Rainy Days

Gabriel lost his first tooth yesterday! The one next to it is wiggly, too.

It's been a rainy week, so we've been spending a lot of times indoors. Can you tell?

But we made a blanket forth this morning after bath time and read books to make the most of the "crying sky." 

“Different” things I’ve noticed about French culture

This is a quick list I made of little differences I've noticed and/or had to get used to so far since moving to Paris:

• Everyone dresses like they’re going to a job interview. For Coco Chanel. All the time.

•  Europeans drink a TON of Coca Cola. They call it “Coca.” It’s seen as so American, but they drink way more than people in the U.S. do.

•  Also, France apparently never got the memo that smoking cigarettes gives you cancer, because everyone smokes. Everywhere.

•    Cheese is its own course with every meal, even in normal households. Not even just in restaurants. They eat dinner with wine and then say, “Would you like some cheese?” and they bring out a plate of wonderful, stinky French cheeses and you cut it and say merci and whatnot. Then there may be dessert after, but sometimes cheese is dessert.

• They’re wine snobs, but only because everyone really knows wine.

•  They’re skinnier than Americans on average.

•   But they aren’t necessarily healthier. They eat and drink so much sugar and other processed food and smoke cigarettes, like I said, but everything is in smaller portions and they value the quality of their food very much.

• They’re always talking about food, especially when they’re eating it.

• They really love their black-and-white striped shirts.

• The cheese is its own brie. Get it? Like, it's its own breed, but it's its own brie. APPRECIATE MY PUN. The cheese we eat in the United States isn’t even the same stuff as here. Even the brie.

• The women have immaculate nails but do absolutely nothing with their hair.

• People don't clean up their dog's poop on the sidewalks. 

• The men are bolder here.

• Everything closes by 7:30 p.m. if it’s not a bar or restaurant.

• They don’t eat dinner until 8, 9, or 10 p.m.

• They prefer lunch to be the heaviest meal of the day, rather than dinner.

• You’ll never hear someone say, “Mhm,” in the pleasant way we do in English. It’s rude. You always say, “De Rien."

• Some people do live up to the stereotype that French people are snobs who don’t like Americans, but it’s not nearly as large a percentage as we think back home.

•  It is true, however, that making an attempt to speak their language gains a little respect, even if it’s just “Bonjour” or “S’il vous plait.

•  There’s no such thing as food to-go or taking your left-overs home. You eat it or you don't.

• Coffees to-go are rare.

• You can’t find coffee that’s not espresso.

• Tiny! Tiny cups, tiny coffees, tiny streets, tiny showers, tiny men, tiny apartments, tiny portions, tiny lips.

•  Personal bubbles get popped on the daily because everyone kisses each other on the cheeks, even when they first meet. I knew this before, obviously, but I never had to do it all the time, and it’s honestly taking me a long time to get used to. I didn’t think I had a bubble, but having a stranger get up in my face before I’ve even seen what color their eyes are is uncomfortable for me still.

• They really like crappy American pop music in public places.

• Did I mention the cheese?

Met my host family. Also - Paris in the rain.

I lugged the smaller of my suitcases across Paris on the crowded metro. You have to take two lines from Rue De Birague to Rue De Boulainvilliers, so by the time I arrived at my host family’s apartment at 11 a.m., I was already wiped. That didn’t keep me from noticing how cute calmness of the 16^th arrondissement. Few people walked past me as I wheeled my suitcase down the street; I saw more construction workers and garbage men than pedestrians.

I rang the doorbell at the address Laetitia had told me, and the door opened. Standing there was Gael, my host father, and my two adorable little charges. (Laetitia was at work and Gael was on holiday). They gave me a kiss when I walked through the door and Josy immediately wanted to show me her room and to play. Gabi went to the television and shyly curled into a ball when I asked him questions, but over the next few days, after many tickle fights, bouncy ball games, and Uno matches, I’d venture so far as to say he’s already my little buddy.

 The first day meeting my host family was wonderfully exhausting for many reasons. For one, I wanted to make a good impression, of course, and exerting that much energy toward trying to be perfect is exhausting. (Gael and Laetitia graciously made me feel comfortable enough through many gestures of kindness to where I could drop that tiring endeavor).  But it was also physically and mentally exhausting because we packed so much into the first day, since there’s so much to know.

First, we went for a walk to Monoprix, the big grocery store here. Gabi pushed the stroller with Josy in it while Gael and I dropped some things into the grocery basket – coffee, cereal, hand soap, cleaning supplies. While Gael paid for the items, I took the kids out of the store into the mall to wait for him where they wouldn’t be so crowded – my first time being alone with the kids – and I made the grave mistake of unbuckling a struggling Josy from her stroller. She wasted no time; she booked it to the office supply store across the mall courtyard. I had been alone with them for hardly a minute before I was chasing Josy through the store while holding Gabi’s hand as he laughed hysterically. Of course, Josy had no apparent goal in mind, and randomly stopped in the post-it note section before I’d caught up to her. I didn’t let her leave my sight, but my heart was beating like a war drum when I scooped her up and carried her back to the stroller, making sure to buckle the straps, just as Gael came out of Monoprix carrying the reusable grocery bags lumpy with all my necessities.

Back at the flat, the four of us jumped into Gael’s car for another tour. This time I could relax, since Josy and Gabi were both securely fastened in their car seats. The 16^th, the arrondissement where my apartment is, as well as theirs, just borders the 7^th, where the Eiffel Tower and many other famous sites are. We drove past Hotel des Invalides, Trocadero, the American Embassy, and, of course, the Eiffel Tower and Parc du Champ de Mars, the huge lawn in front of the Tower where people, mostly tourists, sit on blankets amidst a sea of cigarette butts and make out because they’re in the City of Love.

Gael also showed me my apartment that Laetitia picked out for me, a ten minute walk from their house. It’s nothing short of perfect. It’s a tiny studio apartment, but it’s pretty big for a studio apartment in Paris, especially in this area. I wouldn’t have it any other way, anyway. I love that it’s tiny. I have a couch-bed, a table, a kitchen that is barely wider than my hips, a big closet, wood floors, and windows that open inward and look out onto the quiet street. There’s a white ladder that leads to a loft where my mattress is, and above that is a moon roof. I can climb out of it and sit on the roof of my building and look at the Eiffel Tower whenever I want; I just have to remember to close the moon roof at night when it rains … learned that the hard way. I even have a washer! It only took me a half hour to figure out how to use it. And the building itself is so French. You walk through a heavy, iron-grated door first, but when you’re leaving you have to press the button that says “Port” (“door”) for the door to open. When you’re walking in, though, you then have to go through another door, this one a glass French door, and press an old-fashioned button with the word “Lumiere” (“light) written above it so that you can see where you’re going before ascending four flights of winding, carpeted stairs or taking the one-person glass elevator.

I’ll post photos or a video when I’ve had time to decorate a little.

The last week has been extremely busy; I’ve been with the kids every day since I left Maia and Matthieu’s. Saturday the whole family and I took a train to Futuroscope, a theme park outside of Paris. You know those high-tech, 3D games and films where you’re securely fastened to roller coaster seats that move all over the place and you’re splashed with water and you feel like you’re inside the game? That’s what the theme of this park is. I’m not sure what the word is for that, but I’m just going to say it was wicked fun, especially this one ride where you feel like you’re flying over a beautiful landscape for a few minutes. I got butterflies as I descended and landed gracefully in a field of dandelions. It was like lucid dreaming. I definitely recommend going if you ever have the chance.

We came home Sunday night, and I watch the kids every day from 8:30 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. until Friday; school starts next week, so I won’t be working all day after that, but my classes start soon, too, but I’ll have more time to explore and go out after this week.

Last night I left my apartment at 8:45 p.m. for a walk; I walked for fifteen minutes before crossing Pont d’lena and standing directly underneath the Eiffel Tower as it sparkled, letting me know it was 9 p.m. I was surrounded by throngs of tourists and lovers and vendors trying to sell me colored mini Eiffel Towers and cheap wine, but somehow all that made the moment even more magical. I sat on the lawn for an hour soaking in the fact, for the hundredth time, that I’m here.

I’m sitting on my couch drinking wine that Gael picked out for me jokingly; apparently Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt have a house in France and make wine, so I’m currently sipping a Brangelina rosé called “Pink Floyd” … The confusion of the situation dissipated after the first glass. I was listening to Ella Fitzgerald and a song about Paris came on, and I wasn’t even surprised. Then it started raining, so I turned off the music so I could listen to it fall on my tiny balcony.

I now understand why so many romantic poets obsess about Paris in the rain. 

First Adventures in Paris

Coming “home” to Maia and Matthieu’s apartment in Paris was amazing after two weeks on the road. It’s weird that lying by the water, eating fresh seafood and wandering aimlessly around beautiful European cities all day for 14 days is exhausting. 

We took a train from Montpellier in the South of France all the way up to Paris, then took a bus to their street, Rue De Birague. There’s a cute, quintessentially French park right by their apartment with a fountain and old men in trench coats feeding pigeons, and Victor Hugo lived right around the corner.  

Carrying all of our luggage up six flights of narrow, winding stairs was no fun, but I forgot all about that when I entered their apartment. It’s beautiful. Black stairs wind up through their front door past a bookshelf filled with hundreds of books; at the top marble steps lead up to an adorable bathroom with a footed tub. The room I’m sleeping in, which is usually Matthieu’s music room where he keeps his five guitars, faces out over roofs and balconies, and when I swing open the windows I can hear church bells every hour. Black and white framed photographs of India hang on the walls all through the apartment, taken by Maia’s mom’s friend in India. In the living room, Matt’s hundreds of cd’s, mostly blues, are lined along a wall. Three small glass balls hang from string over the kitchen table, and when the sun shines through the window they cast rainbows through the room. Also, you can see the Eiffel Tower in the distance from their kitchen window.

(View from the bedroom window in M&M's apartment)

After we settled in a bit and had showers, Maia’s mom, Diane, picked us up in her car and drove us to her apartment. Maia acted as my tour guide from the passenger seat, pointing out the River Seine, Notre Dame, the most expensive restaurant in Paris, the city’s most famous ice cream with a snaking line of tourists in front of it … I teared up – I couldn’t believe I was actually here. Finally. Maia teared up, too. She feels all my emotions since we’ve been basically glued together for weeks.

 Diane’s apartment is even more spectacular than M&M’s. She has a hammock in her living room. We had tea and sandwiches, tarot readings and did some fun magazine personality quizzes.

My first whole day in Paris was a Sunday; Maia woke me up with coffee and croissants, and we went straight to the open market by her house. The weather has been like Fall the last week, so I’m in heaven. Everyone was wearing pants and long-sleeved shirts and scarves, and some people were even wearing jackets. There was a light breeze, and it’s been a little overcast, but not nearly like the Mistral in the South.

The market is like a farmer’s market on steroids. I couldn’t see where it ended from where we entered the square of white tents set up in perfect rows. People, mostly men, yelled out what they were selling -fruits, vegetables, fish, beef, clams, jackets, jewelry, shoes, exotic sculptures, soap, herbs, and paintings. Maia bought mangos, peaches, onions, garlic, tomatoes, cilantro, and figs (for me!). Last night she made a salad with mangos, figs, cilantro, onions, olive oil and some spices I don’t know. She also made dank guacamole. The last few nights I’ve looked forward to 9 p.m. for two reasons: One is that I’m still not used to the way French people don’t eat dinner until nine or ten, so I’m absolutely famished by the time it’s ready; and two is because Maia makes amazing food. And we always have wine.

(Dinner by Maia May)

After the market, Maia went to visit her Grandma in Rue De Boulanvilliers, which is where my apartment is, so Matthieu spent his last day off being my tour guide around the neighborhood. I can’t even remember all of the major sites I saw in just a few hours, but some of them were St. Michel, Notre Dame, the Louvre, Pont des Arts (the bridge with all the locks on it), and Quai Malaquais, which was probably my favorite. It’s a strip on the opposite side of the river to the Louvre where vendors have stands and stands of really old books, records, posters, and furniture. Down the street a bit I felt like I was in a movie because a band was playing the kind of music you expect to hear in Paris – something like this:

We only got lost once, (Matthieu is a WONDERFUL guide, but neither of us is a human compass like Maia), and on the way back we went through the gay/Jewish neighborhood. In one part, some Jewish guys dressed in orthodox garb were standing in the street asking people who walked by, “Are you Jewish?” I don’t know why, but probably for something having to do with the Israel-Palestine conflict. It’s a lot more prevalent of an issue here since there’s such a large Jewish community in Paris. Anyway, I didn’t know Israeli food was so damn good – Matthieu bought me a falafel at a place where you stand outside and one of two bearded guys comes up to you with a notebook in hand and asks you what you want and gives you a number; when your number is called you hand your receipt to the guy behind the counter and he whips it together without even looking. The falafel was way better than Aleka’s, I’ll tell you that.

(The best tour guide)

Back at the apartment, while Matthieu and I waited for our counterpart to get home (it was the longest the three of us had been separated at all since I arrived, and I think we were suffering from mild separation anxiety), Matthieu introduced me to Jacques Brel, Barbara, Leo Ferre, George Bressens, and other famous musicians, and then he jammed out for a while on the guitar.

I let Maia cut my hair. I haven’t had a professional hair cut in more than five years; I always let my friends do it, but only after being pestered by friends and family about how my ends look like hell, and then I give in after hearing this from four or five people. This time, though, it was my decision, and I didn’t even flinch when I heard the sound of the scissors over the bathroom sink. In fact, it’s the first time in five years I haven’t secretly cried after caving in and letting a friend cut my hair. In the spirit of new beginnings, my hair is three inches shorter.

(Hair cut!)

That night, around nine o’clock, I sat drinking a glass of white wine and reading La Farme des Animaux by George Orwell when Matthieu yelled to me from the kitchen. “Flea! Viens! Come here! Vite!”

I ran to the kitchen where he was pointing out the window. There, the Eiffel Tower was sparkling with a trillion lights and shining a spotlight over the city. “It sparkles every hour,” he said.

I can’t wait until seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle, shopping at open markets, taking the metro, and drinking good wine and cheese feel like a normal part of life for me. 

(By Maia and Matthieu's apartment, Rue De Birague)

Le Sud

Right as we crossed the border to Slovenia from Croatia, it started to rain. It rained when we drove through Slovenia on our way there, too.

A few days before we left Croatia, when we were waiting in line for one of the many boats we’ve taken, two guys came up while I was waiting in the van and said they were washing people’s windows. “I don’t have any money,” I said.

“For you it’s free,” they said, and they cleaned the van’s windshield, and then the guy with the swisher thing drew a heart on the window with soap. The residue stayed for days, but as we drove the Slovenia I watched the rain wash away the soap heart.

We stopped in Bergamo, Italy for a couple hours for lunch. This city is ancient and beautiful, just like everywhere in Italy, but there were far fewer tourists than in Verona and Venice, which was wonderful. A young man played an accordion on a street we walked down to get to a fancy ristorante called “Il Sole.” I had a pizza with gorgonzola. Afterward, I took a walk by myself around the courtyard and watched people stroll around speaking in Italian and eating gelato. I also got to see another Italian cathedral, Cappella Colleoni. Someone was playing an organ, and it felt very eerie standing under such high ceilings with elaborate painting and decorated with hundreds of little sculptures all done by hand and then put up there with a ladder…It’s overwhelming to think about the work that went into these religious places.

The rest of our drive through Italy took us through the Alps. We drove through a 12 km-long tunnel and came out on the other side in France.

We arrived in a small village in the South of France around midnight and were greeted by Maia’s friend Elise and her brother Jerome. It was dark, but I could see cactuses and mint permeated the air, reminding me of mojitos and mint tea. Elise led us down the driveway, through a tall iron gate, and into a stone cave at the bottom of their home. She showed us our beds. Beds! Actual beds!

A block party was happening a couple miles up the street, so after resting for a half hour we all hopped back into the van and headed there. I’m not sure what I expected, but it definitely wasn’t to see hundreds of people from ages 5 to 70 dancing to techno music in front of a stage of lights and smoke and drinking alcohol at an outdoor bar. Everyone was smiling. And stumbling. Mario and Luigi tripped past me, and two men in drag, their fake boobs hanging out of their dresses, smiled at me. Maia ordered a licorice-flavored drink that she only has when she’s down here, and I got a crappy beer. Even though we were exhausted, we danced harder than anyone else. It was past 2 a.m. when Matthieu, Maia, Jerome, Elise and her twin sister Marion and I piled into the van and made our way back to the house. I passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow and didn’t wake up until 12:30 the next day.

Apparently this incredibly adorable, old stone farm house is typical of the South of France. It’s exactly the kind of house I’ve always imagined living in someday. We’re surrounded by hills and lavender. There’s a pool outside. The wind is powerful and refreshing in the South of France and even has its own name – “Le Mistral.” M&M and I ate lunch with Elise and Marion’s parents outside on the patio – silver fish that wasn’t filleted, pureed carrots, mashed potatoes, bread, and, of course, cheese and white wine. For dessert, homemade chocolate mousse and tiramisu and espresso with sugar cubes.

I’m going to spend the rest of today out by the pool reading. Our only plans for today are to clean out the van before we bring it back to the renting company. 

Human Salt Shakers of Hvar

Salt. Salt everywhere.

There’s enough salt on my body to give a white person hypertension with one lick of my face. Powder sticks to the bleached hairs on my arms like dandruff. My hair feels like willow tree bark from swimming in the sea five times a day with no shower. Our clothes and the van’s floor look like we painted weird symbols everywhere with chalk, but it’s just dried up salt.

We took a boat to get to Hvar, an island famous for its fields of lavender. The water sparkles, and if you focus your eye on one point, the reflecting light on the waves looks like static in your peripherals. Matthieu navigated Patrick down one-lane roads built on cliffs. I don’t get car sick easily, but I got woozy sitting in the backseat because the roads are so winding.

I’m convinced the Mediterranean is the most peaceful place on Earth. Even the sea isn’t threatening – you never hear of shark attacks in the Mediterranean or the Adriatic, and it’s gotta be simply impossible to drown here because the water is so salty it’s difficult to dive down. When I want to float on my back I don’t even have to try; I can just rest my hands behind my head and lie there, and when I am on land again I feel incredibly heavy, like my body forgot gravity exists.

Everywhere in Croatia is like a dream, but this island is like a dream within a dream. [Insert Inception joke here]. Driving around is like wandering through a perfume store; every breath you take you smell a new scent. Lavender, fishy sea, fermenting grapes, sulfur, rosemary. The countryside is olive trees, vineyards, and white-washed houses here and there. The houses all have open porches, complete with an old lady in a white muumuu dress looking out over her land like she’s the queen of Croatia. There are probably more bee hive boxes than human houses on this island. An occasional post office marked by a small yellow sign that says “Posta” is the only official building. Every few meters, a stand smaller than a dinner table sells olive oil, wine, honey, and lavender oil, and maybe bottled water and coca cola.

We parked Patrick on the side of a cliff on one of the extremely narrow side roads where some other cars were parked. I could take one step away from the van and slide right down into the sea. On the other side of us was a small vineyard of white grapes.

M&M and I made our way along a rocky path, past a small abandoned church and down to the perfectly clear water. We swam and watched the sunset over the island mountains; when we walked back to Patrick to change for dinner, we were greeted by a huge, silver moon rising just over the grapes.

A quarter mile in the opposite direction of the swimming spot were two small restaurants with outdoor seating overlooking the water. The walk there was lined with long shrubs of rosemary bushes. I ran my hands through them as we passed and picked some to rub in my hair, along with the mint from Maia’s mojito. I smelled like salt and herbs.

We ate a pot of mussels and a fish plate of fresh shrimp, tuna, mussels, white fish, and white wine. The benches were cushioned, and Maia and I lay back drinking wine like Roman goddesses as the full moon reflected over the water onto us and corny elevator music played in the background. Maia and Matthieu started talking like they were in a soap opera, to fit the mood, of course.

“But John…I still love John …” Matthieu said.

“Mathieu, what have you done?” Maia said.

“It is over between us. My heart belongs to another ….” They both looked off wistfully into the distance.

Thank god the restaurant played Louis Armstrong the next night instead of that awful fake jazz. We still had a fun time acting, though, when a depressing, uptight-looking group of couples sat at a table by us and shot us dirty looks every time we laughed, and we decided to pretend Maia and I were both Matthieu’s wives. We doted on him and each wrapped our arms around his waist, and he pulled us in close to his chest, which our neighbors didn’t like one bit. It was hilarious.

Also, the young waiter was high as a kite, (we knew because his eyes were squinty and red and he kept getting confused at the silliest things, like when Maia moved Matt’s glass to fill it and he thought we needed another one even though we had three …), so we messed with him, too. He brought out the dishes one by one, and he would say, “Fish plate?” and Maia and I would point to Matthieu, and the high waiter would set it down in front of Matt. Then he’d come back with another entre: “Mussels?” And we pointed at Matt. “Fries?” Matt. “Bread basket?” Matt. Matthieu sat on one side of the table with a row of food in front of him, and he graciously put two fries and a mussel on our plates and we thanked him profusely for letting us eat.

Eventually, the waiter caught on and laughed at us. Our uptight neighbors never lightened up, though, even after their second bottle of wine, but it just made it funnier for us. In fact, we spent most our two hours there cracking up, mostly at my American accent in French. At one point Maia had tears pouring down her face, and I couldn’t sit up straight because my abs hurt from laughing, and my cheeks were sore. Also, when we walked back arm-in-arm, we noticed a parked car up ahead had one of its headlights still on. “Oh, no,” Maia said. “We should break it for him.”

Of course, that sent us into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

We stayed another night on the island after spending a whole day swimming leisurely. Well, mostly leisurely – poor Matthieu got stung by two wasps. At one point we took a boat to reach another part of the coast to eat at a restaurant again. Maia and I loaded Matthieu with our stuff and swam back across together instead of going by boat. Matt is always carrying stuff for Maia and me and always driving and making coffee, and yet he’s the one who gets stung by the wasps.

(attempting to wash our crunchy hair...in saltwater...)

I woke up at 2 a.m. one night on the island, lying on my side, and my gaze was set over the black water and the full moon was washing my face in silvery light as I slept. Waking up and seeing the moon before anything else is something I could get used to.

I woke up at 8:30 a.m. because of the scorching heat; Maia and Matt were already down by the water. I poured a cup of the coffee Matt had made and chugged it before heading right down to the sea, ripping off all my clothes but my bathing suit bottom and swimming out to them to say good morning. (Boobies don’t scare people in Europe.) You know life is incandescent when you spend more time half-naked in the sea than you do on dry land.

Back at Patrick, Matthieu played blues on his guitar and Maia sang while I got dressed.

The hour and a half boat ride back inland was great because it was air-conditioned, but also wretched thanks to the fact that whoever was d.j.-ing either had the worst taste in music ever and no sense of people’s emotions or really didn’t want any of the dead tired passengers to get any shut-eye. Club music blasted for the whole two hours. Two Rihanna songs in a row. I felt like I was listening to a 14-year-old’s ipod. The hundreds of people around me looked exhausted. Heads kept rolling around like they do when someone falls asleep sitting up in class, and at least 50 people were sun burnt pink as coral; a baby wailed from departure until the music stopped – when we landed. And still, someone kept choosing Rihanna songs they refused to turn down at least 12 notches, at least. I know someone was choosing the music from a playlist, too, because sometimes a song would stop midway through, or we’d just catch the first second of a song before it skipped to Pit Bull.

Anyway, the cute city Dubrovnik (I think that’s where we were …) woke us up with some coffee and quiet. The owner of a boutique I was checking out came up to me and started talking in Italian. “No comprendo…” I said.

“Oh, English! I’m sorry! You look so Italian!” she said. I totally took that as a compliment.

We got a bag of peaches and tomatoes from the open market, and I ate a fresh fig for the first time in my life. Hands down favorite fruit now. Maia made a salad of tomatoes, avocado, olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dinner, which we ate before arriving at a campground. It was the first time we stopped somewhere not by the sea. This time, we were surrounded by rolling hills and forests. It reminded me a lot of Vermont, and I loved it. It’s nice to have a taste of home occasionally while travelling.

(The poodle getting his hair cut)

We all passed out by 11 p.m., and I woke up at 6 a.m. freezing cold. And I smiled. The heat wave had let up for a night, and I was so grateful to be shivering as I reached for my long sleeve shirt and wrapped my sheet around my body like a cocoon. While we drank our coffee in the morning, it felt like the three of us were breathing easier than ever, after having slept a whole night uninterrupted by reckless heat. Also, M&M surprised me with Kinder for breakfast. Sometimes they treat me like a spoiled child, and I love it. And we could finally shower and get the salt out of our crunchy hair. 

It was our last day before driving straight back to France. We spent it wandering through another National Park of probably a thousand beautiful waterfalls and pools of fresh water bluer than the sky and clearer than ice. I walked the paths barefoot, so my feet and calves were covered in a thick layer of delicious mud boots. I got more looks than I ever get in Vermont walking around barefoot, but it was worth it for all the lovely Earth energy I sucked up through my toes.

We will be in Montpelier, France in three days, hopefully, then take a train up to Paris. We packed countless incredible scenes and memories into the last two weeks. If I had written all of them down, I’d have to spend hours writing these blog posts. I think Matthieu is dreading being back in Paris (I know, that sounds so wrong, doesn’t it?) because he has to start work again on Monday, but Maia’s vacation is another month before school starts again. Plus, she’s ecstatic about when we’re in Italy again so she can buy a ball of mozzarella the size of her head. She’s brought up mozzarella at least three times today at the waterfalls at the most random times. I’m a little worried we’ll have to move our bags from the trunk to make cheese room.

Le poème de Matthieu pour son amour pour son anniversaire

Happy birthday, Maia May

We parked at Kamp Matija for two nights; from where we parked Patrick (the van), we could walk to the sea in two minutes.

We went to Krka National Park the first day. Walking through this park is like visiting a fairy tale. A narrow path leads through trees with roots that spiral upward from pools and streams and waterfalls. Hundreds of waterfalls. Soft streams just big enough to dip your toes in and cascades so tall you can’t see the top from below. The fish look like they’re levitating in air because the water is glass. Neon blue and green dragonflies buzzed around us, and butterflies kissed wild lavender and sage.  

Maia and I swam as close to the largest falls as we could; the current was strong. After, we passed an old woman with three teeth sitting in front of a table in the middle of the woods. She was selling candied nuts, figs, and different kinds of wine. She let me taste the fruity wine, and then I bought a box of seven figs for twenty kunas.

Back at the campsite, the three of us sat up talking under the moon, reciting poetry to each other, and Maia and Matthieu sang a beautiful French song about World War I; this lead to Matthieu saying, “No more war. I don’t want to hear about that. Just sleep together and shut the fuck up.” I’d say that’s the best philosophy I’ve ever heard.

In the morning, an old woman approached us wheeling a wooden cart filled with jam in glass jars. She wore a pink nightgown-looking dress and a matching hat. Maia and Matthieu bought a jar of prune jam, and we ate it for dinner with our loaf of bread.

The past four days or so, Matthieu has been just dying to go snorkeling. While we were eating dinner, Maia surprised Matt by pulling out a grocery bag with a pair of plastic goggles and a snorkeler she had bought at a small shop in town. Matt’s face lit up. “I’m going to see so many feesh tomorrow!”

We woke up at 8 a.m. the next morning to catch our boat tour. We didn’t have time to get coffee first, and I was dead. I realized I have become addicted to the coffee here. We have a cup at a café about every three hours, so it’s no wonder. It is, however, a wonder that I’ve been sleeping so well with all that caffeine pumping through my blood.

We sat on the top of the boat. A family with seven kids was speaking in French by us. Dolphins danced for us in the distance. After two hours of sailing, the boat stopped at a big island for an hour so we could swim. Sea urchins stuck to the rocks below where M&M swam. I lay on my skirt and passed out, exhausted, for the full hour.

Our next stop was another island for food. We made our way through the streets, surrounded by rolling hills etched with thin, man-made rock walls. A white canopy was stretched over wooden tables, all set for our group. Each table displayed a pitcher of yellow juice, a pitcher of water, a bottle of wine, and a basket of bread. The four parents of the French family sat down next to M&M and me and started talking in French. When the father found out that I am moving to Paris to be an au pair, he joked that I could feel free to take on his children as practice.

Servers brought us plates of freshly-caught fish, chicken, rice, and vegetables.  Our table polished off two bottles of wine before Maia had finished her second cigarette. After the meal, the parents disappeared somewhere, and all seven kids migrated to our table and began talking with us in French and English. They were all out-going and adorable. As it turned out, they were from Lille in France, which is where Maia is moving soon to finish school.

“I have a friend who just come back from Florida,” said the 15-year-old girl. She dreamed of going to the U.S., she said. When I asked where, she didn’t know. I told her there are way cooler places than Florida.

When they pulled out a deck of cards, Maia jumped. She’s been as anxious to play cards as Matt has to see fish with his little goggles. She joined the kids in a game, and Matt and I went to go swimming. The adorable little blonde boy from the group followed us, matching Matthieu with his goggles in hand; however, before we found the perfect swimming spot, Matt and I stumbled upon another restaurant with that lovely word “kava” on their chalkboard. Kava is the Croatian word for coffee. We had to sit down and have some. It was after 2 p.m. and neither of us had had coffee yet. We had hardly had a sip before the captain rushed by us. “Come on! We are leaving!” he smiled. We thought he was joking because we were under the impression we had another hour, so we laughed. “No, I’m serious!” he said, still smiling, but not joking because I saw our people making the exodus back through the streets. We chugged our tiny coffees and Matthieu ran back to the other restaurant to grab his wallet, and I was left sitting there alone. I looked over at the little boy who stood there patiently waiting for me, his goggles now on his face.

“You think we can jump in lightning fast before the boat leaves?” I challenged. He nodded, and we ran down the dock and dove in at the same time. We climbed out of the water back onto the dock and ran through the streets – we were the third to last to board the boat.

We made our way to the top again; this time, the French kids crowded around Maia and I in a circle. For a while they played cards, and little man (Gabriel) didn’t leave my side. Then they all started asking me questions in English. “Is this your first time in Europe?” “What are the differences between here and the U.S.?” Etc., etc.

Their father brought over a bag of popcorn and some waters, and we all shared it. Even though Gabriel was so tiny and young, his English was pretty good, and he kept trying to talk to me in English. His 13-year-old cousin stood by to interpret words for him and to remind him to use “I” instead of “me” and to use verbs. Without my asking, Gabriel began giving me French vocabulary lessons, pointing at things and saying the name in French. At one point we went through the body together, naming each part. He would point at his head, and I would say, “Le tet,” then he would say, “Head,” and we would take turns practicing each other’s language. He told me the French word for dolphin, pinky finger, fishing net, waves, sky and more. His family kept making fun of him saying he was in love with me, but still, he didn’t leave my side. He was too cute.

After two hours sailing back, everyone on the boat was baking in the sun. The merciful captain stopped the boat in the middle of the sea and people began jumping into the water to cool off. At first, I watched from above as people jumped in by twos. With each splash, water sprayed the air and little rainbows formed until gravity pulled the droplets back down. I canon-balled and swam to Maia. We both swam under and opened our eyes to see the angel rays shining up from below. The boat speakers played Croatian music just loud enough to hear over the splashing and laughing.

Twenty minutes later, the captain honked the horn and everyone swam to the ladder. My French lessons commenced for the next hour or so until we landed again at 6 p.m. I hugged the little man goodbye, and the teenagers gave us their names so we could find them on Facebook.

We were back on the road by 7 p.m. and had arrived at Sibenik by 9. The sun hadn’t set yet, which made it easier to find a place to stay the night. A woman at the desk of the hostel brought us just a few meters away to our apartment. So many green doors…

Through this green door were five flights of stairs, leading to a huge apartment with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a balcony. I ate the best meal of my entire life at a fancy restaurant where they tell you what they’ve served you as they set it in front of you. My spaghetti looked like a castle with a bay leaf flag. I’d never before said, “Oh my god…wow,” when taking a bite of spaghetti. The wine was the only thing lacking, though, apparently, because Matthieu laughed about how they had refrigerated an unopened bottle of red wine, which I guess kills the tannins. I’m learning more about wine every day.

Back at our apartment, I fell asleep to the sound of never-ending church bells at midnight through the open balcony doors, announcing Maia’s 23^rd birthday.

When I got out of the shower, Matthieu had already run through the scorching morning streets to buy breakfast supplies. “Flea! Your coffee will be cold!” he called to me. When I entered the kitchen, I found them sitting at the table, a place set for me with orange juice with ice cubes, a coffee, and a slice of bread lathered in nutella. Maia sat by the balcony window, sleep still in her eyes, her lips puffy, smoking  a cigarette. “It’s perfect, mon amour,” she smiled at him. Church bells went off again. They go off for five minutes straight every hour, which is why M&M woke at 7 a.m.

It’s mid-afternoon, and we’re escaping the summer heat in another apartment now. M&M are taking a siesta in the other room. A few moments ago, the apartment owner knocked on the door and handed us a hot pot of home-made spaghetti, a loaf of bread, two ripe tomatoes and a cucumber. So far today we’ve visited Saint-Jacques Cathedral right by the water and drinking coffee at a café by a garden of lavender, Echinacea, yarrow and a fountain. The real celebrating in honor of the lovely Maia will begin tonight.

(I always think about how weird it must be for the locals to have tourists taking pictures of their underwear all day)

Reunited

It's so good to be reunited with my two French loves. Travelling with them is perfect - Maia is a natural leader and loves planning and is very good with directions and organization, and Matthieu is a great driver and likes to go with the flow. Today, our van wouldn't start when we were going to drive into the city from our campground (the battery died somehow), and the three of us just smiled and decided to walk there instead while it charged. So many other people would have been frustrated or would have been thrown into a bad mood, but not M&M. I'm so grateful for my travel companions, and so happy we can add another chapter to our travels together, even if we are missing a piece of ourselves. Kelsey, if you're reading this, we love you so much! Team Prout Prout! C'est ca va toujours! 

(Team Prout Prout in Beverly Hills during Spring Break, 2013)

(Team Prout Prout minus one, temporarily, in Venice, Italy)

Coffee

A "big" coffee in France

A "big" coffee in Italy

A "big" coffee in Croatia

La Paradise

I found heaven. If I’m ever asked about the happiest moment of my life, I have an answer.

As we approached the Sea Organs of Zadar, I heard faint music coming from up ahead. It got louder as we approached, and once I could hear it clearly, I stopped dead in my tracks. The most beautiful ambient music that ever touched my ears.

“What is that … ?”

“Pipes in the water underneath us,” Matthieu said. “The waves of the sea flow through them and create sound. It was a good idea to use the water to make music. I can tell you it is diatonic …”

I had to sit down. Anyone who knows me knows my love for ambient music, and this … angel songs composed by the Adriatic Sea … it was too much. The sound waves were an ethereal soundtrack to the quiet people walking around in slow motion on white cement, sparkles reflecting off the softly undulating sea like the sun had thrown glitter over the water to make the dance even more enchanting.

I couldn’t understand how everyone around me was acting so normal. I was drifting between worlds. Everything slowed down and was very bright, like when you’re about to faint or when you’re peaking on mushrooms. My mind drowned out every sound that wasn’t the water song. It was almost reminiscent of an orchestra of singing whales. My body felt light.

Maia jumped in the water, and I joined her, once I remembered I was on Earth and wasn’t dead. I could still hear the orchestra in the water as I floated down to the cement steps. They were painted in soft, slippery sea moss. I sat on the bottom step, half my body still immersed in the warm salty sea, feeling like a mermaid on her velvet throne. All of my senses were overwhelmed. My physical heart literally hurt from the beauty. I’ve never felt anything like the Sea Organs of Zadar.

If you ever go to Croatia, be sure to bring sunglasses. Zadar is a bike reflector, and the sun’s high beams are always on. Everything is white – the buildings, arches, columns, cobblestones … If it’s not white, it’s peach, a color that catches the sun as ardently as the fruit. The architectural colors and the sea aren’t the only reason this city sparkles: Zadar is like a millionaire’s mansion where there’s lots of expensive stuff that only gets touched by the maid, who cleans it every other day. If I dropped a piece of pizza in a gutter here, I’d consider picking it up and finishing it anyway. That’s how clean this place is. The stones are slippery, like they’re freshly mopped with lemon pledge. I almost fell like five times just strolling around in my flip flops.

Driving into Zadar reminded me that it’s mid-summer. Queen Anne’s lace and buttercups and wild blackberries splashed fields of dried-up tall grass. Every few meters, a roadside stand offered tomatoes, watermelons, onions, cantaloupes, and rows of garlic hanging in nets.

Zadar is three thousand years old, but what makes it so grand to me is its quaintness. Liz would adore it. One of the first streets I walked down was lined with women crocheting gorgeous cardigans, afghans, shirts, blankets (all white and beige, of course). Every other shop had a spinning display of lavender sachets, (I guess there are fields of lavender nearby, although I haven’t seen any yet), so the streets look and smell like a quaint cottage with a Grecian air. And the owner of this cottage is a cute old lady in a white crocheted shawl serving tea in intricately-painted china. (Many shops also sold adorable tea sets, from doll-size to normal-size.)

Speaking of size, everyone is very tall here, even the women. I had to stand on my toes to read the signs advertising Croatian beer in English: “Karlovacko – Speak the language Croatians understand.” Their advertising didn’t work, though, because I drank mojitos all night.

Maia found a hostel in the middle of the city, but the lady upstairs (who was about my age and had green and blue hair and very good English) said they were full, but her friend’s dad rented a room in his apartment.

A short, skinny old man with a white beard met us downstairs and led us through the crowd. I’m starting to get used to the narrow European streets.

“This an emergency because she have no rooms, so don’t expect much,” he explained as we walked at 90 mph. Maia, Matt and I exchanged smiles – little did this kind soul know we had been sleeping in a van for close to a week. A bed of any caliber would be divine.

“You got place by cheapest ‘caffe bar’ in town,” he said, as we followed him through a dark green door and up four flights of stairs.

In the back of his cramped apartment were two connected rooms – the first with a pull-out couch neatly made into a bed with a red sheet printed with smiling cartoon Dalmatians, and the other with a queen-sized bed.

I sat on the windowsill overlooking orange roofs, and I heard him tell Maia and Matthieu, “There is a Bible in there, but I don’t know if it’s in English.”

“This is o.k.,” I heard Maia respond. “I don’t think we will need it.” I tried not to laugh. The man was shirtless, and his cigarette needed to be ashed five drags ago. He was so eager for us to have a good stay.

“Who will stay on the couch?” he asked.

“Me,” I said.

“Oh, I thought it will be him.” He pointed at Matt. “Well, it’s only 100 kunas because it not so good.” I thanked him. That’s about $20. And I even got a little fan propped up on an ironing board.

The orange sun was setting over the Adriatic as we left, and the moon was whiter than milk up ahead over a majestic Roman-influenced cathedral. The moon was even more beautiful than the fireworks that lit up the sky as we made our way across the bridge from Marasceno, the bar we drank at while sitting in woven nests hanging from the ceiling (white, obviously), with floral cushions. Maia looked like she was perched in an Easter basket. The blue and pink lights shining on our outside dance floor didn’t help. Midget-sized boats floated at bay near us. The three of us locked arms and burst into song while drunkenly strolling under fat palm trees back to our green door.

And yes, my rock-hard couch bed was divine, as anything would be as you fall asleep to the sound of Croatian music from the streets below your window. 

Dobrodosli

Rain continued to drizzle down as we drove through Slovenia with Venice behind us. I stuck my whole body out of the back window and let the water splatter on my cheeks. Slovenia is a very woodsy country from what I saw of it – fog sat over forests of dark green leaves. It looked strangely like home, but the mountains were bigger and the houses different. “La Boheme” provided a soundtrack as we cut through the white condensation.

After jamming to some more music, including French rap and “Barbie Girl,” (Matthieu’s personal favorite), we arrived at a checkpoint.

A scary, short, bald policeman stomped up to the van and demanded our passports.

“Where you going?”

“Croatia,” Maia responded.

“You are in Croatia.”

I guess we missed the sign, but we were at the border, apparently.

“Why do you come to Croatia?”

“We are vacationing.”

“Do you smoke?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever smoke mariHUANa?” He pronounced the “h” sound very hard like we do jokingly in the States.

“No,” Maia said.

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Never?”

“Nope.”

“Let me see a pack of your cigarettes.”

Matt handed him two empty packs before finding a full one. “We don’t smoke a lot,” he joked. The policeman was not amused. He searched through the pack searching for bud, then came to the back where I sat reading my book. He eyed my purse.

“You mind if I bring dog in here?” he asked.

“Not at all,” I said.

“He friendly dog.” He finally smiled.

Another policeman handed Matt back our passports. “You see dog next time.”

Maia immediately reached for that full pack of cigarettes as we drove away. “That was scary,” she said, with her thick French accent. She took a drag so hard I could hear the oxygen run through her windpipe. Matthieu commented on how we had unwittingly pulled up to the border listening to gangster rap.

Darkness was falling again as we drove into Croatia. My first impression of Croatia was that they are obsessed with teeth – the only three billboards leading into the city were for three different dentistry practices.

We drove around for half an hour, searching for a place to park the van to sleep for the night. It was scary. Croatia is built on cliffs, and the roads wind up and down steep hills. Even though it reminded me of St. Lucia, and even though the people dressed more casual here than any place in Europe I’d been yet, Croatia felt the most foreign, and for the first time I had an ever-so-slight twinge of homesickness. While we were scoping a residential area (we were right outside Opatija, “La Vielle Dame” or “The Old Lady”), I saw a dumpster with a huge anarchy symbol spray-painted on it. It was strangely comforting. I never would have thought dumpster graffiti would be what would make me feel more comfortable in a foreign country.

We set up the van for the night in front of a cute apartment complex. It was only 10 p.m., and none of us were tired, so we sat in our little living room eating salad and cheese and talking about everything from the history of former Yugoslavia to the difference between communism and socialism.

Maia read aloud from her Croatian travel guide, and Matthieu and I repeated after her as she read the Croatian words for “hello,” “good-bye,” “please,” and “thank you.”

“I’m going to have a French accent when I speak Croatian,” I realized.

When we rolled out of our home in the morning all sleepy-eyed, people were eyeing us suspiciously in the parking lot. Croatians seem to be less used to tourists than the last few places we’ve stopped, and they’re probably especially unused to seeing car-sleeping gypsies in their parking lots. We got out of there pretty fast.

In Opatija we changed our money to kunas and then got coffee, of course. The coffee wasn’t as good as in Italy, but at least it was bigger – about a quarter of a normal cup in the U.S. We drove along the Adriatic Sea until we found a place with few people so we could relax by the water. Stones provided natural steps carpeted in soft water moss into the sea, which is like glass. Even clearer than the Caribbean. And saltier. My little sister wouldn’t even need her floaties in the Adriatic. Farther out, a dolphin dipped in and out of the water playfully.

I picked a strange little succulent by the cliffs and stuck some behind my ears. I felt like a Croatian water nymph.

Maia, Matt and I floated on our backs effortlessy and touched our feet together like synchronized swimmers forming a star. I could see the sky better that way. There wasn’t a single cloud over the city in the distance.

Right now, we are driving along the Adriatic Coast. If I squint my eyes, it reminds me of driving along Big Sur in California last year. When I open my eyes all the way, though, I see everything is bigger, clearer. More intense.

Soon we will pull over at a campground for the night – the earliest we have stopped yet. It’s 6 p.m., which means there are still four hours of daylight left.

Four hours to swim in the Adriatic Sea and turn pink under the Croatian sun.

Oh mon dieu.