Parlez-vous l'anglais?

Bonsoir:

It has been brought to my most French attention (though, in fact it was already known) that I have been Frenchly slacking on the blog. It turns out that I have a sibling — or perhaps, several beings that are of the same womb as I — that read this; 'Ghost Readers' I call them, mostly because I don't have a counter at the bottom of my page. As such, I have no idea how many eyes skim this page each day, or view my vain self portraits (more about vain-ness later), or express aloud how terribly, awfully, terribly horribly badly I need a haircut. For all I know my dog is reading this, which is not an entirely ludicrous presumption, as she is 84% human (screen name WiLLoWxBaBy99), but that is neither here nor there...

The world is turning, and somewhere seven hours in the future, I am walking in some distant country. If I were to star in a computer game in the 90's, it would be called 'Where In the World Is Jenny' etc. etc., and I would wear a ridiculous red hat, and gallivant about the globe in my trenchcoat. I love this vision. The fact is I am doing just this, minus the sleuth apparel, and you don't even have to guess "where in the world" I am because I will TELL you! How about that!

Today's lovely destination location of glorious magnificent worldly pleasure is Avignon, Provence, France! Actually — I was here when I updated the other day, but I'm still around these parts until tomorrow morning. Avignon is snuggled in the nooks of Southern France, itching to be a coastal city, but settling for exotic shores of Le Rhône River, as well as the Palais de Pape, a.k.a. the Pope's crib from 1309 -1403 during the schism/other papal doings. This castle monstrosity is located about 10 steps from the door of our hotel, in the centre of this cozy, touristy city.

What to say about France? As mentioned before, the language is a giant adjustment. Never before have I been in a country where English was not the primary language; this is at best interesting, at most hilarious, and to the extreme stressful. I've gotten fairly good at faking it. Example: When shopping, I'll enter a store and the shopkeeper/worker will say "Bonjour," which I mimick. Then I shop and hope they don't ask me questions, which they usually don't, and if they do, just nod my head in every direction, as if to say 'yes' and 'no' simultaneously. If I make a purchase, the cashier will say something, which I assume is along the lines of 'did you find everything alright, miss?' and I respond 'oui.' Then they'll say my total in French, and I hand them a credit card/cash and hope it's enough. Bam. They close with 'Merci, Mademoiselle, au revoir!' and I cap the conversation with 'merci, au revoir!' It's brilliant. Too bad my accent isn't clean and my legs aren't long enough to be entirely convincing.

There have been a few bumps in this system, namely trying to order a sandwich the other day at a rest stop. I previously referred to many of the French as knowing at least a little English. This particular sandwich artist at a rest stop in Placewiththescarymarxbrothersstatues, France spoke zero English.

When you're a vegetarian, there is a pretty slim vocabulary for ordering a sandwich: fromage. Cheese. That's it. So I don't know where the confusion came in, but somehow she started making me two sandwiches. I later learned that raising your index finger to indicate 'one' actually means 'two' around here (a thumb means 'one'). I thought I'd ordered one cheese sandwich, but my €9.80 total — about $13.00 — said otherwise. What happened next was language barf until eventually I was eating a carrot and zucchini sandwich. No fromage...no panini...and no Anglais.

I can tell you this is not the worst of it. Just yesterday I decided to send a giant package home, and gathering together a slough of forgotten belongings (useless bricks in my suitcase, etc.) I moseyed to the Avignon post office. This sending of goods was inevitable, however I'd put it off until this stretch of the trip in order to get a better exchange rate (the U.S. dollar is stronger against the Euro, in comparison to the GBP). First order of business was to purchase a box, which the post office had plenty of, and in a bevy of colors. I grabbed the largest box I could find and began assembling it, then queued up to pay. Two minutes waiting and I realized that my box was only for mailing within Europe, and I had to buy an International box, yadda yadda. They didn't have International boxes in the extrajumbotastic size of the European box I was holding, so I attempted to question to the postal worker if they had larger International boxes.

Have you ever talked to a dog? How about a newborn? They're smart creatures, staring back at you with their perplexed eyes and a slight kink in their necks, perhaps a growl or a gurgle; but they have no idea what you're really saying.

I felt awful, the least I could respond to this woman's dire efforts to comprehend me was 'pardon, merci, merci, merci beaucoup.' She was about to tear her hair out, and with good reason. Meanwhile the silly Americans are holding up the line, as locals pile up behind us with their deliveries. At long last I had paperwork in front of me and my credit card swiped. I plunked down on a seat, let out a giant sigh and began cramming my belongings into my 'collosimo' box, then stared blankly at the paperwork — also in French. Great. It never ends.

I listed my residence as the Hotel du Palais des Papes in Avignon. I wrote what I was sending and how much it was worth in Euros, and who I was sending it to, and a million other things. A great hour or so later my box was behind the counter for delivery, and I ate a Nutella ice cream cone to celebrate. Pfffaghhhhhhhhhhh.

Another beautiful three course meal and coffee for dinner, and I was off to a nearby karaoke bar for some singing. I don't know if anyone would believe me if I said I sang three songs last night. I sang three songs last night! There was a little Carly Simon (You're So Vain) some Gloria (I Will Survive) even a little of the B-52's (You can imagine...). The Americans took over the bar, with several French locals here and there to perform their Josh Groban and French love songs. It was a blast.

Today we journied to Arles, about a 45 minute drive from Avignon. Arles holds its fame as a brief dwelling of my boy Vincent Van Gogh, as well as grounds for ancient Roman ruins (which are rare to the Dakotas, but ubiquitous in these parts). Can you imagine walking in a forest in Minnesota and running across a Roman theatre? I can. I can't. I really can't. These ruins are what barns are to the Upper Midwest. Ancient ruins, castles, and original Van Goghs — I feel terrible saying, these no longer phase me.

There was a moment of discernment in the course of this afternoon, as I ate my quatre fromage sandwich in a small village outside of Arles. I was sitting on the ledge of a giant rock wall, right in a nice sunny spot, and I looked down to see hundreds of tiny seashells embedded in the wall, likely the remains of an ancient seabed. I sat there and soaked it up, though there really was nothing to look at but a wall of little shells and a fromage panini, the air and sky, and the walls surrounding me. And nonetheless, I realized I was in France.

I would never experience this back home, just live life from the dodgy/comfy yet questionable easy chair in the corner of Starbucks. They don't tell you how to identify this feeling in my French translation manual. They don't teach you this feeling during abroad orientation. You feel it and you know you're somewhere unbelievable, doing something you won't be able to do forever. Such is life, and so is this experience.

I am absolutely Frenchly knackered, and have a French headache to match. Tomorrow's an early morning with a drive to Cavi de Lavagna, Italy. France has been so fantastic — language aside (which I now have a strong desire to seriously learn) and the hospitality was amazing. I'm sure the same will be said of Italy, with the addition of a Mediterranean Sea.

I need to (re)pack my bags for another excursion!

Love, love, and — amour!

jenny