If you ran your house like France runs its country, you'd be homeless.

Nantes has had a renaissance since the end of La Grève, and everything seems to be brightening up. Spring has fully sprung, academic courses are running along like they’ve never run before (literally… They weren’t running at all before), and I have begun to appreciate France in new and exciting ways! Last Saturday I began my day with a wonderful morning run along the verdant banks of the Erdre River. There are always lots of other people who also enjoy a good morning jog along the river, so the words “Bonjour” and “Pardon” are exchanged frequently. (I also throw in a couple of mental “Get the fuck out of my way!”’s just for good measure. A lot of French people tend to run more up-and-down than forward and it can be a little bothersome. I call it the “slow-moving roadblock”.)

Post-run, I went into the center of town, bought a wonderful chicken sandwich from a great Patisserie (named Paul) and went to a Garden to enjoy it. I sat down and all was calm, tranquil, and filled with botanic beauty, but after the first bite it started to rain (torrential downpour) so I had to finish the sandwich under a tree. It was very Pacific Northwest style (pretty when wet), so I was ok with it. In search of shelter back in the centre-ville, I stumbled into a wonderful little teahouse run by a brigade of fabulous gay men and let me tell you, in terms of interior design, Martha Stewart’s got nothing on the French gays. Wonderful antique bookshelves juxtaposed with sleek metal tabletops, rustic wooden chairs, plush linen accent pillows, artisan chandeliers, and an impeccable display of cakes, cookies, and tarts in the window, enticing streetwalkers to come inside. Did I mention the coastal themed bathroom, complete with weathered wood and polished rocks lining the sink basin? Homeboys know their shit. I had a cup of tea called “Full Moon” (Pleine Lune in French), read me some of Thomas Friedman’s latest, and observed the fabulous local luncheon crowd (and the even more fabulous wait-staff!)

I went to La Galerie des Machines for my afternoon excursion and it was phenomenal! It is this gigantic warehouse/workshop (atelier) where mechanical engineers and artists come together to create these beautiful machines made out of wood and metal. The machines are in the shapes of deep sea fish, crabs, boats, insects, and there is even a HUGE elephant that walks around the island of Nantes (where the Galerie is located) carrying up to 45 people on its back and spraying water from its trunk! (See video below.) What moved me most about the entire thing was that all of the mechanics, architects, artists, and engineers come together and work on these machines for months (even years!) just to create something beautiful. The pictures do the machines more justice than I could ever do in writing.

It is Saturdays like that that make me relish the fact that I am here in France and help make up for the crappy Grève period.

I’m not gonna lie, the Grève was pretty difficult for me. I came here determined to love France and my study abroad experience but as the weeks of strike began to accumulate, it became harder to feel the love. I was angry about not having any courses, upset that I wasn’t able to meet and interact with French students at school, frustrated with the lack of communication with the Nantes study abroad department, and trying as hard as I could to suppress the little voice inside me that was whispering “FRANCE YOU SUCK AND I HATE YOU!” But, I never let that little voice whisper aloud, and through looking on the bright side, long hours in the library self-educating, and long evenings with Vin Rouge self-medicating, I feel like I’ve popped out the other end of things just fine. I’m finishing up my final research papers, credit is assured, and I’ve got two more European travel adventures on the horizon.

For me France has been like a Puppy. Its super cute and fun to play with but in its first couple of months, it does nothing but shit on you and you have no choice but to keep cleaning that shit up. Now, I feel like we’ve finally gotten past the “accident” stage and its become much easier to love something that you know won’t shit on you in return. France has finally become housebroken. Good Dog France. Good Dog.

Tour de France: City 6 of 6

Strasbourg
When I arrived in Strasbourg the sentiment was bittersweet. I was super stoked to prowl around and discover a new city but I was also a little sad because it was the last stop on my French (and Swiss) journey. But I made it count. Strasbourg was AWESOME! Its got a great German fairytale feel to it, with tons of colorful little houses, each boasting flower boxes and timbered façades, lining tranquil canals and city squares.

There is an immense Cathedral in the center of town with ornate detailing that gives Notre-Dame de Paris a run for her money (bitch better watch out) and to top it off, there is this crazy cool astronomical clock inside. Every day, at 12:30pm, 12 disciples, 2 cherubs, 1 Jesus, 1 rooster, and 1 skeleton with a stick, pop out of little holes in the clock and move around!

I spent hours strolling through the charming cobblestone streets and along the tree lined canals. I even walked to Germany! It took about 3 hours (turns out the border isn’t as close as I thought) but I walked across the bridge that traverses the Rhine River, connecting Strasbourg to Kehl, and took my first steps on German soil.

My hostel was absolutely phenomenal and I roomed with a Quebecois dude, a Japanese dude, and a dude who was always asleep when I came back to the room (I call him Sleeping dude). Very clean, fun bunk beds, a big shower, and maid service! On my last evening I decided to go to a traditional Alsatian Winstub (pronounced like “vin-shtoob”) for a hearty and relaxing meal. I marched in the rain towards a tiny restaurant (only about 7 tables) called Coin aux Pucelles and sat next to an Alsatian guy and his Japanese girlfriend who warmly welcomed me as a third member of their party. It turned out to be one of the greatest experiences I’ve ever had. The Alsatian (Antoine) told me what was good on the menu, helped me cut and consume my bone marrow, and was constantly offering me tastes of his own meal, everything from his Alsatian beer, to his crème brulée. The three of us chatted long into the night about Obama, Alsatian history, the great international airport terminals of Europe, and the prospect of playing wind instruments on desert islands. I ate a wonderful terrine of some kind of fatty bird liver (listen, when it comes down to it, a lot of birds have super tasty livers) served along side crisp white and violet cabbage in a light vinegar dressing, followed by a juicy, tender entrecôte of beef served with golden, buttery-crisp Alsatian potatoes. For dessert I had a chilled chocolate mousse laced with surprise ribbons of smooth caramel, topped with hazelnuts and fresh sweetened whipped cream. I really wanted to make sure that all of the leading contributors to cardiac arrest were adequately represented. The next and final morning of my journey, I had my coffee and read my Le Monde at a charming outdoor café with a view of the lovely pastel houses and the tranquil waters of the canal below.

The train ride home was a breeze and now I’m adjusting back to life in Nantes. With one minor alteration: No Grève. A report of the elusive and undiscovered academic side of my “study” abroad experience is soon to come…

Tour de France: City 5 of 6

Geneva
Geneva is exactly what you want Switzerland to be. It delivers. There is a gorgeous lake that extends as far as they eye can see, towering snow capped mountains, laughing cows that snacking away on the hill side, beautiful flower beds lining country roads, and sporty, Germanic looking Swiss people that speak French, love their brightly colored independent currency, and smoke more cigarettes per minute than all of France combined. No joke. Its sort of like taking a trip to the American 70’s where you can smoke literally everywhere. Restaurants don’t even bother with that whole “smoking section” nonsense you just smoke where, when, and how you want. I’m sure its all part of the Swiss neutrality thing. Tell people not to smoke? “Oh no!” say the Swiss… “Sorry, but we don’t take sides.”

So despite the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th hand smoke, I stayed with a great family friend, Chloé, and we had a blast! I went to a great karaoke beer-fest reminiscent of a barn party (They had this great wooden, tray-like device that had holes for about 20 beer cups. Buying a round is serious business. The Swiss aren’t fucking around.), thermal baths that were located in a niche between two mountains (So relaxing. Falling asleep in the tub has never been more fun!), strolls along the lake with ice cream cones, and leisurely visits with Chloé’s family on her mother’s terrace, which has one of the worlds greatest views. When my mother was young, she lived with Chloés grandparents, so there was lots of catching up, discussion of family news, and overall good familial vibes.

Chloé introduced me to all of her fantastic friends and we had a great time driving through the countryside, drinking loads of beer, eating tuna pasta, and singing along to the soundtrack of Mamma Mia.

Tour de France: City 4 of 6

Aix-en-Provence
When I got to Aix it was a little sprinkly (it was actually raining for most of my journey but it didn’t bother me too much) so I decided that if I was going to be forced to be inside then I would need a good book. I found an English bookstore and bought the book “A Year in Provence” by Peter Mayle, (I know, I know, it’s a very stay-at-home mom leisure reading while waiting for your child at the orthodontist’s office type book, but you can suck it cause I loved every second of it...) and it was perfect!

While I was drinking beers under heat lamps at cafes along the beautiful but rainy Cours Mirabeau (Aix’s main drag), I was reading about beautiful Provençal landscapes drenched in sunlight, relaxation, and pastis. I read the entire book in the 48 hours I was there and it made up for anything I might have missed due to the inclimate weather! Despite the drizzle, I made it to the house in which Paul Cezanne grew up and painted (Jas de Bouffon) and also to his Atelier, where he painted still lifes and gardens until his death.

There was a gay film festival going on too, so I went to a gay Italian with French subtitles film and it was wonderfully confusing in every way! On my last night, I went to this charming restaurant in a little alley that I had scoped out earlier in the day and had one of the most phenomenal meals of my life. The restaurant was warm and filled with sunflowers, terra cotta tiles, bunches of lavender, candlelight and in the rear there was a huge open fire pit that sent smells of Provençal herbs wafting throughout the room. I had a beautiful terrine of duck liver spread on fresh crusty bread followed by Beef that was deliciously caramelized in a delicately herbed red wine reduction sauce that was so tender and juicy the knife went unused and completely ignored. For desert I had a nougat glacée (like nougat ice cream) with hazel nuts, bits of candied citrus, and drizzled with buttery caramel. The balding gay waiter apparently liked my style and with a wink and a mild, Provençal version of the “bend and snap” gave me a lemon-flavored digestif on the house. It was incredible and was like drinking sunshine with a bit of a kick.

The next day it was still raining so I spent the morning in a beautiful old café where Paul Cezanne used to hang and finished my book.

Tour de France: City 3 of 6

Montpellier
Opening the doors to my room in Montpellier was seriously better than Christmas. The room was clean, bright and smelled like expensive soap and Saturday mornings! It was perfectly appointed and at 33 Euros a night, the greatest thing that could have ever happened to me at that moment.

Montpellier is this amazing, tropical, Paris of the south. Its not far from the Mediterranean sea (located in the Languedoc Rousillon region) and is filled with Palm trees, cream colored houses with blue shutters, stately architecture, and the oldest botanic gardens in all of France.

I saw an amazing art exhibit featuring the paintings of Emil Nolde at the Musée Fabre, had tea in an indoor-garden-courtyard-antique-velvet-upholstered-land of herbal wonder, saw a legit break dance battle in the park, ate light and fragrant cous-cous until the wee hours of the morning in a dark and moody cave-like restaurant, bought a blue v-neck sweater, read many a page in many a garden, and just sort of smiled and loved on Montpellier in general.

Tour de France: City 2 of 6

Saint-Emilion
I was up and out of the shit-sty in about 7 minutes, back pack packed, a little dirty (showering in the weird free standing tin-can style shower in the room would have meant becoming dirtier) and super excited to be on my way. I arrived in Saint Emilion just as the sun was rising (around 8am) and it was about a 20-minute walk from the train station up to the village. As I walked the sun was washing over the vineyards on the hills around me, gently awakening the vines from their slumber, and by the time I reached the village, with its cream colored houses and rust colored tile roof tops, I was greeted by an incredible view.


I found a killer bakery, got some pastries, and then went to the tourist office to rent a bike. I was in the mood to do some wine tasting (Saint Emilion is one of the great wine regions of France, chock full of vineyards and wineries) so I called a few Chateaux to arrange a degustation and hoped on my bike. Totally had one of those smiley, “hair blowing in the wind” bike ride moments (minus the hair and the blowing).

The Chateau was called Haute Lavallade and was fantastic. I had a private tasting with the vintner woman who was giving me all the facts, in French, in her sassy baby blue fleece, complete with wine stains and dirt cakes. I bought two bottles, popped them in my backpack and headed back to town to write post cards and read in the sun.

That night, back in Bordeaux (in my crack-den of a room), I drank my bottle of Saint Emilion grand cru while sitting on a folding chair watching the tiny TV suspended from the ceiling. I had some quality bread and cheese that I bought earlier and after drinking half the bottle, things weren’t so bad. Ok they were pretty bad so I decided to leave the room and I went to a bar, drank more, met a friendly Spaniard named Alberto, talked about beaches and zippers, and was rendered sufficiently indifferent (i.e. wasted) to spend a final yucky night in my scary room.