Fait comme tu es le panda, et il est le bambou!

This past weekend was our group's excursion to Provence. Provence is a region in the south known for its fields of lavendar and sunflowers (which we did not see because it's freaking November), its olive oil (which we tasted), its ferocious seasonal wind known as Le Mistral (which totally froze our butts off even though it was brilliantly sunny) and for all the songs written about Avignon, its largest city where we stayed the night.

Emily and I ventured to the Gare de Lyon by bus at early o'clock on Saturday morning and wandered around for awhile until we found some other people. We were a little bit freaked out because, even though we eventually found our director, Madame Stevens was nowhere in sight. And everyone knows that shit does not get done if Madame Stevens isn't around. But she showed up eventually and we boarded the train (well, everyone except Emerson who was late and missed it), and had a nice nearly-three-hour-long ride to sunny Avignon. When we got there we found our gigantic bus (as per usual) and headed to Saint-Remy-de-Provence, a tiny little village where we were set loose to find lunch on our own. Unfortunately, Hamilton has this obsession with giving us money, bringing us to really pretty places, telling us to go find food, and then secretly laughing at us when we realize that NOTHING IS OPEN. Our grammar teacher explained to us today that there are two different lifestyles in France--that of Paris, and that of the Provinces. Basically, Paris is the only place where you can eat lunch in a restaurant/cafe/boulangerie/whatever because everywhere else, everyone closes their business and goes home to eat. Which is all well and good, but you'd think that the program would know this by now. Personally I think they just enjoy watching us suffer.

We eventually found a really tiny pizzaria in a really tiny alley way. This was perfect since we were all in the mood for pizza. But, yet again, the provinces hit us with a curve ball--no pizza at lunch, only dinner! Wha...? I don't even know what their reasoning behind that was, but we at last ordered some pasta, wolfed it, and hurried back to the bus with a few minutes to spare (which we used to buy ice cream).

From there we went to Glanum, which is a site full of roman ruins. We saw the low stone walls that used to be houses, a scary well, something that might have been a pool, lots of things we weren't allowed to climb on, and a bunch of other things which I might have been able to identify had I actually been listening to what Laurent (our art history man who always comes with us everywhere) was saying instead of taking stupid pictures and jumping around like a fool. We also saw some neat roman monuments which were really pretty mostly because of the light, which is apparently better in Provence than anywhere else. Which is why all the most famous painters from the end of the 19th century went there to work. Or so says Laurent. I think.

After Glanum we headed over to an olive oil mill where there was a cute puppy, lots of soap and other trinkets, and probably more olives than I could count if I tried (or if I knew how to count past 20). We got to see all the machines, minus the squisher (possibly because it was too intense for our tiny minds to handle), and we got to taste the (semi) finished product. It tasted good but kind of burned in my throat, which was weird. I'm pretty sure that it hasn't been entirely purified yet, because we tasted some again in the shop (from a bottle) and it was different. It was good, but not particularly amazing.

After everyone and their mother bought olive oil, olive soap, olive tapenade, things made from olive wood etc., we got on the bus and drove to our hotel in Avignon. It was the weirdest hotel I have ever seen in my life, and if I ever find a twistier, turnier, more confusing and roundabout one, I will probably die of shock. It had a million staircases and a million little doors to go through which only ended up leading to more little doors and more turny staircases and after that, more doors, more little hallways that served no purpose, and then maybe if you were lucky you could find your room. Maybe.

Dinner at a restaurant not far from the hotel was pretty tasty. We had a huge long table all decked out in red, and there was something on the wall behind Leah, Kristin and myself that was either a rotisserie oven, a piece of modern art, or a torture device...or all three. Our entree was artichoke hearts in some kind of creamy, herby sauce (but I think they had first been cooked in some kind of vinagrette), then we had duck and rice, and afterwards we each got an assortment of three different little desserts. People who had had birthdays since our last excursion got theirs with a sparkler in their creme brulee, and we all sang for them (while the servers laughed at us because some of us kind of didn't know the words).

After we had finished eating we noticed some people at another table. We noticed them because they were all wearing cowboy hats, and also because they suddenly got up and started square dancing to the techno dance remix of Cotton-Eyed Joe, and similar tunes. It was absolutely hilarious in ways that I cannot even describe. You had to be there, in France in a restaurant that used to be an old factory with square-dancing cowboys eating creme brulee.

On Sunday (after something like 5 1/2 hours of sleep), we had breakfast at the hotel and walked over to the Palais des Papes, the residence of the popes which was built in Avingon back in the day (and by that I mean that I wasn't listening when Laurent told us what year it was). But basically it's a gigantic stone structure with almost no furnishings inside, but a lot of stone arches and statues of pope-like persons.

After the palais (for which we only had about a half an hour) we went to the tiny and adorable village of Uzes which was kind of disgustingly beautiful. The only downside was that, yet again, nothing was open. Only double-nothing because it was Sunday, and even Paris shuts down on Sundays. We managed to find a boulangerie, although it wasn't that great and also didn't let us use the bathroom even though we bought their food, those meanies. We had a lot of time to just wander around through the cobblestoney streets, see the pretty little church, oggle bonbons and take stupid photos and sing The Sound of Music. Because we are mature adults, obviously.

After lunch we headed to le Pont de Gard, a HUGE roman aquiduct that traverses the Rhone river. It's a series of gigantic arches with another series of gigantic arches on top of the first level, and then smaller ones accross the top, all made out of enormous blocks of stone. Apparently in the 50's there was a horrible raging flood on the Rhone which totally destroyed every modern bridge, but the Pont de Gard was completely fine afterwards. It was amazing.

Then we took the train home to Paris, where my theatre class and Prof. Mwantuali booked it through the metro from Gare de Lyon to Palais Royal and to la Comedie Francaise to see Le Mariage de Figaro. I'm upset that we had to sit down for a three hour play after a nearly three hour train ride and an exhausting weekend, and that I was a fidgety mess and could only see half of the stage (because la Comedie is one of those theatres that people went to so they could look at other people instead of the actual play), but despite all that the play was actually amazing. I thought the casting was perfect and I really loved it, I just wish we had all been more in the mood for it.

But it was a good weekend. And yesterday I basically did nothing but homework and a lot of useless lying around, and now I'm trying to plan a trip to the Christmas Market in Strasbourg because I FREAKING CANNOT WAIT FOR CHRISTMAS. I am so excited. So excited that I sang Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer for Valerie and now I think she might hate me, BUT I DON'T CARE.

PS - I ate a panini today which was supposed to be saucisse et griere (sausage and cheese), and which ended up literally being cheese with a hot dog (like really a hot dog, not actually kidding) grilled in a baguette. Weird.