2012

I just can't seem to get that year right. Granted it usually takes me a while to change the year in my head, is that normal? So I have spent the entirety of this last year in France. Yes, I traveled here and there, but I never went back to the states to refuel. Even those times when I was homeless, France has been my home.

I've also stopped writing since I have been here. I think it has to do with feeling at home here; the uncommon becomes so common place. My eyes always glance downward, never looking up. Perception is a very active thing, is it not? I think there is excitement and adventure in everyday life, all around us, but when you get comfortable you don't look for it anymore.

Life is so fascinating when you think about it. All you have to do is look out for it. My biggest flaw here in Montpellier is that I forget to look up. That is where the beauty of this city lies, above you, in the architecture and blue skies.

Looking up in Montpellier

How to Talk to Strangers

Out the window the sea undulates far below. Within the motors hum underneath me as the ship cuts its way through the swells of the sea. The interior of the ferry is largely devoted to parking garages with a fancy hotel on the upper decks. Carpeted corridors bathed in mirrors and shiny golden handrails take you through rooms, restaurants, shops and cafes to two huge rooms filled with plush first-class airplane seats, which happen to be the cheap seats here. Where else would you expect to find me?

As the ferry carried me from Greece to Italy I felt disoriented and restless. A year of building a large friend base in Montpellier, and building some exceptional friendships left me unprepared for the loneliness of travel. It is a loneliness that could very well be avoided if I were less shy, more outgoing, but it’s when I throw myself out of my comfort zone that my deep interior shines through once more.

The first morning on the ferry I felt like a modern-day Goldie Locks as I paced the corridors. The open deck was too cold, the covered deck too smoky, cafes to expensive, hallways lacking views and the cabin containing my chair smelled strongly of heavy drinker mixed with unbathed gypsy. The stench assaulted my nostrils as I approached the door. In short, this Goldie Locks could not find a spot that was JUST right.

I roamed the corridors, nodding as I passed fellow travelers, their faces becoming familiar with every encounter. I felt that this experience really highlighted the lessons learned on my recent journey around the continent. The lesson being this: It’s the people you meet over the course of your journey that make it unforgettable. I’m not sure how I have never caught on before. The places that come to mind as my favorites appear on that list not because of the architecture or monuments that I have seen, it’s the places where I have met people and had worthwhile exchanges with them. They are on that list because of the people.

I find that as I grow my needs in a friendship morph and change with me. The desire for a passing friendship, someone with whom to pass a night in a drunken stupor no longer appeals to me. With those criteria for a friend long forgotten, I find it more difficult to find the kind of companionship that I seek. Yet, as it becomes rarer, when these exchanges do occur, when I find a connection with someone, these moments become all the more priceless.

So below I have some vignettes of my summer travels and the people, or lack there of…I hope you enjoy!

The light bulb moment

Istanbul, Turkey

Survival Language 101

Sağol [saou] = Thanks

Merhabā [MEHR-hah-bah] = Hi

Allaha ısmarladık [ah-LAHS-mahr-lah-duhk] = Good bye

Looking out the window I saw flashbacks of Benin. Scars of development that sprang up with no sense of direction and faded away before any sense could be made of it all. Sidewalks lacked an ability to hold pedestrians, nonexistent or crumbling into nonexistence. The buildings were solid cement, square, ominous; dotted by the Turkish flag. The red crescent and star overwhelmed the landscape. I got a sense that a building was not complete without its adorning flag, as if one might forget what country they are in every time they exit a building.

The bus winded through the narrow streets, carrying me, I would soon discover, from the Asian side of town to the European.

I found Marina without much incident. Her bright pink hair making her an easy target, not only for me it seems, but for all the hecklers as well. As the first man harassed her while she waited for me on the side of the street she had no way of foreseeing that the vulgar profanities and lame pick up lines would define our interactions in Istanbul.

We took to the streets blindly, having done little prior research on what to see and do. I had covered what was most important. What to eat and drink. As the ardent coffee lover that I am, passing up the chance of experiencing a foreign countries hot beverage selection is simply unthinkable. But in the large scheme of things, we were lost. We had been told by several fellow tourists to see the famous mosques, including the blue mosque. The dilemma we found was distinguishing the famous mosques from the hillside of other fascinating mosques that dotted the city. Unlike the basic cement mosques of Benin, or the mud mosques of Mali, here the mosques had their unique style; round in the center with a varying number of minarets. We would wander upon yet another mosque, remark on its bluish hue and consider it a job well done, the blue mosque found! We did this three times before finally getting a map and discovering that we had not yet seen the Blue mosque.

Are feet carried us across treacherous streets, our stops for chai and elma chai (apple tea) were frequent and well deserved, but overall we felt like outsiders. We failed to connect with the city, wandering through the city of such ancient origins, looking upon the monuments whose ages we could hardly fathom, partaking in the kebabs and Turkish delight that filled the market place, weathering the tasteless tauntings of the men. As outsiders we arrived, and thus we departed, the same outsiders that we had been when we arrived, though slightly more jaded by tourist traps.

The City

Montpellier

Her feet pumped the pedals on the beat-up red bicycle she has picked up at the flea market a few weeks back. This bike had quickly become her strongest ally in her battles through this construction-filled French town. It had freed her from the long waits at the tram stops and, more importantly, it had sped her saunters through town. Protecting her.

She shifted gears, pushing the bike on faster. The message she had just received had spurred a rush of adrenaline through her system. “The Hacker has been shot. The Hacker, the last target, was down. She glanced around quickly, surveying the space around her; ensuring that she was not being followed. As her feet carried her forward she pulled the phone out of her pocket, double checking that she had not misread the message. Her eyes raced over the good news and focused on the last sentence. “New targets to follow.” So, her mission as an assassin was only just beginning.

I am deep inside a game of assassins in Montpellier. It began on the night of March 5, 2011 at 23:00. As the clocks slowly ticked toward the bewitching hour everyone in attendance at the “Assassins Soirée” began to tense up. Suspicious looks faintly crept in as one by one every new assassin disappeared into a back room to discover who their targets and allies would be. As the hands of the clock neared 23:00 the more jumpy assassins began to say their goodbyes, fleeing to the protection of their own homes before the killers filled the streets of Montpellier. Those that stayed clung tightly to the squirt gun concealed in a pocket or under a coat. Their mission materializing in their mind, squirt or be squirted.

As we walked out into the streets, in groups of three to prevent being alone with any one assassin, the streets of Montpellier seemed to have succumbed to a darker night than usual. Suddenly the narrow deserted streets were filled with dark corners, hiding places. The mere act of walking out of one’s own house had become a gamble; squirt gun coming around every corner first like in a bad police film. Neighbors knocking simply to borrow a screw driver were met at the door by the barrel of a water pistol.

Ok maybe I should back up a bit more. Montpellier has many charms. Its architecture, modern yet mimicking antiquity, gives it the traditional French charm. The lively Place de la Comedie is a great place to meet friends for coffee, start a shopping spree, taste local specialties at a passing fair or get hit by a bicycle. Up the street you’ll find a small Montpellier-style arch and aqueducts. An 8 kilometer bike ride will carry you all the way to the shores of the Mediterranean, to beaches frequented by people bundled up in warm winter coats waiting for the sun. The best surprise is the flock of flamingos that watch tranquilly as you pass by. And most people do just pass by as if there is nothing spectacular in the scene. I, on the other hand, am the biker who almost causes an accident as I screech to a stop in astonishment. The flamingos just stand on one skinny pink leg until the decision strikes one to fly. As the wings spread open, the dark black under-feathers explode like a backwards fire, consuming the gentle pink.

And yet to list these reasons as my reasons for loving this place would be a grave fallacy. I love this place because my first weekend here I was invited, not only to a cardboard boat race, but into a community. The CouchSurfers of Montpellier.

Couch Surfers!

For those of you out there that are new to this concept, couchsurfing.org is a website whose philosophy is to revolutionize travel. You request a couch to sleep on when traveling, and thus your trip to Greece becomes more than just a tourist passing through, you connect with people. You catch a glimpse of new places from the inside out. Traveling ascends sightseeing and becomes an exchange. Not to mention, when you arrive in a foreign city, friendless, directionless, Couch Surfing is a great tool to connect with like-minded people. And so it has.

The CouchSurfing (CS) community of Montpellier has been the impetus of many a strange adventure. Because of these people, from all corners of the Earth, I have found myself with my head through a cardboard hole playing human foosball, I have found myself thumb-out in the middle of nowhere hoping for a lift, speeding down cobble-stoned streets on a tricycle, and I have found myself surrounded by friends who I hate to let go, but that are on the move. Just like me. I found a community that I had thought I would have to settle down and plant roots to have. But this community is filled with people that are open and trustful from the beginning because of their transient lifestyles. And intermixed into the community are those people who are more static. Who, due to work or life in general, don’t have the opportunity to fly away. Instead they find the same cultural interactions through hosting travelers on their couches.

CS Piñata Picnic

As that time of year approaches, when work contracts end and semesters abroad head into final exams we could think of no better way to savor these last moments than by stalking one another through town in attempts to squirt, bomb or in any way damped our opponents.

Unlike the (slew) of freshly baked pastries that tempt me as I buy my daily baguettes, these departures are bitter sweet. Though I hate those final hugs and the eyes stung with tears I know deep down inside that is was the transient nature of our lives that had brought us together in this corner of the world. And each goodbye conceals a hope that I will see these people again in another corner of the planet; for a drink, a stroll or a trike race.

La France

The Country

I must first start this entry with an explanation for my months of silence. The best response I can give is that I’ve simply gotten lost in France. As if the self-assurance and self-discovery I have had in my years far from the country that I know best just suddenly vanished and left me here. In France. I have no good explanation for this phenomenon. Perhaps this lost sensation is simply the way one feels once a dream is accomplished. Here I am, living in the country I’ve always dreamed of living in, speaking the language I have spent years studying. So where has all the excitement gone? Perhaps it’s simply that I have built this experience up so much in my head over years of envisioning my time in France that real life simply can’t live up to this. Or the sudden emptiness the darkened future holds without a dream to reach for. Yes I am well aware that the simple solution is to begin to reach for something new, but maybe I’m not ready yet.

France has proven to be as French as I could have hoped. All that self-esteem I had built up as the exotic American in small-town Benin and Spain has slowly been dwindled down to nothing by this country. Days when I am feeling down it seems to me that the country is designed to keep your spirits low. The simple act of walking with your head held high is a sure fire way to wind up knee deep in shit. Yes, this could more simply be explained by the French love of dogs yet disinclination to clean up after them. But as I walk down the narrow sidewalks with my eyes surveying my next step I feel like this is just one more effort to drag me down.

I find myself regretting the wish I once had in college. I dreamed of one day talking with an accent. The idea, from within the USA, seemed rather abstract. Now I would give anything to lose the accent. Everyone is quick to point it out to you. The simple question of, “Où sont les toilettes?” (“where’s the bathroom”) is more likely to be answered with “Where hare you from? Ah yes, I ear yoor haccent” than by any useful information like, “to the right”. And yet my boulangère still greets me like an indifferent stranger although I have bought bread from her every day for four months; with my noteworthy accent one would think I stick out a bit.

France still has her way with me. Despite the frustrations I still seem to be madly in love with her. Like the dog that pees on everything but you just can’t stay mad at. A big help in this positive attitude has been the people. For the first time ever I have very few Americans in my proximity. A small fraction of my time is spent in Lodève, where I live and work. Lodève, aside from housing one awesome American, is also home to an El Salvadorian, two Italian artists and a myriad of French people. In this quiet town we amuse one another by sharing our culture. Be it and international dinner, too much pasta and buffalo wings, or line dancing and French Risk, a dull night is usual made less so in the company of friends.

The people.

Through my travels I have had the opportunity to meet an array of fascinating people. Maybe I am lucky, maybe passion attracts passion like magnets and we are drawn to one another. Who knows how the universe has a way of bringing you together with the people that inevitably spice up your life. Watching an old Thanksgiving episode of How I Met Your Mother got me thinking of what an amazing phenomenon friendship is. Day to day we have the chance to meet a lot of people, and yet only a small percent of these interactions will blossom into friendship, and fewer still into the friendship that will withstand years, distance and change.

I have tried to force a friendship, to create a bond where one simply does not exist. It makes both parties involved feel somewhat awkward and does nothing to brighten one’s mood. Friendship in the end can be nurtured but it is a natural force that I feel I ultimately have no control over. Every once in a while I meet someone who sparks my interest and I sense the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Over the past year in Europe I have met singers, song writers, painters, quantam physisits, rock stars, teachers, hair dressers, archeologists, psychics and so much more, all equally fascinating. These are the people with whom I have connected, from whom I have learned and who I will never forget from my time abroad. Often they are fellow travels, others with a story to tell in their own unique fashion.

Here in France I have already met quite an array of people from a wide assortment of backgrounds. Some have simply come and gone by during an evening with no real attachments while on the other hand some have stuck. So I thought that I would share with you some of my best encounters.

The Organist:

We walked into the old church that sat in the middle of the seemingly deserted town; taking refuge from the silence outside. The church walls rang with a loud somber melody; dark and beautiful all at once. The music was not perfect, and that imperfection made it more beautiful still. Approaching the alter we turned around and saw the artist high above our heads, frames by a soft glow of light. The antique organ towered over its mysterious musician. The deep chords carried deep into my heart, causing emotions to arise and play around within me. The deep endless sounds of the organs chords intermingling and chasing one another made me want to flee and fly all at once.

After having soaked in enough we headed to the door; stepping softly to not disturb the atmosphere of the church. Slowly the artist turned his head and greeted my friend. In a small town it is a given that you begin to know just about everyone. I soon found myself high above where we had been standing; standing next to the monster of an instrument. This organ had seen centuries pass by, had felt the hands of hundreds of organist and delighted the ears of far more.

He explained to us the intricacies of his art. How he had come to learn such a unique hobby, how he creates such an array of sounds from so few keys. He had mastered the art of using each limb separately. His hands danced over the black and yellow keys, while his feet did the same over the wooden keys below. His love for his art made it all the more fascinating to learn about. The excitement in his voice making me fall all the more in love with the music that seemed to reverberate deep down within.

The Hitch Hikers

Hitch hiking is an activity that we know all about in America but so rarely participate in. That being the case I had very little faith when my friends asked if I wanted to hitch hike to Collioure, a picturesque town near the Spanish border. And yet the following weekend I found myself following seven other people down a large road in search of cars. We split into teams of 2, set a meeting point and the race began.

As I stood on the side of a road, smile on my face and finger out I still had doubt, though I had watched the other 3 teams climb into cars already. But luck did not seem to be with us that morning. Soon we got a ride. A retired gentleman who was on his way to surprise a friend in Bordeaux, we could ride with him until Narbonne. I got the feeling that he just wanted someone to talk to as we sped down the highway. He recounted tales of he travels in and out of France, hardly stopping for a breath.

In Narbonne our luck seemed to have left us entirely. For over an hour we tried in vain to get a ride as my friendly smile slowly melted into an indifferent frown. But as patience will do from time to time, it eventually paid off and we made our way slowly - getting a ride from town to town. It was mostly young men excited at the chance to practice their English or just have someone to talk to about music, France, travels, life. And thus we arrived to find our friends awaiting us on the beach in what truly was a breathtaking town sandwiched between sea and mountains.

Collioure

The way back went much smoother. Maybe it was my new faith in this manner of travel, maybe it was that unspoken knowledge that we really had no other choice, we had to get home. On the way back we talked with a mountain guide, a young girl and her mother who was teaching her daughter how to drive and, my favorite, a retired woman who had been all over the world. She was an unlikely candidate to pick us up, but she pulled over as we stood stunned on the side of the road. In her youth she had visited every corner of the Earth and I’m still not sure if the joy in reliving the memories with us out did my own pleasure in the encounter. As she dropped us off in Montpellier I was exhilarated by our success and the amount of positive interactions I had had with French people who can be so often a very closed society.

Lost

The church bells ring in the distance summoning the faithful to its doors. The wind races through the narrow cobble-stoned streets that twist haphazardly through Lodève. Lodève was obviously built before the slightest notion of automobiles. The streets are narrow, steep, and winding. Most of the streets in Lodève are hardly wide enough to fit one car, let alone two, but the population of Lodève seems to have some kind of esoteric system of one-way roads figured out; life flows through seamlessly.

The country has been on strike for the past 2 weeks. The door of the high school is blocked by trashcans and more effectively by the students sitting outside glaring at passersby. Transportation is unsure, trash is everywhere, and the country is concerned about its lack of fuel. Movement in the region has come to a halt, but the people seem to soak in the freedom of these open days.

As for me I am feeling the familiar pains of leaving everything behind. The solitude weighs heavy on me. In the morning I walk to the bakery for fresh bread and the occasional pastry. As I wait in line the lady smiles and greets the familiar faces in line around me. As for me, I am as of yet invisible. The strikes have efficiently cut off my only sure source of social contact. Without the brief conversations with other teachers I am just another stranger in this small town where I have not yet come to belong.

When I feel so cut off from the world around me it is hard not to give in to the nostalgia that fills my heart. I think back to the friends I have made all over the world; taking solace in the knowledge that these friendships also took time to form. I think of the families that welcomed me in Benin, and the friends that went out of their way to make me fall in love with Spain. Those times when I need a friend to talk to, lean on or just pass the empty hours with, are the times when I have no one to turn to.

It is not an easy situation to be in, my stay in France being transient and the lives of the people around me being set and full already. I know from experience that the friendships I am most likely to form are with other foreigners, others who feel estranged in this country, who seek new friendships.

Being fed up with my struggle to find a place here I seek comfort in the wild countryside outside the borders of the town. A 10 minute walk carries me to mountainous trails, calling to be explored. In the tranquility of nature I feel once more at ease, I feel alive, I feel loved and cared for by the world around me. Amongst the trees I am not a strange face; I do not feel alienated or judged. I can once more connect to the inner peace that we can so easily lose touch with. In the struggle to fit in I forget that I must let go of that nagging desire to please the world around me; forgetting that for now, until I understand the nuances of this culture, I can only please one person. Me.

So here amid the trees I find peace. In the midst of the trees the wind is no longer a bother. The wind plays a symphony for me through the leaves. I am on no schedule. Time is forgotten. I turn around and see Lake Salagou stretched out before me in the distance. Nature’s beauty mingles with the remnants of stone houses forgotten long ago. The crumbling doorways hint at stories of lives one lived amongst the wild before the charm of the Earth was overshadowed by the dazzle of the city.

Soumont

The path I walk winds up the mountain drawing me farther from civilization, until about 4k outside of Lodève I round a corner and am confronted by buildings. Soumont is much smaller than Lodève yet despite its meager population the French grandeur dominates. A large stone cathedral stands proudly in the center as old stone houses spiral outward in no particular scheme of organization. I wander down the alleys without fear, for every alley twists and turns back to the center.

All day I follow familiar signs as the yellow conch shell guides my way. I am for one more brief moment on the Camino. In France there are no yellow arrows guiding my path, in their place are a secret code of lines; yellow and blue, red and white. Like a scavenger hunt I desperately scan the stones and tree trunks for the marking telling me that I am not yet lost. As I wander further up into the wilderness I begin to lose track of the signs. Every time I must walk blindly the worry sets in. I embrace the fear letting it blossom into excitement, after all I had come in search of an adventure.

Soumont

As I reach the top of a mountain over Soumont I turn around, scanning the horizon for Lodève; but Lodève is tucked out of sight. The mountains undulate in the distance all around me guiding my gaze further until I see a bright gleam at the edge of the horizon. Up here, high above the world in which I live, I am starring out at the majestic Mediterranean Sea.

I stopped to take in the wonder of the moment, the feeling of being on top of the world, before I continued my journey. For a day my worries were forgotten. I was no longer an American, no longer trying to be French. For a day I was where I belonged, where language holds no sway. But like all things of great beauty, like the breathtaking setting of the sun, these moments are fleeting; a mere garnish to the life my feet carried me back to.

Culture Shock

I stepped off the plane in Chicago and it was instant. The arrival in America is a bit of a shock as you dive right back in the world in which you grew up. All around me I heard the strong southern drawl and for the first time in a year, nothing but English. I wanted to put my hands to my ears to drown out the sound of incessant conversation. I felt like I was being forced into the private lives of others. My first instinct was annoyance, thinking that Americans are as loud and obnoxious as people say they are. Why do they think I would care about their lives? Then I realized that my judgments were entirely unfounded. I could simply understand everything they were saying around me without any conscious effort on my own; a feeling that I had grown unaccustomed to. The truth is that people were quite friendly and it felt good to be around such a mélange of accents.

The next stop was Colorado; the time to visit with old friends and dear family. Things just weren’t as seamlessly smooth as they once had been. Before I left I could read other Americans better and flow with the natural rhythm of the States. Suddenly I found myself not leaning in for a hug, rather leaning in to kiss someone’s cheek. At the supermarket I looked down for the cheapest items when in fact the organization in America is quite unique. But I had only hours to readjust to the US before I flew off to what seemed like yet again another country, LA.

After a decent night’s sleep, my friend Marina and I flew off to LA. My wardrobe seemed entirely insufficient and people could spot at first glance that we “weren’t from around there”. That was fine with us since the people that were seemed to use to be…unique. As we strolled down Sunset and Hollywood Boulevard, or spotted the Hollywood sign in the distance I took it all in; for this is the America that the people around the world know. The movie stars, the wide boulevards, the shopping, the In and Out burgers, the eclectic styles, we saw it all. Tourists in our own country.

Rock stars in Hollywood

Home Sweet Home

After LA it was much easier. Like riding a bicycle I began to flow within the culture around me as if I had never left. My time in the States seemed like a whirlwind at times; so many friendly faces to see, catching up to be done, so much to recount to one another, plans for the future to arrange. And like a whirlwind it soon blew past and I was once again flying over the Atlantic, speaking French with the couple seated beside me. I felt…home.

Flying into Madrid felt like flying back to my own country. I entered the airport with much more confidence. I understood the world around me, the metro, the language. It was a drastic change from the year before. I let my feet carry me to my favorite sites of Madrid, wandering through the roses, stopping for a café and getting caught up in a technical conversation about the internet that was far over my head in Spanish. Luckily my skills at pretending like I am following are well tuned.

My time in Madrid was brief but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for one more night in Benavente. Oh the feeling of stepping out of the bus station in Benavente! I can hardly put it into words. I took a deep breath and caught a familiar scent in the air that I had never noted before. I saw familiar faces strolling down the street and walked familiar paths. That night I did the same circuit of town that I had walked several times before. Benavente is not a big place thus it is easy to run into old friends. We stayed up late into the night (well not too late for the Spaniards) filling in the last three months of everyones’ lives. I found that my Spanish was still strong, I could still hold my own in a conversation and it was easier than ever. I had missed the tapas, the wine and this language over the summer and I took in every moment I could. I realized over the course of the night that I had become close these people without even realizing it and found myself wishing I had a little more time to get to know people that I had overlooked. But my time in Benavente had come to an end and so in the morning I headed to Palencia to visit one more dear friend, pick up my suitcase, and prepare for my imminent move.

I arrived at my friend’s apartment armed with a handheld luggage scale and mentally prepared for the worst. I was faced with a challenge. The airline I was taking to France allowed 1 checked bag weighing up to 20k every extra kilo being 12 Euros more and one carry on, no weight limit but able to fit into the little things at the airport. I went up to the basement to weigh my bag; I knew that I would not be able to rest until I had. I looked, 50 it said. I just about fainted. It was worse than I’d thought. How was I going to get 30 k to France and still have money to survive? My friend and I searched frantically for a solution, then I looked more closely. 50 lBS is 23 kilos. Bon, 3 kilos I can do.

The next morning I dressed in my pjs, jeans, skirt and multiple shirts. My pockets were filled with electronics, and anything that would fit. My book I would hold and pretend to be reading at every moment. And thus I checked a bag weighing 20.5 kilos and barely survived the heart attack the pounds/kilogram change almost caused. Thus I put on 3 kilos in Spain.

I arrived overheated and exhausted in France where a familiar face awaited me. Soon my large bag was back in my possession and my layers of extra weight were returned to the suitcase. And thus I dropped 3 kilos in France.

It was here that my new adventure would commence. I headed to Montpellier nervous and ready to rid myself of my heavy bags. As I approached the house of the fellow teacher, who offered to host me while I looked for a place of my own, I felt the familiar worries settled into my heart. Try as I might I could not suppress the doubt that was simmering within. What if they don’t like me? What if I take the wrong bus? What if I packed too much? What if, what if… My worries were assuaged the second I entered the door, my doubt and timidity hid itself well behind an autopilot I’ve built up within myself. I made myself at home and engaged them in conversation flowing smoothly between French and English.

Then I had to pee. I tried to recall the quick tour I had been given and walked immediately to the shower. Nope, no toilet in there. I paced back and forth down the hall before throwing in the towel and asking for help. Where was it you ask? In the laundry room of course!

I enjoyed my time in their home immensely. Every meal was the paradigm of French to me. They took me to see the wild flamingos that have existed here forever yet that I’d never heard of, they showed me around the beautiful Montpellier and they gave me the freedom to explore on my own.

I went out with the Couch Surfing group of Montpellier which turned into an unforgettable adventure. I arrived at the house of a stranger unaware of what to expect. In less than an hour I would be trying to help fit a large cardboard boat down a small spiral staircase, and take the same boat across town in a small city tram. Why you ask? Well to race it against other cardboard boats of course!

Though short-lived, my time in Montpellier was memorable and left me hungry for more. Now I am in the charming small town of Lodève. But more on that later.

A bientôt!