rêve

After flying 4,000+ miles over l'Ocean Atlantique Nord, crying through three movies (500 Days of Summer, Love Happens, & My Sister's Keeper - either I chose the three saddest films on the list or I was extra emotional from lack of sleep) and feeling pretty much every emotion possible, I finally arrived in Europe yesterday morning. Europe, however, was not yet tangible until today, as I could only stare at it through the plane, bus, and Amsterdam-Schiphol airport windows. The descent into Amsterdam felt like just another film, with a panning longshot of a morning urban landscape and a running narration from the 5 year old sitting a few rows behind me: "Three... two... one... touchdown." (He was about four seconds off, by the way.) But now I'm here, in France, and I love it.

I don't know what I was expecting... maybe Korea all over again except with more people who are my height? But everything here so far has exceeded what I thought Provence could be. I think its because I've always thought of France as a dream or a fairytale. As cheesy as it sounds, I really feel like I'm living in a fairytale, its so unreal to me. Melody, you would love it, it would inspire your art SO much. The little specialty shops literally everywhere, the cobblestone streets and sidewalks, the mossy fountains marking the roundabouts. I am continually taken aback by the cheek kissing that happens during a greeting or a goodbye, even though I was thoroughly aware of this habit before I came. I knew France is well known for the markets but I get a shiver from the seeming surreality when I walk past a square full of bread stands and fruit carts I'm embarrassed to say that even the people around me speaking entirely in French surprises me hourly, which reinforces the idea that this place really only occurred to my subconscious as a fairytale.

Everything about my homestay seems perfect: personable hostmom and sister, my own adorable room, meals five days a week, independence if I desire it and more interaction if I don't. The only issue that struck me as odd was that they are English, a fact I learned a few days before I left. I signed up for a homestay for more language and culture immersion, and I get une famille anglaise? I was peeved for about a half hour and then decided it wasn't worth it, so I'm over it. And really, there is too many upsides to my situation to dwell on that small fact. They do speak French well, something I need to be sure to take advantage of. Madame Vivien is a single mother with an 18-year old daughter, Georgina, and they've been living here for about six years (I think). They're extremely sweet and very accommodating.

Believe it or not, I haven't gotten lost yet. Not only is this surprising being that I am Julie Finelli, the Julie Finelli who still gets lost on her way to Mpls, but also because the roads are small and at first glance, all look alike. The area that I will spend most of my time has very little rhyme or reason to the city plan but, lucky for me, there is a key to finding your way no matter where you are: if the road slants downward, it leads to the Cours Mirabeau. And the Cours Mirabeau is only a few blocks from my apartment. (For those of you unfamiliar with it, le Cours Mirabeau is the second most beautiful street in France, it divides the city into two parts and is an often-written about and busy part of town.) So I figure I've got it made as long as I know which side of the CM I need to be on.

Ok so I have never really been one to coo over every baby or toddler that comes within reach but seriously, les enfants speaking French is probably one of the cutest things I have ever experienced. They have better grammar than I have, but they speak slower and slur their words together, makes me want to pinch their cheeks and tawk like dish. I wish I could go back to my toddler days just so my abominable francais could be considered cute and not ignorant.

Speaking of bad French. Buying a cell phone today was my first experience with a French salesman and therefore, extremely terrifying. I knew my French was rusty but the newly-lodged heart in my throat made it quite difficult to think clearly. I'm sure that for the first few weeks, that fear of misspeaking of misunderstanding will appear promptly at any interaction with the locals.

The great thing about this place is the history that is evident in every nook and cranny. We live, learn, eat and shop in the same buildings as the historic figures like Paul Cezanne and Emile Zola inhabited and went to school. My homestay apartment is actually in the center of town in what was once a very luxurious housing estate for the bourgeois and parliament in that time. Cezanne studied in the building right across the street, which is now, I think, a middle school. The shops on the Cours Mirabeau are underneath old homes of notable people whose names I can't remember (oops). The Cathedrale a block away from my school has sectioned samples of Gothic, Romanesque and Baroque architecture, surely degraded but still holding significant impact in the decorated walls and artwork. This is what we lack living in the young and continually changing United States - centuries-old tradition and history at our doorstep. Literally.

Mot du jour (Word of the Day): un reve = dream