France Day 6: Paris

Above, top to Bottom: Oscar Wilde's grave inside the Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, France on March 29th, 2009; Frederic Chopin's grave, he was a Polak!; the Mauthausen Memorial, a Nazi, WWII concentration camp in Austria; Tim inside in the colombarium, where the graves of the cremated are; and would you really put a Simpsons-esque character on your grave?

Day 5: Lyon

Above, top to Bottom: the view from Basilica of Notre-Dame de Fourvière in Lyon, France on March 27th, 2009; the interior of the Basilica; Tim inside a Russian Orthodox Church in Lyon, the same church of our hosts who let us sleep in their rectory(in a different location); after lunch with our host, Francois, at far left, the parish priest, and Francois' family.

France Day 3 and 4: The Saint

Above, top to bottom: Marie-Jean, Brett and Tim say their good-byes and thank-you's in French after a wonderful day and several gourmet meals on March 26, 2009 in Cavaillon, France; Jocelyn, Tim, Marie-Jean and Brett outside their home; Jocelyn, myself, Marie-Jean and Brett; a quiche Marie-Jean baked for us during our 24-hour mega-feast and lesson in the finest of French dining; stuffed tomatoes Jocelyn made for us. I was licking my plate.

"Il y a un fete dans ma bouche," I proclaimed to the lunch table and one of our hosts, Jocelyn.
The blond-haired widow and mother of two from Normandy stared blankly back at me as she contemplated the meaning of the phrase. She looked at the stuffed tomatoes we were eating and burst out laughing.
"You have a party in your mouth," Tim said, giggling.
And it was quite the fiesta. Stuffed tomatoes, delictable quiche, choice red wine, fresh dates and apricots, grilled pork-chops, and assorted cheeses nearly burst the stomachs of three young men. We were humbled buy the physical feast, but only filled by the words of our host, Marie-Jean.

My friend Teresa had arranged for our accommodations days before this lunch, and we had assumed the floor and sleeping bags would be the logical accommodations. After all, we're young and poor, we should earn it. But the week before we came, Teresa met a woman at church and mentioned to her that we were passing through Cavaillon via car. She offered her driveway for the car. Oh, and I have a few beds by the way . . . have they eaten? etc. etc. etc.
Four hours late, we pulled into the driveway of Marie-Jean's house at 9 p.m. on the 25th to see an elderly woman with gray hair standing in the driveway. She spoke warmly to Teresa in french and directed us to the side of the driveway.
"This woman's a saint," Brett said.
Never have I been so humbled by a single person, nor have I felt such a strong connection with an individual. I realized I was no longer a guest, but rather a newborn member of a family I had never known before. I was not staying in her house, but rather entering her sphere of influence. Everthing we did, said, thought, ate, breathed, slept and saw was in reference to her kindness. A consecrated widow, Marie-Jean took us in as one of her own, and without understanding any french myself, I knew I was adopted. I knew I could bring my family and friends back to this woman and have deep conversations without words. I felt changed just standing in her presence.
Despite being four hours late, she had patiently waited to serve us a four-course feast. We talked until two in the morning, and then took showers. She let us sleep as late as we wanted, and when we awoke, breakfast was waiting.
I should mention the only sight-seeing we did this whole day was to a church in the downtown area, and to a flower shop to buy our host some flowers. We spent the whole 24 hours with Marie-Jean eating, sleeping, and mostly talking. It was liberating.
I will never be the same. I cannot fully describe here what we talked about, it was too much to put into words and too beautiful, but if you ask me again when I return home, I'll be happy to relate it all.

France Day 3: wine, chocolates and Peugeot rental cars

Above, top to bottom: Tim and Brett are so excited to get a rental upgrade to a Peugeot, they celebrate by immediately jumping on the hood and dressing like tourists from countries their not from; Monsieur Tim Malone II poses for a portrait outside Jenna's apartment in Aix-en-Provence on March 23rd, 2009; Jenna, myself and Tim shortly before we leave for Cavaillon; the delicious gourmet chocolates we sampled together, I don't remember what they all were, but the seashell one was creamy, soft, warm and delicious(I wanted to buy a chocolate cat and pass it around while we stared at Chamallow, but I was outvoted); from left to right: Tim Malone II of Rockford, IL, USA, Alanna Karpa of Vancouver, Canada, Brett McCaw and Jenna McIntyre also from Rockford, and Veronique, host mother and apparently smelling someone's fart, of Aix-en-Provence.
I hear there's a lot of fine wine in southern France, but we didn't try none of it. Shucks.
In truth, we quickly dispensed with the sightseeing pleasantries and focused on just enjoying the people with whom we were staying. It really is the best way to travel: relationships, not sights and things.
We spent the afternoon of our last day in Aix-en-Provence bumming around the countryside looking for a place to do lunch. Apparently Guistine, Veronique's daughter, has a friend who lives inside a castle. Whoever he/she was, they weren't home, but we felt very important for about five minutes while waiting inside the gates. We found a vineyard, but the owner's were too exhausted from bottling to give us a tasting. So we played with their five dogs and drove away.
Hershey's and the occassional Ghiradelli bar is the extent of most American's chocolate education. After biting into a lilac syrup-filled dark chocolate, the strong aroma of a spring breeze in my nostrils, I new what I was missing. The chocolate we sampled was some of the best in France, and perhaps in the world.
It was a pity we had to leave Aix and the girls so soon, but the trip was well worth it. Thanks, ladies!

France Day 2

France Day 2: Aix-en-Provence

I spent my first couple days of the trip in Switzerland with my aunt and uncle(Thanks Bob and Kate). After looting my father's wine supply, helping Kate bake cookies and enjoying delicious leg of lamb, I set out for France via eurail and arrived in sunny Marseilles to find Brett, Tim and Jenna waiting for me on the platform. We had a splendid time staying with Jenna, Tim's neighbor from Rockford, IL, her roommate Alanna and their hostmother Veronique over three days. They were wonderful to us.

On day two, we decided to go for a hike to some sort of mountain, and spent the majority of the time blazing new trails, getting cut and bruised and giving blood to the forest floor than we did actual hiking. But we had a blast nonetheless, and the view from the top of the mountain we did climb was excellent. So was the cigar.

That night, we had a heated debate about the Pope's comments on contraception in Africa, and then we finished my(dad's) bottle of wine and opened another. Ladies, if you are reading this, you are all excellent conversationalists. What a way to start a trip. Read Tim's rather humorous morning moment below in my post from last week.

The most infamous member of Veronique's flat was a overweight, orange Persian cat with a chainsaw-snoring disorder. Chamallow, as they had named the beast, got its name for the french for cat, "chat" [chah] and "marshmallow."But for imagination's sake, if you could coat a marshmallow in orange fur, give it the body type of the Chinese Buddha and the personality of Madonna, you could clone Chamallow.

Fearing a dog-bite is quite natural, but the fear human beings experience when they know there is a cat waiting to pee on their possessions is like hearing the artillery fire and waiting for it to land on your only pair of shoes you've brought to France for a week-long trip. It just when I thought I had escaped the Persian's gaze, I sat down on the toilet and came face to the face with the "Cat Show, Marseilles" poster on the bathroom door, and those yellow Persian cat eyes. Ick, cats.

Where I was last week

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The thrill of renting a car in a foreign country is like getting a pony at age 6. You're convinced you're getting underwear, but you get an upgrade to a 4-door for free. Mom and dad seem hellbent on giving you coal, but then the AVIS guy in Paris writes the gas charge off your car and give it to you for less than you expected. You think "hmm, won't driving in France be hard?" and then you end up delegating that to your best friend, who is a great driver and drinks coffee like Juan Valdez.

I often find myself in strange situations, like being 6 inches from then-Senator Barack Obama in Milwaukee without reliable photographer credentials. Eating bagettes and cheese while driving on French highways, squatting illegally in a Parisian flat, and smoking a cigar while walking down the Champs-elysees definitely rates up there with my top 10 unbelievable situations.

But beyond the visceral travel experiences, my two closest friends and I went through a profound transformation during this trip. It quickly gained "best trip of our life" status, and for more reasons than just experiential. We were getting a tour of humanity, of the good Russian Orthodox parish in Lyon and the bad side of French secularism, the unconditionally loving French widow who took us in as her own sons and the Lonely-Planet hating host we had in Blois, the believers and friends we found in Aix-en-Provence and the French anarchists we stayed with in Paris.

This week I'll post photos on what exactly transpired over the last week, but it's a bit too difficult to explain in one post. I'll have to take it one day at a time. One thing is for sure, I'll never look at the world the same way as before France in 2009.