another category of items in France that must be traded entirely through the black market is pets. Everybody walks through the streets of Aix with their tiny little dogs, matching the size of their cars, but there are no pet stores to be found. All of the pet supplies that I've seen in France thus far populate the second smelliest aisle of Monoprix (the gold, of course, going to the cheese aisle), but I'm like 92% certain that you can't buy puppies at the grocery store -- not even in Europe. Logic might suggest that everybody goes to breeders here, valuing the pedigree of their canines enough to go to a specialist for the breed that they want, but then what about fish? Are french college student deprived of the love and affection that cuddly little betta fish are famed for bestowing upon their owners? Who will they play fetch with while putting off their lack of homework to not have to do in the morning?

Come to think of it, I have seen some fish for sale in Aix, although I don't think they would make for premium pets; they were a slight bit too dead for that. Ah, yes, the morning market. Every morning in Aix, one can find the outdoor market open until 13h (1:00pm in America speak), filled with offerings of fresh fruits and vegetables, local honey, fresh fish and other equally stinky seafoods, handmade pastas, scarves, hats, and various other goodies for the best prices to be found in the second most expensive city in France. One of my personal favorite aspects of the marché is the conversation that you get to have with the merchants.

Already being in southern France, I myself have picked up a bit of a southern accent on top of my american mispronunciations, but my accent is nothing compared to the thick southernness of their accents. Just hearing them say a price that contains either 20 (vingt) or 5 (cinq) provides a fair amount of entertainment for the visit, but there are certain characters that naturally bring a smile to your face any time that you speak to them.

For example, a woman that my friends and I refer to as "the Lavender Lady" holds a special place in our hearts. I'm sure that you will be surprised to learn that the Lavender Lady earns her living by selling lavender. Yes, I know. You did not see that one coming at all, and now you need some time to recover from that shocking revelation. I'm sorry that I didn't prepare you for that one. It's okay. Take your time. You good now? Good. Anyhow, the Lavender Lady is approximately 200 years old and has worn the exact same outfit every day the entire time. She wears a dress with a blanket wrapped around her stomach. This blanket does not reach above or below her stomach. She doesn't need to warm her legs. Just her stomach. This warm-stomached woman is, quite simply, just a sweet little old lady, telling visitors to her little stand how good lavender is for you. Evidently she bathes in lavender every day, so she never gets sick.

Provence is known for its lavender production, so lavender products can be found all over the marché and various stores. I strongly recommend lavender syrup, especially added to limonade (the French improvement of lemonade). The one thing that this city clearly loves far more than lavender, though, is shoes. The downtown area of Aix-en-Provence is mostly comprised of restaurants and shoe stores, because the two things that they will never limit to the black market are food and footwear. By american standards, both may seem grossly overpriced the vast majority of the time, and that just goes to show another cultural difference between the two nations; America takes pride in providing things affordably enough for the common man to be able to get anything, working along the lines of the American Dream, and France prides itself in making everything of the best quality possible, working to hold an elite role. Despite these differences, though, it all just comes down to providing for the people of each nation in a way that not only fulfills their physical needs, but expresses what they value as a culture.

Where The Heart Is: 29 mars, 2013

Upon leaving the States, I knew that homesickness, at least to some extent, would be pretty much inevitable. I knew that I would have moments of missing my friends and family back home, especially on their birthdays, or even at random moments when I just feel like a late-night Dr. Who marathon with my brother would be awesome. There are certain comforting smells and sounds that are missing from this temporary home of mine, such as the coffee pot brewing its distinctly american interpretation of the beverage in the kitchen on a Sunday morning. Apart from all of this, though, I've discovered a completely new brand of homesickness that I never saw coming.

When in a completely foreign country, you may lack the comforts of being around people and places that you know, hearing a language that you can actually speak, and simply feeling at home. This is the homesickness that I felt during my week in Spain and Portugal (see "Breaking the Language Barrier"), missing the city in France that I now call home. Although I'm clearly a foreigner here, easily identified as such within the first three seconds of conversation with any french person, I now feel more at home here than I would if I were to venture a few cities over back in Illinois. I know which streets to take, where my favorite bakeries are, and how to (at least borderline successfully) communicate with people.

Spain and Portugal were some of the most beautiful places that I've ever been, but after even while walking down the ornate mosaic sidewalks, among colorful buildings covered in gorgeous tiles, I found myself longing for a good baguette, some chèvre to spread on it, and a nice spot in the Parc Jourdan to sit and enjoy it all near the shade of a platane. This brought to mind the distinction between a place where you love to be and a place that you love.

Maybe it's that I don't speak an even remotely acceptable amount of Spanish or Portuguese. Maybe it's the uncomfortably high level of poverty in combination with the evidently low level of health care (I had never previously expected to have to warn a friend that a creepy man with a jenk leg was crawling toward us, but then again I had never previously seen anybody so greatly affected by and untreated for polio). Maybe it's my genetic predisposition to avoid places with so much sunshine. Regardless, I've vacationed to countries that I absolutely loved being in, but I could never see myself calling them home. For me, Aix-en-Provence has been the best home away from home that Europe could offer me, and although I can't wait to see my friends and family again back in the States, I know that I will once more be feeling a nostalgic malady for this city of fountains and the people that I've met here when that time comes.