The Week of Chaos

Hello, Canada! I am at last back in Toulouse, and what a crazy week it’s been! There are lots of pictures to see, some of which are already in the gallery, and several adventures to tell. We shall start last Thursday with the ascent to Cordes sur Ciel!

The church in Cordes sur Ciel.

Cordes sur Ciel – roughly translated to Cordes in the sky – is a bastide town (that is, a medieval town build for defence and generally situated on a ridge or a rather large hill) that was built on a small mountain. After the Cathar crusades, ending in 1218, the Comte de Toulouse, who was at that point in control of the entire Languedoc region, made the decision to have Cordes built – partly as a defence against the King of France, who was not, at that point, in control of this area, but largely to help bring economic power back to the region. Cordes was thus originally a merchant town, and that was where it got most of its wealth.

We started our day by parking the car in the lower – more modern – portion of the town and walking up the streets to the centre of the medieval city. It is important to note that this is not a leisurely undertaking; I have dubbed Cordes the city of “Gravity, My Master, Why Must You Be So Cruel?” and rightly so. Not only is the entire city centre paved with rather uneven cobblestones, but it is built on the top of a mountain. Granted, it is not a very high mountain, but it is a mountain nonetheless, and the sort of place you would be ill-advised to drive in, though we did see a few people attempting it. About ninety-five percent of the streets are on an incline, some of them quite steep, and the city as a whole involves a great deal of climbing up and down.

The view off the ramparts down into the surrounding valley.

Most of the day was spent wandering around the medieval city, poking our heads into various shops and occasionally reading from a guidebook with some historical and cultural information on the city. It is important to note that Cordes, while once a major city in the Languedoc region’s trade, now relies almost exclusively on tourism. It also seems to be a popular spot for artists and artisans; the city, overall, has a much more small-town and genuine feel than the obvious tourist lure of Carcassone, and is well worth a visit.

In the evening, after a very nice dinner in one of the town’s two flat plazas, we gathered in front of the church for a torchlit tour of Cordes sur Ciel, to learn more of the town’s history and to watch dramatically costumed figures yell about heretics, plague, lepers, prostitution, and attacking French armies. The tour was finished with a display of fire dancing and a show from some fire breathers, and then we went home, to arrive, very late and very tired, at the house to collapse in our borrowed beds.

On Friday, we were much too tired to go anywhere or do anything; on Saturday, however, we had some errands to do. Packing had to be accomplished for our forthcoming excursion to Barcelona, and then we went downtown to the library. I am now in possession of not just an International Student Card and a Pastel (the Tisseo Toulouse metro cards) but a library card as well, and have already used it to check out the last three Harry Potter books (mercifully, in English). Also while downtown, my siblings and I went to do some shopping; I picked up an excellent shirt, and a very awesome and even more cheap pair of Converse from a second-hand shop. Then we went back home and got a good rest – and the next morning, we were on the road by 10:30, headed for Barcelona.

The Spanish flag, on the left, is accompanied by the Catalonian flag in Barcelona.

So, what to say about Barcelona? Those who were in direct contact with me while I was there know that I initially found the city terrifying. It’s huge. With almost five million residents, the city is incredibly crowded. Add to that the fact that many of the streets I saw initially were large, several lane roads that clearly welcomed cars – and I a perpetual pedestrian – and is it any wonder I was terrified? And on top of that, not only was I the only member of my family who spoke even a little Spanish, and not only was that Spanish horribly out of practice, but Spanish isn’t even the mother tongue of the region. Yes, geographically speaking, Barcelona is in Spain, but the important thing to understand is that culturally, this is Catalonia. The main language is Catalan, and the people are fiercely proud of their heritage. They have a history of being oppressed by the Spanish people, and I found myself more than a little out of my element. Luckily for me, I suppose, Barcelona is very much a tourist city, and most people spoke a little English; if they didn’t, they were at least bilingual and spoke Spanish, so we could cobble together a limited understanding. I remember vividly an attempted conversation with a jewellery store employee where we moved through Spanish, English, and French before finally coming to a satisfactory conclusion and three euros changing hands. Still, I must admit that the city grew on me, despite being noisy and sometimes smelling of pee. I may never go back, but I am looking forward to visiting more of Spain.

On our bike tour, we stop in front of Barcelona's Arc de Triomphe.

We started our stay in Barcelona with a bike tour. It was held in English, and given by the rather wonderfully named Fat Tire Bike Tours company. Our guide was a hilarious British guy in his early twenties named Buster. He took us biking all over the city, showed us many gorgeous buildings, including the Palau de Musica and Gaudi’s last and greatest work, the Sagrada Familia. We also had an excellent snack and drink at a little beachside bar and cafe before returning to the city proper.

The next day, we headed out in the afternoon to take the cable car up Montjuïc to see the old castle on the top. It wasn’t all that impressive, and we didn’t go inside, because it’s been turned into a military museum, but the view was spectacular and the cable car was great fun.

When we returned home, we took a brief break, then my sister and I went out to explore the medieval city. We only made it a few blocks around our apartment, but there was loads to look at and we did a bit of shopping; I bought some buttons and some jewellery, and she finally found a place to buy an old key like she’s been looking for to put on a necklace. While we were out, we realized the great truth to Spain’s new reputation for widespread acceptance of homosexuality; we saw at least three signs for different gay and lesbian events, openly gay couples in the streets, and some gay-themed buttons (which, yes, I will admit, I bought). It was an interesting contrast to France, where being gay seems to be the sort of thing that most people just don’t talk about, and where some people will take it as a reason to target you.

The next day, we went out again, attempting to visit the Picasso museum, but, upon discovering a line-up that stretched down a full block, we decided to give it up and just went wandering around the city, exploring stores, looking at fountains, and heading down La Rambla to look at street performers. Then we headed out to the beach, where we spent a very enjoyable day swimming in the Mediterranean (much better than the last attempt, I can certainly say), where I did not get a sunburn, and from where we proceeded to an excellent seafood restaurant just off the beach which served very good paella and which was probably a bit too classy for us.

Yesterday, we got up, packed up all of our stuff, and headed out to retrieve our poor abandoned car. Then we piled in and came home, after a very long and somewhat irritating four-hour trip. Today is not set to be particularly eventful, but tomorrow we officially move into our new apartment, and as of then I will likely have zero internet access for a couple of weeks. There may be more chaos in there as well, if we decide to rent a car for the day and go out somewhere; or I might just spend those weeks exploring Toulouse on my own and working on my own projects. I don’t know. I’m having a bit of trouble seeing beyond tomorrow, to be honest. It feels like it’s been a lot more than three weeks.

Wish me luck, and I’ll be in touch when I get my internet back! I miss you all dearly, but soon I will be set up in my own room, and from then things should start going more quickly. Until then, my loves!

Faerie Caves

An enormous column in the Cabrespine cave.

The other day we went to visit the caves at Cabrespine and Limousis – gorgeous, natural cave formations up in the mountains, tucked into these little valleys accessible only by steep and winding roads. It was incredible. The view is amazing, for one thing. Then you step into these caves and it’s like entering another world – a world of rock and water and crystal, stone that looks like it was poured into place, where the temperature is 14 degrees, year-round, no matter what the weather outside is like, and with endless strange, impossible shapes all around you.

The Cabrespine entrance is artificially constructed, and opens onto an enormous chamber, about 250 feet deep and god only knows how high. It was discovered by some young cave explorers, who followed some chambers they discovered behind a wall in another cave and eventually came out at the very bottom of Cabrespine. It’s huge, echoing and vast, with lots of little nooks and crannies and some amazing columns and stalagmites. In addition to the short tour we took, they also do spelunking trips, which are several hours long, into the depths of the cave.

A chamber that used to be full of water at Limousis.

As incredible as Cabrespine was, though, I preferred the caves at Limousis. Instead of one giant open cavern, you walk through a natural entrance into a series of connected chambers – one of the longest chains in Europe. The Limousis caves are also famous for the high concentration of aragonite crystals, which is apparently quite rare in the natural world. And I can tell you, it’s beautiful. Walking through those chambers was like walking through an old palace, one built by nature for some fantastical, magical race.

Check the gallery for some more amazing pictures from Cabrespine and Limousis, including some shots of the gorgeous aragonite crystals!

Cité de Carcassonne

The Basilique Saint-Nazaire, as seen from the ramparts

Today we went to visit the Cité de Carcassonne, a walled medieval citadel town in the middle of the Carcassonne city proper. There’s just no easy way to describe what it was like. Yes, as the “best preserved medieval citadel in Europe,” it’s very obviously geared towards tourists, but there’s something more to it. It’s like you can almost feel the old stones surrounding you – not pressing, not even supporting, but comforting, stable and eternal, as if they know they’re never going to change.

It’s beautiful.

I could never live in a place like this, overrun by tourists every day, and with the prices so high in every shop… but there’s something so achingly touching about it. It makes me wish I could have seen it in at the height of its time, or when the stones were first being laid, or when construction on the Basilique – easily the most beautiful church I have ever been in – was finally finished.

This whole country makes me restless. Inspiration makes me restless.

Sweet Night Air

I have discovered a wonderful place to think: the windowsill of my borrowed bedroom. There is no screen, since there are very few biting bugs, and the window itself and the roof outside are constructed in such a way that I can easily lift myself up to sit curled up on it, looking out over the front yard; the view is quite nice and it’s so peaceful out here, especially after dark has fallen. And I have come to realize that I want to have more experiences like this.

I want to sit on rooftops and look at the stars. I want to run until I can’t run anymore and collapse in a field. I want to let songs rip their way out of my throat and fill the empty air, loud and beautiful. I want to wander naked at night. I want to smell the wind at night and let it carry me away. I want to talk with a stranger in the park for hours. I want to do a lot of things – experience life so vividly, to release this restlessness that always seems to be hovering beneath my skin. Sometimes the only thing I can do for it is run until I can’t go any farther and scream into the sky. I realize, I like feeling restless, sometimes; it’s like a sweet, beautiful ache that never quite goes away. And I realize why I feel the need to write.

Writing is another cure for the restlessness. It’s an endless urge that never really fades. I feel the need to validate my existence, to share my experiences, my feelings. Somehow, nothing is quite real until it has been put into words. I feel, sometimes, that in trying to slake my restlessness, that I have inadvertently stumbled across some nameless deeper meaning to life, and I am helpless to do anything until I have tried to let others grasp it as well. I do not write, as I have always supposed, out of a desire not to be forgotten – but out of a desire not to be alone.

Still in Transit, but a Bit Less Transit!

After a lovely (read: humid, sticky, and unsatisfying) visit to a Mediterranean beach today – more on that later – we made the move from the hotel, finally! Not to our beautiful downtown apartment, but to an equally beautiful house way out in the suburbs, owned by some friends, which we will be staying in for the next two and a half weeks while they are in England. There are three children in their family, and therefore three bedrooms; I am in the only upstairs room, which belongs to their middle daughter, Sophie.

All in all, it could certainly be worse. Yes, her room is papered with fashion and celebrity photos, and yes, she does have High School Musical on her video shelf, and yes, I could do without the Kelly Clarkson obsession and the horse show ribbons, but there are a couple of shelves of excellent books and a movie I really like in with the videos, the view is gorgeous, one of the celebrity pictures is Marilyn Monroe, and, best of all, I have my own room. I love my siblings, really, but sharing a hotel room with both of them for five nights was a bit much.

So, the Mediterranean – first, it’s warm. Not bathwater warm, but warmer than my experience with the Canadian Atlantic and Pacific Oceans let me to expect. The beach was really nice, too – long, wide, flat, and covered in fine sand – and I found a nice shell, but we really could have picked a better day. It was quite warm, but windy, and wind over the ocean tends to be chilly. It was also very humid and sticky, which meant, combined with the wind, that the powdery sand got everywhere.

I did finish my book, however, which is excellent. The Gargoyle, by Andrew Davidson. Read it.

The Crèperie

Bon appetit!

If you’re ever in Toulouse, take the time to visit Place de Saint Georges. There you will find the Crèperie, a wonderful little restaurant with patios spread across two street corners. If you’re really lucky, you’ll get Michael (“Mi-kay-el”) as your waiter. We’ve been there twice and had him waiting our table both times. He’s such a character, and he never stops joking. He also speaks decent English, which is great for those who don’t have the best French.

The crèpes are wonderful, too. They also do meal salads – I recommend the salade Sacre Coeur, which has a delicious dressing and tops a conventional salad with little cubes of fried potato and lardon, which is like bacon only thicker and less crispy. And then there’s desert…

Possibly my favourite thing about being served by Michael is that he has the same attitude as my character Luca. It makes me incredibly happy and sometimes it’s hard not to giggle. When I took a photo of him, I told him he reminded me of a friend – which is true, sort of, but in actuality it’s much more awesome than that.

Bienvenue à Toulouse!

Hello, Canada! I am now in Toulouse! It is full of awesome and I have lots to talk about. Just a warning, though, my internet usage may be spotty for the next little bit since the hotel’s internet connection fails half the time.

Some things about flying:

Entry to an airport with ten pieces of luggage, five carry-on suitcases, and five personal carry-ons is an exercise of precisely organized chaos.

I always see a lot of pretty or interesting people when I’m travelling and it frustrates me to no end that I can’t just stand around and take pictures of them. African ladies in awesome clothes especially.

Flying is always more fun on no sleep! I got up at 9:30 EST, got on a 5:30 flight, arrived at 8:20 local time, and went to bed at 10:00 that night. That’s 4:00 PM in my home time zone – meaning that I was up for about thirty hours, with only an hour of napping in the afternoon.

Exhibit A!

The French are awesome. I have come to this highly scientific conclusion based solely on the fact that their airplane food doesn’t suck. Also: watching Slumdog Millionaire on the airplane with my mother – most epic thing ever.

France – at least the bit of it that we flew over – is covered in fields. Fields everywhere! It’s insane. Also: Paris? Ridiculously large.

Some things about Toulouse:

I love this city! Like, what the heck, it’s awesome! Beautiful and full of the coolest architecture I’ve ever seen. It’s kind of gritty, but, me being me, that just makes me love it more.

So many awesome shops! We found a sweet vintage store, a thrift shop with a wall of Converse, two amazing goth stores – one of them very loli-goth, it was so cute – an awesome market, a manga store… The awesomeness is slightly offset by everything being more expensive here, but oh my god. So cool! New project: get a map of the city centre and start noting the cool shops.

Restaurants are brilliant, too. All so unique, full of delicious food, and, bonus – all the prices are tax and tip included. Also: patios!

The French are strange and eat dinner at like 8:00. This means that they basically go to bed right after dinner. They take like two hours at dinner, though, so that’s okay.

A lot of things are weird, really. The plumbing is odd. The electricity is weird. Everything is, really. Not unusable, but still. Very weird. Like that bathroom that was mixed-sex, but had urinals right out in the open, and the guy from the restaurant who came in while Shona and I were there and just started peeing.

Streets are narrow. Sidewalks are narrower. Some of them have cobblestones – most of those the pedestrian-only streets – and there are fountains and churches everywhere. Half the buildings are made of this pink stone that is apparently really common around here – Toulouse is la Ville Rose. Also, lots of parks and huge old trees.

The Rivière Garonne cuts through the city. There are also canals. It’s really pretty, but I wouldn’t want to swim in it. Lots of bridges, too – my favourite is the Pont Neuf, which is the last of the old stone bridges in the city – a name I find delightfully ironic, as all the others are newer than it.

French people smoke a lot! Will have to adjust to this. There don’t seem to be any laws about smoking in public places – or drinking in public, either. Apparently people also pee on the streets sometimes, since public toilets cost money.

Lots of universities means lots of students, which means lots of awesome things happening in the parks – like that group who had instruments out and were playing French reggae. Bob Marley’s face was everywhere at the market we went to.

French boys: apparently not shy about flirting. Ever. People keep looking and smiling at me, someone blew my mother and I a kiss, and someone else has already asked my sister for her number. The best part? Even if she wanted to, we don’t have a number to give out.

Lots of hot girls and pretty boys. If I’m not careful, they’re going to start spawning into characters. Also, people here are very flamboyant in their dress – lots of strange outfits. I don’t feel out of place. Not quite sure how to feel about this.

French people will buy sandwiches, panini, or flatbread for lunch and just wander over to the nearest park to eat it. It’s awesome.

Toulouse is a crowded city. Lots of cars, lots of crowds, lots of people – and all of them are shopping.

SEE WHAT I MEAN.

Lots of graffiti. I think it’s something of a local art form. Walls are covered – sometimes with layers and layers of tags, sometimes with gorgeous murals. We saw one commemorating Michael Jackson.

There are lots of cool cars here. Cars that don’t exist in Canada. Some of them are covered in graffiti.

Can’t wait until we move into our apartment downtown. Must brush up on my French.

More updates will follow as we continue our adventures! Hopefully my internet will remain stable. Hope everyone is having a good time in Canada. À bientot!

Goodbye

These last days have just been one big blur… home to Kingston, cleaning, packing, a visit from the Shulists, Canada Day at Grass Creek park, Meaghan and Nami… They stayed over, we kept cleaning, time downtown on Thursday, home, more cleaning, more packing, then gone again, the night at Nami’s, home, the last part of packing, then goodbye. There’s a stranger living in my house and I’m in Ottawa, and I can’t be around my family or I start to cry. I cry anyway.

The moments with Nami stand out the most… lying on the bed and talking… watching a movie on the armchair… watching the fireworks… our last night together. Saying goodbye felt like I was cutting away my roots. If she’d asked me to stay, I wouldn’t have been able to say no. Lucky for me, she’s not selfish – although it’s hard to see the good side of it now. I miss her.

As of 4:30 this afternoon, I’m officially homeless, in transit, and leaving behind everything I know.

The Last Days

The family at the beach.

My last three days in Connecticut weren’t quite as exciting as the first couple. On Sunday, we went to the beach. It was rather pleasant – I love ocean beaches, and I collected a few nice shells. We also had an awesome lunch from the deli in the little park village just down the shore. Overall, though, it was pretty uneventful, save for both my mother and myself getting massive sunburns. I’m still in a good deal of pain, even two full days later.

On Sunday evening, the adults went out to dinner; this left me, my brother, and my sister to babysit four rambunctious toddlers and small children. We managed okay, though, and we got paid in pizza, which was excellent.

On Monday, we didn’t get up to much of anything; I didn’t want to move, due to being crispy all over, so I drew instead, prompting endless questions from the kids, as long as their attention span could keep them hovering over my shoulder – about five minutes at a time over a period of several hours. My aunt and uncle gave me a beautiful journal and some inking pens that evening, as a graduation gift.

The next morning (that being today), we got up rather early, as my aunt and uncle’s family was leaving early in the morning to catch a flight out of state to visit some of their relatives. I took some pictures of a bird in the backyard, and then we drove home. I spent a while writing on my laptop in the backseat, but then my battery died and I was left to listen to Franz Ferdinand on loop again.

Oh, the joys of monotonous travel…

Going to the Fair

The classic fairground centrepiece.

This evening we went to the church fair just down the road from my aunt and uncle’s place. It was held in the building’s parking lot, with your classic portable small-fair rides and carnival stands. It wasn’t big, but the kids were sure excited; I don’t know that they’ve ever been to a fair like this before.

It was an interesting experience for me, who has been to many similar carnivals in Canada. There was something different about this one; a distinctly American flavour, from the candy stand lady with the Southern drawl who called me honey to the colours of the American flag adorning everything. And there really were American flags everywhere – even splashed across the wristbands we bought to guarantee us entrance to every ride. You wouldn’t see anything like this in Canada, except maybe on Canada day; even then, it wouldn’t be held in a church parking lot with rented carnies.

The carnies, too, were a wonderfully mixed group: a portly gentleman who smiled when I thanked him, a guy with a shaved head and what looked like prison tattoos on his face, an African-American man with the Rastafari colours embroidered on the pockets of his capris. This isn’t something you’d see just anywhere; typically, they wouldn’t be in a church parking lot, either. As I was walking home, I saw that the people in the house across from my aunt and uncle’s had set up a pavilion to host a party in their backyard. This is the real East Coast American heartland, and I can’t imagine a better place for my cousins to grow up.