On Getting Lost And Being Lost

​I needed to get away from Paris. Work was tiresome; my recent move to a new apartment was tinged with regret; I was having mixed feelings about the imminent end of school and beginning of my 40+ hour/week unpaid internship; not to mention planning my 3-month summer trip had given me insatiable wanderlust.

Leaving Saint Lazare station at noon on one of the clearest, brightest days we've had recently, I took the opportunity of having the compartment to myself to do something that doesn't often happen: I read a book. (A physical one, mind you, with real pages). Immersed in Émile Zola's mid-19th century vision of Paris, the first two hours passed quickly. Only when I disembarked in Lison to make a connecting train did I learn that there was a problem; a union strike had disrupted service, meaning that the closest I could get to my ultimate destination was about halfway there. 

Suddenly I was reminded of spring break during my first year at university, when I traversed the east coast to visit high school friends in Boston, New Haven and New York. Everything went smoothly until leaving Newark airport, when a delay caused me to miss my connection to San Francisco. And because I had purchased the tickets on a third-party website, the airline initially refused to re-route me. ​Frustrated, tired, alone and ready to go home, I was forced to spend the night in Pittsburgh. (The airline at least paid for the food and hotel, I'll give them that).  

As a meticulous planner, I felt a little like a cartoon character who's just had the rug pulled unceremoniously out from under her. Luckily, this time I had the saving grace ​of the English-speaking owner of the bed and breakfast I had made reservations at. When I called to explain the situation she pulled up the bus schedule (incidentally also interrupted that day), and calmly dictated a new route. While I had missed the last bus to Pontorson, she told me, I could get to the next town and continue the following morning to Mont Saint-Michel. Afterwards her husband would pick me up and take me to the inn.

The irony was not lost on me that my mid-week getaway to what used to be a pilgrimage site in medieval times had turned into an unexpected journey in itself. Was it worth it? More on that next time.

​MSM from the causeway; I did get there eventually.

La Chasse à Courre

The Hunt. And, no, I'm not referring to the Danish film starring Mads Mikkelsen that was one of my favorites of 2012. Rather, when my uncle wrote to ask me to join him, his son, and some family friends last weekend in the Loire Valley, he enticed me with the words "deer hunting on horseback." Never mind the fact that I have never held a gun; that the extent of my equestrian experience is being led around the petting zoo on a pony by a trainer over ten years ago; that my role in this French tradition remained ambiguous in the invitation. I read those words and replied, "Yes, please!" 

Because when it comes to having new experiences my attitude tends toward "Why not?" rather than "Why?"

But the reality of the chasse à courre is, perhaps disappointingly, less thrilling than the name suggests. For one thing, there are no firearms involved. And without a proper uniform and training, you are not expected to ride. So instead what followed that afternoon was more like a suburban safari in which my relatives, their friends, and other curious observers trailed along behind the team by car, bike, and foot, pulling over on muddy roads when we lost the riders to the woods, stopping to listen for the sound of the horns, and hoping to catch a glimpse of the prey. 

My expectations were undoubtedly shaped by movies, television, and hours of childhood spent playing The Oregon Trail. You see, I assumed that the humans would be doing the actual hunting, when really their primary function (as far as I could tell) is to follow the dogs. The hounds sniff out the deer, guiding the people toward its track and, in effect, running the whole show. 

It's the canines who kill the animal as well, and are rewarded at the end with the carcass while the riders, dismounted now, play traditional songs on their French horns. Darkness had already fallen by the time everyone returned to the initial rendez-vous, so the ritual was performed by the light of a car's headlamp; in this setting, watching the dogs devour the deer felt like observing some weird satanic sacrifice.

I wish I could have been closer to the action, because after a while it was difficult not to focus on the lack of sensation in my toes; alas, while my borrowed Wellingtons protected me from mud and rain they offered no insulation from the cold. But, then again, maybe this was just one of many aspects of French culture that I will never fully understand.

Also, because this didn't quite fit anywhere else, seeing a pack of forty dogs up close in person is oddly reminiscent of the Pixar film Up, except that they lacked GPS collars and voice boxes, which would have come in handy seeing as two dogs failed to return.

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See more of the hunt on Flickr.

Backcountry Nostalgia

The train out of Paris was inexplicably delayed by fifty minutes, but nonetheless I was promptly met at the Saint Pierre des Corps station just outside Tours by my cousin, Philip, and family friend, Thomas. I felt a little nauseous sitting in the back of Thomas' Peugeot, not necessarily because of his driving but more so because after months of biking and taking the Metro I am no longer used to being in cars. Minutes later we left the highway and began trundling along over unlit country roads although this didn't seem to faze the driver; Thomas only went faster, zooming past gaunt leafless trees and, at one point, a wild boar.  

I had thought Philip was joking when he said I was to stay at a château because there were too many guests for the "modest" three-bedroom country home of his father's friends. But no, Le Val d'Aulnay, or so the sixteenth century mansion is called, turned out to be the stuff of high-end lifestyle magazines: simultaneously rustic, luxurious, and yet entirely livable. (Actually, in the dark, it was more like something out of a ghost hunting show on the Travel Channel, but in the daytime - sublime).

The country surrounding Azay-le-Rideau, the nearest commune, is the type of place where people are so few and far between that it is perfectly normal not to lock the house at night or when you go out; where if you turn the shower on the water might just be warm enough not to get contact hypothermia if you let it run while you brush your teeth, check email, fold clothes, and perhaps read a novel.

But it's supremely quiet and peaceful. When I stepped out of the car the evening I arrived from the city and looked up, I realized that it was the first time I had seen the stars since moving to Europe. Previously, the only time I could recall seeing a sky nearly as perfect was my last night at Stanford.

On that particular occasion I had climbed up to the roof of the quad with a boy, and together we sat on the red tile roof, admiring the way that the light and air pollution of Silicon Valley made the mid-summer sky awash with color. We kissed, perched three stories up in our vantage point above the palm trees, and when I get homesick I think back to that moment.

More of Azay-le-Rideau and the surrounding area here.

Versailles: the 1% of the Ancien Régime

In the summer of 2006, the first and most previous time I'd been to Paris prior to moving here, my parents and I took a day trip out to the Château de Versailles. Back then I was fresh off of my sophomore year of high school, and therefore had a decent understanding of the castle's past (well, more so than in the present day anyways) thanks to a little academic rite of passage we Americans like to call Advanced Placement European History.* 

Visiting Versailles effectively did to palaces what the Vatican did to churches; it ruined the rest of them. In my mind no royal residence can ever compare the behemoth built by Louis XIV, nor will I ever be as impressed by a place of worship as I was by St. Peter's Basilica. As both architectural feats and manifestations of wealth and power, they stand alone on an unparalleled level of opulence.

Photos from that initial visit can be admired here in all their pixelated glory; the camera I was using in those days has less than half the megapixels of my current DSLR. And yes, the album contains a few self-portraits, but in my defense that was back when Myspace was still cool.

What else was different the second time around? The weather, for one thing. In summer the gardens were in full bloom, and we enjoyed a nice boat ride on the Grand Canal - well, my mom and I did at least since my dad did all the rowing. In winter it was gray and drizzly, and many statues were covered up to protect them from the elements.

Since this most recent jaunt was a first for my brother and cousin, we opted for the full day-passes that granted access to the Grand and Petit Trianons (subsidiary structures intended for the King's court, family and friends), as well as Marie-Antoinette's estate. The mini-palaces were interesting enough to walk through, but the latter was more memorable.

You see, when Marie-Antoinette lived there she had a private hamlet - essentially an entire village replete with functioning farm - constructed. It wouldn't surprise me if she had also kept a bunch of indentured peasants there to make it feel more realistic; just walking past the now defunct structures was like being dropped into a perverse Disneyland.

No wonder the public wanted her head chopped off.

*My former French tutor once complained about his American history course, which put me on the defensive because, let's be real, two hundred and thirty-odd years is nothing compared to the scope of covering an entire continent from the late Middle Ages to the present.

Aix-en-Provence: A Bougie Wonderland

Oops. I got a little out of order here. With not quite enough days to cover all the places we wanted to visit in Provence, Aix became our Christmas Day trip. And how different it was from Marseille! In short, Aix-en-Provence is smaller, cleaner, rustic rather than gritty, and just generally more well-to-do than its neighbor. Many businesses were closed to observe the holiday, but there was still a surprising number of pedestrians milling about who, like us, were out to absorb and admire the town's charm.

Thanks to the surrounding lavender fields, Aix is known for its perfume shops that allow you to design a custom scent. Guess I'll have to go back in the springtime.

Arles: Of Gladiators and post-Impressionists

Situated on the east bank of the Rhône river, the quaint town of Arles has two claims to fame: a series of relatively intact Roman ruins, and serving as the temporary home of Vincent van Gogh, who produced over 300 paintings and drawings in the two-year period that he resided there. 

As per the Roman stuff, it was pretty bizarre to see how casually the modern French town absorbed the ruins; the café we stopped at for lunch was just across the street from the coliseum. In addition to the arena, we also hit up the Roman theater, crypt, and museum of ancient history, which boasts an impressive collection of artifacts whose texts, unfortunately, are pretty much all in French.

To commemorate the late Dutch painter, the city erected easels at the sites of his most famous paintings. Diehards can do a self-guided walking tour/scavenger hunt to track down all of them, but the one I cared about most was Café Terrace at Night. The artist painted it in 1888 near the old Roman forum, and today the café operates under the name van Gogh.

But between antiquity and the late 19th century Arles withstood other cultural shifts, the evidence of which still stands. The cloister above, for instance, is part of the Church of St. Trophime that was constructed between the 12th and 15th centuries. Quite a lot of history packed into such a small place!

Marseille: A Work of Gentrification in Progress

"Marseille is like New York City minus Manhattan," my brother remarked as we wandered the streets of France's second-largest city.

It certainly has the ethnic diversity, grittiness and reputation (when it comes to Marseille most travel guides and websites are all, 'OMG, pickpockets!' but for the record we didn't have any problems) of the outer boroughs, but it also means that the city has a rich history and thus, in some ways, more character than Paris. 

The historic area, near the Old Port, consisted of winding alleyways and pedestrian passages, meaning few cars but endless piles of dog poop. (Apparently not cleaning up after your pets is a national phenomenon). It also seemed to be a hub of cultural renaissance (read: hipsterdom) judging from all the galleries and boutiques. But what struck me the most was the abundance of street art; quite a contrast against the classic architecture.

Speaking of design, Marseille has a couple of truly spectacular churches constructed in the Byzantine style whose "striped" stone exterior is quite different from anything else I've ever seen in Europe. The Cathédrale de la Major (above), was closed on the day that we passed by, but by happy coincidence we caught the last part of Christmas mass at Notre-Dame de la Garde (below - from a distance, and up close after a rather harrowing bus ride).

We attempted to visit Château d'If, the Azkaban Alcatraz of Marseille (not to mention an inspiration for Alexandre Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo), but the weather conditions didn't allow it. We weren't the only ones disappointed; as we stood around the dock regrouping, another tourist approached and vocally expressed his displeasure at the sign saying all boats to the island were canceled.

Below: some street art and graffiti from around old town. More of Marseille on Flickr and, next time, what we did instead of visiting the prison.

PS - Happy New Year!