Bastia, Corsica

October 11th – 15th, 2007


Thursday, October 11, 2007

So I planned out a trip to Corsica this weekend. I wanted to take my bright orange and yellow bike (who from here on in will be referred to as “Pumpkin”), and go on my own to explore for a few days. The cheapest way to get there was to head to Toulon, a city just over an hour away from here, and then take a 10-hour boat ride to the island. Looking up my options I discovered that taking the train to Toulon, although it would take about two hours, was cheaper than taking the bus. So I packed a backpack for the weekend and I strapped my sleeping bag to the back of Pumpkin and I hopped on the train to Toulon. I got there with plenty of time to bike around a little and then find the ferry terminal on the water. When I went to go buy my ticket for the boat, the woman told me it would cost me about 50€ for one way! I couldn’t believe it, on the internet when I had looked it up, it had been 15€ (or 19€ with my bike). She told me that I should have booked it on the internet and that now it was at the last minute, so that’s why it was so expensive. So instead, I bought a ticket for the next night and the return ticket for Sunday night (19€ each way), and decided to go explore Toulon a bit and find a place to stay there for the night.

As it was already 9pm, it was dark, and most of the city was dead. I looked around for a hostel or for anyone who knew of a cheap place to stay. The cheapest was a hotel at 25€ a night. Good grief—it would be cheaper to go back to Aix for the night and sleep in my own bed! So that’s what I did. And somehow even, I managed to not pay to get back to Aix (a mix of confusion with the broken ticket machine and a really nice bus driver). I got back to Aix at midnight, ate some delicious pasta that Ben had put aside for me when I texted him the situation, and went to bed. (On a side note, texting is the only thing anyone ever does here. No one calls each other, it seems. And some people are incredibly fast at sending messages. I couldn’t text quickly to save my life—yet!)

Friday, October 12, 2007

Friday morning was spent getting an “urgent” email asking me if I had gotten my birth certificate translated (bloody Anglophone province of mine), and me phoning the translator to see if it was ready. It was ready, so I went to pick it up (after paying the post-bargaining price of 32€), and delivered it to my school which FINALLY completed my dossier to send to the police station to apply for the other half of my visa which will enable me to stay in France for a year and re-enter the country if I leave it. Hooray, it’s been a month, and I’m finally done putting up with all of that stuff! The rest of the day was relaxing enough. I caught a bus at 5pm to Toulon, and explored the city a bit, bought some dinner, and sat on the waterfront eating, watching the sunset, and talking with random people walking by.




I left Pumpkin on the car deck, and then boarded the boat around 9:30pm. It was more than I was expecting. It was really elaborate, and much fancier than I thought it would be.


They had rooms that you could rent for the night, and they had Pullman chairs that you could also pay an extra amount for. I didn’t pay more than cheapest price possible, and yet, I had a whole couch to myself for the entire night!





Saturday, October 13, 2007

We arrived at 7am on Saturday in the city of Bastia, and while waiting for the tourist office to open, I took my bike and rode around the city and the seawall just taking in all the great colours that the sunrise was creating.


Coming back to the tourist office, I talked to a Polish guy that had just hitch-hiked from Poland all the way to Bastia and was going to further hitch-hike across the island to get to his girlfriend’s place. I got a map from the tourist office and then took my bike, and just “gave’er” heading south.

Some of the pictures I took along the way:










On the beach above, about 12 km from the city, I stopped to rest and eat a little of the food I had left over from last night. Even though it was a hot 22 degrees, the beach was completely dead, other than the occasional jogger, horseback-rider, dog-walker, and one old topless woman. I was sitting on a part of the beach in front of a campsite that I guess would be just packed full of people and kids in the summer, but it was deserted at the moment. I had the beach to myself, and I was even able to use the little cobweb-ridden changing cabins on the beach that belonged to the campsite. It was pretty quiet until this group of seven men and one woman showed up with a ukulele. They were all around their thirties and they looked like they were quite the fun bunch. The second they showed up, some of them started stripping off their clothes as they were running to the water and taking a running jump into the ocean. I heard them talking about forgetting to bring a ball, and when they started throwing pinecones to each other, I decided to get up and walk over there with disc in hand. We ended up tossing around the frisbee in the water for a good portion of time and they told me they were a Franco-Belgian band that had been performing in town a couple nights before. Sure enough, they gave me their site http://www.myspace.com/mysaintandre (they should be paying me for this advertising), and then we played volleyball (turns out they had remembered a ball) for a while longer before going our separate ways. I biked for another hour and a half or so through what seemed like the middle of nowhere. Fields, sheep, cows, horses, and a forest fire—I was really in the boonies.


I ended up in a tiny town called Crocetta where I found a grocery store, ate lunch, and took a different route back to Bastia. This so-called “different route” included 15 km of driving on the highway. At times there was an entire lane just for bikes, but then sometimes, without warning, it ended, and I’d find myself being passed much too-close-for-comfort by cars and trucks going at 110km/hr. It was a little nerve-wracking.

Now, as if being alone… on an island… with a bike… in high-speed traffic… wasn’t sketchy enough, I decided I would sleep outside near the water, so I could see the stars when I slept and the sunrise when I woke up. I found a ‘nice’ place on the balcony of what appeared to be a shutdown diving school.


I locked up Pumpkin, put my backpack at the bottom of my sleeping bag, cocooned myself into it, and slept until I woke at 7:20 am to watch the sunrise.

It was a bit of a cold night because the wind had really picked up, but the morning was gorgeous and peaceful. I stood leaning against the balcony, wrapped in my sleeping bag, watching the water and the sun. Then some guy who was doing his morning walk along the beach saw me and came to talk to me. We got to talking for a while, and then went to go grab a “café” and a “pain au chocolat” at a little café on the waterfront. This guy was originally from Morocco, but had been living on the island for over fourteen years. Now, I consider myself to be a good judge of character, but even being a good judge of character, I knew that what I did next was pretty risky. To argue anyone who says I was stupid for doing what I did next, well, just realize that it’s taking risks that makes travelling more worthwhile and I wouldn’t have all these crazy stories if I didn’t take a chance every now and again.

Since it was his day off, he offered to take me driving along the coast for a tour of “Cap Corse”—the northern most peninsula of the island. Originally, I had wanted to cross the peninsula (as it is only about 12km wide) and get to the other side. However, upon arriving in Bastia, I could see that there was an enormous mountain range blocking my way. That’s why I decided to go south on the first day, and north on the second. In the car, I went much more north than I was planning on going. We did the whole tour of the peninsula, and it wasn’t hard to take amazing pictures like the following:













A picture of south of Bastia. On Saturday, I took my bike all around the lake you see here.



After the five-hour drive, we got back to Bastia at around 2 in the afternoon, exchanged numbers, and explored the churches for a while. As it was a Sunday, churches are the only things in all of France that are open. (Corsica is still a part of France, but they have a little bit of QSS going on--Quebec Separatist Syndrome. They even have their own language, which sounds like a mix of Italian, Spanish, French, but is unlike any of those.) So I explored the churches a bit, and then wandered into the old part of Bastia: la Citadelle.





Oratoire de la confrérie de l’Immaculée Conception et l’église Saint Jean Baptiste

In the Citadel, some old man stopped me at the entrance and told me that if I was touring around, there wasn’t much interesting to see around there. When I told him it didn’t matter, that I just like exploring, he laughed and opened up a little. I started asking him questions, and he invited me to sit down at a café next door and drink hot chocolate. We talked for a while, and I discovered he had once been a tour guide for the little train that takes tourists around the city in the summer. He knew a lot about the place. He even took me on my very own personal tour of the Citadel. Now, since he had to have been over sixty, and he was using crutches to walk, it was the absolute slowest tour of my life! At times, it felt like we were walking backwards!






Palais des Gouverneurs (the town jail cells were right underneathe!)

Whether we were going forwards or backwards, it didn’t matter, he was a really interesting man, and seemed to know everyone that walked by. He even got a friend of his to open up this mini-museum even though it was past closing time. I say “mini-museum” because it was just that: mini. This man had spent his life constructing a mini city out of rocks, plaster, little figurines, and anything else he could get his hands on. He even turned it on for me, so there were lights, movements, trains, and music. It was pretty impressive.


After the tour, we sat down, and ate croissants and drank more hot chocolate while talking with another of his friends who was from Toulon. The guy who took me for the drive in the morning called me on my cell, and asked me what I was doing. I told him I was with someone, and that I could call him back after if he wanted me to. After thanking the old man for the tour and leaving back down to the downtown area, I phoned the guy from the morning back. It was around 6pm, and I didn’t have to be back at the ferry terminal until 8, so when he asked to meet up, I said sure. He picked me up and took me driving around the city for a bit. This time with him, I was getting a much different vibe from that morning. It was creeping me out a little. He told me that he didn’t like when I told him that I was “with someone” earlier, and that he was reassured after having gone out and, from a distance, seen me sitting at the café with the old man that afternoon. He told me he had a present for me and gave me a ring. Whoa. You spend a few hours with someone and you’re giving them a ring?! That doesn’t seem weird at all?! I refused it and he said that he would throw it out if I gave it back to him. Um, buddy? You’re a little intense. So I wore the ring as he drove me to the terminal. I didn’t want to be in the car any longer, and then before boarding, he lectured me on travelling alone, and to be careful about meeting the wrong kind of people, and to not be so nice to everyone. I then gave him back the ring saying, “this isn’t an insult. I appreciate the thought. Please, don’t throw it out. Save it for next time.” I don’t want the guy to waste a perfectly good ring by throwing it out.

I boarded the boat, quickly claimed a couch for myself again, and was so tired that I fell asleep even despite the cheering that was going on behind me for the rugby semi-finals.

Before falling asleep, I thought to myself, “man, you didn’t get yourself a single little souvenir. You should have taken the ring!” I’m joking. I was leaving Corsica with:
a.) A hundred amazing photos, some really interesting stories;
b.) A scraped knuckle, elbow, and shoulder from when a chunk of the sidewalk was missing and instead of falling with my bike into oncoming traffic, I forced myself to fall into the side of the wall;
c.) And a perfectly symmetrical ring of nine or ten mosquito bites around my eyes and eyebrows from sleeping outside with my sleeping bag covering everything but my eyes. It wasn’t pretty.

Marseille - Take: 2

Sunday, October 7, 2007

A few things that I’ve seen or done in the past few days:

1.) You know the chip wagons that are scattered around streets (more so in Ottawa, than in Coquitlam)? Well, I was walking downtown and instead of seeing a chip wagon, I saw something that I would hesitate to call a “blood wagon”. It was a van parked on the side of the street, and people were going inside to give blood. I don’t know if that’s a French thing, but I’ve certainly never seen anything like that before. If anything, the “blood wagons" in Canada bring the supplies and set up and operate from a room in a building instead of the a back seat of a vehicle.

2.) Do you find it odd to see a girl in shorts and a t-shirt walking into a residence? No? I didn’t think so. Then why on earth does every single person I walk by after or before playing a sport insist on commenting on the fact that I’m “sportive”. Also, I swear, in a residence of almost 1000 people, there MUST be another girl that plays soccer. I have had more people ask me if I’m “la fille qui joue au foot”. First of all, that means that people I don’t know are talking about me. And secondly, I can’t possibly be “the (ONLY) girl who plays soccer”. Oh well, I suppose it’s not such a bad rep to have. It is weird, though.

3.) It’s Sens madness all over again. When the Sens were in the playoffs, I knew that if they won a game, I wouldn’t be going to bed early that night. I lived on a main street, and I would hear honking and yelling until 2 or 3 in the morning. It’s the same thing here with soccer. (And a little bit of rugby at the moment.) If France is playing a soccer match, and you’re not watching, well, if they score or if they win, you’ll hear it for another two hours after the game.

4.) I went to Marseille again yesterday. Talk about rugby madness.


Marseille is one of the locations for the world cup games. I hadn’t factored that into my plan for the day. The streets were FILLED with British and Australian fans. People were dressed in their colours, carrying flags, with painted faces, sporting their jerseys or their homemade rugby ball hats. I swear I even saw an Aussie in a kangaroo suit. (He’s on the right hand side of the first few seconds of the video. You can see his tail.)



5.) The purpose of this trip to Marseille, was to a.) Get a rug for the ugly floor of my room, and b.) Bring my bike along to explore the city a bit and ride along the coastline to a park that Tonin recommended to me. I bought a beautiful blue and beige Turkish rug. The geometrical patterns sure beat the puke-green tiles in my room. I couldn’t stand to be bare-footed on my floor before. Now my feet feel much more comfortable (and instead of sweeping, I can just shake the carpet out the enormous window [which, by the way, is open 85% of the time because the weather is gorgeous and because, more importantly, there are NO bugs—EVER!])! As for biking to the Park, well, that never happened. I left my map open on my desk back in residence. Bugger. I got completely lost, and wanted to see if I could figure my way out without asking anyone. Eventually, I got hungry, bought a baguette, and asked the lady at the Boulangerie for directions. Wow, was I ever far from where I wanted to be! I even somehow ended up at the entrance to a tunnel that would take me back to the downtown area, but a.) You had to pay to use the tunnel, and b.) Bikes were most certainly not allowed in it. After explaining my situations to a very kind man, another nice man carried my bike up a flight of stairs to prevent me from having to retrace my steps: against traffic and on a highway. He pointed me in the right direction to get myself where I wanted to go, and I was off again, attempting to not kill people while riding on the sidewalk and to not get killed while riding on the road. It was quite the ride.

6.) Finally when I was where I wanted to be, I reached the chaos. It was dark, about 8pm, and I would compare it to the daytime part of a Canada Day in Ottawa. There was stage set up right on the water, and a concert going on with drunken people wandering around, and random sports chants and cheers could be heard overlapping in every direction. While attempting to take a picture of a charming street with an outdoor bar, a bunch of dudes from London all wearing their team England jerseys insisted on being in the picture too. They decided I needed to be in the picture as well, and I ended up being in the middle of a group of about 15 people posing in the middle of the street. It was a guy who took the picture. Would you like to know how it turned out? Voilà.


Standing amongst fifteen other people, this was the result. I have not cropped this picture in any way, shape, or form. I couldn’t believe it. They all had a good laugh, and then a couple of them insisted on taking another when the rowdy ones had left. I present to you, as they put it, “a picture that will make your mother proud”. Right. Awkward.


I eventually ended up getting the picture of the charming street with all the flags of the teams who were still in the World Cup.


As for getting to that park, I’ll have to go back again another day.

My New Bike!

Friday, October 5, 2007

I got a bike today. I’m so excited. They have a program on campus where you can rent a bike for the year and pay only 40€. That price is unheard of! The bikes are bright orange and yellow, and if you want, you can chose one with a removable basket on the front—very useful for groceries! The only thing that irks me is that the bell on the handlebar is very sensitive. Therefore, even the tiniest bump in the road makes it ring. So if I’m going down a hill, every person on the street is very well aware of it. They also must think I’m being an annoying pain: *drrrring…. drrrring, drrring…. drrrring*


Going about my daily errands, I have been confused several times for a Quebecer. I haven’t yet decided if that’s a compliment to me… or an insult to other Quebecers. Maybe it’s simply because the only French I’ve been around the past couple of years is Quebec French. Then again, maybe it’s because they think that Quebecers have really horrible Anglophone accents (which might be the case. Benjamin told me that he had a girl come up to him after having spoken in class, telling him that he speaks French really well. Duh! It’s his first language). To all the Quebecers I know, I apologize for unintentionally poorly representing you. However, I should mention that even the Quebecers I’ve met here have told me that the French I use is more from Quebec than France. Makes sense, if you ask me. But good grief, I am going to have such a messed up accent when I come back: a strange mix of Quebec pronunciation, French expressions, and an Anglophone accent to top it all off. Yikes.

On the topic of language, I’m actually taking two language classes while I’m here: Italian and German. Apparently, language classes are popular, because in both classes I’ve been to, if you don’t get there early, you don’t have a seat. The Italian prof seems to be a little more lenient on this subject. Basically, if you’re comfortable sitting on the floor for three hours, then fine. The German teacher has more of a “tough-luck” approach. The very first class, there were about 75 people who showed up in a very small classroom and were forced to cram standing in the back of the classroom. Nazi-prof then decided the first 35 people to sign a sheet of paper would be the ones able to register for the German class. Thanks heavens I had a friend save me a seat, and just by chance, it was in one of the first few rows the paper was sent. I’m happy, but I’m scared. This means that 40 people left that classroom really angry. For all I know, I could have a few dozen Hitler aficionados after me wanting to off me to take my spot in the course.

I’ve decided that when it comes to language, French people are just cleverer. This cleverness is also often a mark of class. It was explained to me that in the current class system in France (which very well exists), the higher-class people tend to be cleverer. From the bathroom stalls…

- S’il vou plaît arrêtez de salir les portes. (If yo please, stop writing on the doors.)
- Retournez à l'école primaire pour apprendre les bases d'orthographe, s’il VOUS plaît. (Go back to elementary school and learn how to spell, if YOU please.)
- Cessons donc cette violence verbale. (Let’s stop this verbal violence.)

…To the ads on TV…

Ad for “Thé Éléphant”: Un parfum de ‘nouveauté’ (→ “Nouveau thé”)

…To the social aspect that involves a lot of wit. Therefore, if you can manipulate words and play with their sense of sarcasm and satire, you will find yourself fitting in and no doubt being invited out quite often (and with the bourgeois, they’ll most likely pay for your drinks, too). Now, I’m nowhere near being able to play with words in French that cleverly, however, though it doesn’t happen often, it feels incredible when I can successfully inject even one ounce of humour into a conversation.

Soccer & Stuff

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

I haven’t found my niche yet. That always takes me a while. I’ve hung out with some people who forgot they were no longer in high school. THAT wasn’t it. I’ve spent some time with the soccer obsessed Senegalese. That was nice, but I couldn’t do it 100% of the time. I have even hung out with two little French punks who took me to a store called "Curious" followed by a gothic bar— surprisingly, a good time. Most of the time I spend is with Tonin and Benjamin. (Plus, we have a wicked deal worked out. They make the deliciously mouth-watering food, and I do the dishes. I can live with that!)


Tonin, whose bedroom door faces mine, is from a town about an hour away from here, and Ben, who lives down the hall from Tonin and me, is from Montreal. The two of them are great, and I usually laugh (and learn) a lot when I’m around them. However, the two of them are in “art plastique”, and therefore, they have a lot of the same classes together. If you put two and two together, you have a pair of fun guys in classes where 98% of the students are female. Needless to say, they meet a lot of girls. And I tend to back out of being a third (or fifth) wheel when they go out to meet with them.




On the topic of meeting girls, it just so happens that I have class during the ONE girls’ soccer practice (sports are scheduled as classes here). Today, at the end of my class, I booted it to a far field where the practice was supposed to be going on for another 45 minutes. I wanted to at least talk to the coach to see if I could practice with the boys at night. When I got to the field, there were only three young boys goofing around. When I asked if they had seen a girls’ team, they responded saying that they had left. The first conclusion I jumped to? There weren’t enough girls, and so the coach cancelled practice. Ugh. That would suck. I went back to campus and sat outside enjoying the 26-degree weather before going to a different field to try to catch the coach at the boys’ class/practice. I explained the situation to the coach, and he said that I could practice with the boys for tonight, and that he would see my level before deciding what to do next. I guess it went decently, because at the end of practice, he asked if it would be possible for me to make at least the last half of the girls’ class each Monday, and said that I could continue practicing with the boys in order to have a full practice. YES! Fantastic! The best of both worlds! Playing with girls who have things in common with me (if only an affinity for soccer), and then playing with boys who will force me to push myself a little harder.

The coach then went on to tell me that the games that the girls play competitively are an out-of-class thing, and those matches happen on Thursdays. You don’t register for that, you have to talk to the coach. If he ends up liking the way I play, then that would be perfect, since I only have classes Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays! The last thing that the coach recommended to me was to sign up for a soccer-coaching course. I brushed off the idea at first, but now I’m seriously thinking about it. He said that for five or six weeks, there would be theory and an exam, but then for the following weeks of the semester, I would be preparing a practice series for youngsters, and then coaching the kids from the primary schools in the area. Could be fun. The coaching certificate is also recognized around the world (this was the coach’s word. I’m skeptical about this, but I’ll look into it.) I think it could be great to do--even though it means giving up volleyball.

The practice itself was interesting. I really went into it with a so-what-if-I’m-a-girl-standing-amongst-a-bunch-of-guys-ready-to-play-soccer attitude. The coach got that attitude as soon as I explained my situation. Some of the boys caught on. A few of the boys were too weirded out to even look at me in cleats. And it took until the end of practice for the rest of the boys to accept the fact that I just wanted to play. Even if it was on gravel, it felt sooooo great to play organized soccer again. And I never thought I'd say it, but it also was nice to do drills!

(On a side note... By the looks of it, I'm going to have a full-out novel by the end of the year, if it continues this way!)

Statistics

If you know me, you know that I always like hearing fun and interesting statistics, so here are some numbers that I have put together since I’ve been here (almost two weeks):

The number of times I have:
- Been out in the town and NOT seen an outdoor market: Once or twice. (There is even a market every second day right beside my residence!)
- Almost been hit by a car: I average twice a day. (I hear that’s a good average!)
- Asked someone directions, only to discover that they are an international student too (and therefore, have no clue either!): Too many to count. There are 3000 international students at my university alone.
- Seen really obese females: On average, about two to three a day!!
- Seen really obese males: On average, about zero to one a day!!
- Come home from the bar smelling like a chimney: Every time I have gone to a bar.
- Had to dodge to prevent being burned by someone holding a cigarette walking down the street: Nine or ten times.
- Reminded myself that there are only 126 days left until smoking is banned inside bars and restaurants: 5 times a week.
- Left my room to go to the bathroom forgetting to bring toilet paper: Twice.
- Been in a bathroom where there wasn’t any toilet paper: I’ve lost count.
- Been in a bathroom where there was soap: Once.
- Used a toilet with a seat: Once.
- Used a hole in the ground as a toilet: Luckily, only once.
- Gotten lost going to school the direct (but longer) way: None. Hooray!
- Gotten lost going to school trying the shortcuts: Twice. And they both resulted in me turning the 25-minute walk into a 45-minute walk. Argh!
- Showed up to my class and there was no teacher: Twice (out of the five total classes I’ve had so far)!
- Had French guys hit on me in barely comprehendible English, or really vulgar French: Five or six.
- Gotten funny looks when I say I play soccer: Almost everyone who is European.
- Had to buy men’s cleats because they don’t sell women’s: Once. (I only needed one pair, though. They’re silver and red Umbro cleats that cost me 29€ on sale. I’m so excited!!)
- Tried to go somewhere, only to discover that the place I want to be is closed for another hour: Three or four very annoying times.
- Walked into a store to talk to a person that “can’t help me” for another ten minutes, because she’s still eating: One very annoying time.
- Tried to take out money from my Canadian account only to have my “request refused” (even after setting up my account so that it was accessible overseas): Five or six times. I’ve now given up and am trying to contact my bank.
- Gone to the bank here to open an account and to try and see what is the best, easiest, fastest, and cheapest way to transfer my Canadian money to my French account: Five or six. It’s getting very frustrating. Hint: there is NO best, easy, fast and cheap way. I need it fast because I need to get a statement of account so that I can apply to live here for longer than three months. And I had already done that to apply for my visa… they just need it in euros now. Gah! So nit-picky!
- Eaten a baguette and/or cheese with my meal: Once or twice a day!
- Smiled and nodded at things I didn’t understand because it was easier than getting it explained to me: The number is starting to increase. Let’s leave it at that. I’m pretty sure I am starting to seriously annoy the people I hang out with because when I don’t understand something, I asked for it to be explained.
- Lay down on my bed for just a minute in the middle of the day, only to fall deep asleep because my brain is so tired: Four or five.
- Thought of people from back home: Daily—or more!
- Heard from people back home: Not nearly enough!

Toilet Talk

Friday, September 28, 2007

A conclusion that I have reached is that either a.) The French discourage peeing, or that b.) Going to the bathroom is only for the privileged. Not convinced? Read on…

In general,
- Toilets have no seats.
- Bathrooms (and showers) are co-ed.
- Clean bathrooms don’t exist, only different levels of dirtiness.
- If you want to use a toilet outside of residence, bars, or campus, you need to pay to pee.

In residence,
- They don’t supply the stalls with toilet paper. This means that going to the bathroom is not a subtle thing. It doesn’t leave much to the imagination when you see someone walking down the hall with a roll of toilet paper in his or her hand. (Or even better, a roll of toilet paper and a textbook!)
- They also don’t have sinks in the res bathrooms. You need to go back to your room to wash your hands.
- (And a bit about the showers? Well, you can’t adjust the temperature, and in any case, they seem to only have two settings: icy cold or scalding hot.)

In a bar,
- Most bars have nothing more than a hole in the ground. Consider yourself LUCKY if you get a seatless toilet!
- You can also imagine that drunken girls squatting and drunken boys trying to aim doesn’t leave the nicest aftermath in the stall.
- You might get toilet paper if there is still some left. Though, they’re never in a hurry to restock.

On campus,
- Again, toilet paper isn’t restocked very often. Go in the morning. Otherwise, carry Kleenex with you at all times.
- Sometimes you can get carried away reading all the colourful graffiti. However, if that happens, you will be left to do your deeds in the dark.
- The light is timed, so after about 90 seconds, it shuts off. Eco-friendly? I think not! It’s just another way to get you in and out as fast as they can!
- Now on campus, it’s a step up (a very small step). They have sinks. Soap and a way to dry your hands? Think again. I usually walk out of the bathroom with wet handprints on my jeans.

I hear that the North of France is a little more up-to-date on the toilet stuff, but hey, in exchange for weather like this, I’m more than happy to put up with a seatless toilet for the year.

Lost in Aix

Thursday, September 27, 2007

I’ve decided that Aix is a fantastic city to live in if you have no place to be at a certain time. On the other hand, if you’re supposed to be somewhere, there is a very high chance that you will get lost. No wonder the French are always late. The downtown of Aix is an old medieval city. This means that there is a tangled web of narrow streets going in no particular order and in no particular direction surrounded by three or four main streets bordering the old city. There is absolutely NO organization. No one here uses street names as directions. I am led to believe that not even the locals know the names of the streets.

I’m in the market for a bike at the moment, and while trying to find the main sports store, I asked the lady working at the Student Life Office. I have a map that she drew for me. It has the main street labeled and then little offshoots that twist and turn sporadically and are most certainly not labeled. I think she sort of gave up with drawing the map while she was trying to give me directions. Translated, the conversation went as follows:

Lady: You know the main street, le Cours Mirabeau?
Me: Yes, I know that one.
Lady: Okay, well there is a road to the side; I think it’s called “Thiers”.
Me: (Thinking to myself: There are a thousand roads to the side. You ‘think’ that’s what it’s called?) Okay, yes, “Thiers”.
Lady: Yes, I think that is it. Turn on that road; it is near the end of the street. There are a few streets that you have to follow after. I don’t know the names of them.
Me : (Are you kidding me? Why don’t you just say you don’t know how to get to the store?) Okay, in which direction?
Lady: You will find it. It’s in the middle. Just follow the tiny streets. It’s in that direction.
Me: (The "tiny streets"?! Lady… there are a hundred tiny streets. Some of them aren’t even on the map! In "the middle"? The middle of what?! There are three main "middle" sections in the downtown area.) Okay I’ll try. Thank you for your help, (...which was utterly useless, by the way).

As it turns out, I didn’t use her directions at all. I used a real map. I like to think I’m a brilliant map-reader. Give me a map and I’ll get you where you need to go. Well this was a disaster! At first I didn’t want to pull out the map because I didn’t want to seem like a tourist. Then when it was absolutely necessary, I used it. I’ve never doubted my map-reading skills so much! After double the time it should have taken, I found the store and bought my new silver and red cleats (men’s of course because they don’t sell women’s cleats)! I didn’t find the bike I was looking for, but I’m pumped to start soccer practice on Monday.