"You Like Wind?" -- Avignon, France

(Sometimes my blog does baffling things. Today, it's deciding that no matter how many times I select black for my text, it will turn the text blue once I publish the post. I'm done fighting with it. I give up. I surrender. Blue, the text shall be. Dammit)

Monday morning, Misho and I were dropped off in the small town of Marols, where we were to meet our blabla car for Avignon. 

I can't believe it's already over, I thought as I hugged and kissed my friends goodbye. What an absolutely gorgeous six days. It's hard to see them go. The people and the days.

Our blabla car driver, a cheerful woman named Christine who was traveling to Marseille with her daughter, was not heading into the city center of Avignon. After a bit of confusion, she dropped us off ten kilometers outside the city at a bus stop where bus #2 would take us to the center of Avignon. 

Except it was the day after Easter. And there were no buses. Not a one. The French seem to take every opportunity to not work.

Cheers to that. But what is it with us and our abysmal luck with buses? 

"Should we hitchhike?" I asked my Bulgarian. 

"Guess so," my Bulgarian shrugged his shoulders.     

We were just about to start asking drivers (in my nearly non-existent French) to give us a lift to the city center, when my phone rang. 

"OH MY GOD, I'M GETTING A PHONE CALL!" was my very reasonable reaction.

When you spend most of the previous year without a working phone, getting a call can feel a tad disorienting. Like, "wait, you mean... people can contact me when I'm not connected to wifi at a cafe? I can receive messages at any time? I don't have to awkwardly work through a language barrier to ask a complete stranger if I can borrow their phone when something horrible comes up and I need help?"   

The call was from Silviu, our host in Avignon. 

"Did you get my couchsurfing message?" he asked.

"No, I didn't," I said, hoping that he hadn't sent me a last minute cancellation that I'd somehow missed.   

If I fuck up couchsurfing for myself, it's one thing. But I'm responsible for Misho too. And I do NOT want to fuck anything up for him.

"I had just offered to come pick you up. You said you would be dropped off outside the city center, right?" 

"Yes! And you caught us right before we started to hitch. There, uh... there aren't any buses today." 

"You're already there?" 

"Yeah, our blabla car was early." 

"They always are. Okay, I can be there to pick you up in half an hour. Maybe you can move inside the shopping center and get a coffee or something?" 

"Great! See you in half an hour, Silviu." 

What amazing luck. Holy bananas. For all the lack of luck we have in buses, we make up for in nice people.

So after thirty minutes of eating scrumptious ice cream in a restaurant --

I send pictures like this to Matt. To torment him. Because the only ice cream available in Nepal looks like frozen dog turds. I'm a wonderful human being.

 -- Silviu arrived to pick us up. So we dumped our backpacks into his little car and squeezed ourselves in. 

Fat Ellie. You take up more space than I do. How is that possible? 

As we drove into town, Silviu started explaining Avignon's layout and history.       

"The city center is surrounded by walls, so if you're inside the walls, you're inside the city center. It's as simple as that. I think it's one of the only cities in Europe with walls around the entire center. It's because Avignon used to be where the pope lived, so they built walls to keep the pope safe." 

Of course they did.

Silviu parked the car and then led us through the labyrinthine city to his one bedroom flat inside the ancient walls. He introduced us to his girlfriend, a redhead named Cyrielle, and their adorable puppy. 

"Do you want something to drink? Water, juice?" 

Silviu and Cyrielle chatted with us for a while, gave us a spare set of keys and asked us to please not lose them. 

"They've already been to Russia. A couchsurfer forgot she had them and took them to Russia with her. She had to mail them back. Another couchsurfer just... lost them. And we still can't find them." 

"I'll be very careful, I promise," I reassured Silviu, pocketing the key. 

Then our hosts took themselves out on a date and Misho and I napped on the L-shaped couch. 

(I'm a firm believer that a day is incomplete without at least one nap)

When we woke, my Bulgarian and I took ourselves out on a walk.  

The poor puppy was the only one who did not, unfortunately, go out on a walk. She remained curled up in a doughnut on her doggy bed, gazing at us with accusative, woebegone eyes. 

I looked at her. Then at Fat Ellie, who smelled like 37 different countries and was rank with armpit sweat and must have seemed like incredible (delicious) company to the resentful puppy. 

Eh... Fat Ellie can take care of herself. 

Avignon entranced me. The sky was sunny, the day was warm, and a slight breeze ruffled the hair on the back of my neck. The city was quiet and peaceful, as few cars ventured into the narrow streets, abandoning them to pedestrians like Misho and me. 

Could I live here? That's one of the main reasons I'm doing this trip around France, right? To find a place to live and study French next year. Could Avignon be that place?

Maybe. It's certainly got a lot going for it, I thought, eyes flicking here and there, trying to absorb as much as I could of this beautiful, old city.   

 The ornate balconies with crouching kitties and bits of green hanging over -- 

-- the hidden squares with cafes and ice cream shops --

-- the ribbons and flags strung between buildings across the narrow streets --

-- the unique street lamps and shuttered windows --

-- and walking through a tiny alley and randomly running into a Palais des Papes.

(And now the text is black again. I don't know why. I'm just accepting it)

Luce had sent Misho and me off with a gigantic hunk of cheese, a couple of apples, a pear or two, and the rest of Misho's kozunak. So with lunch and dinner sorted, we headed back home to Silviu's.

Thank god for Luce, I nibbled a piece of cheese and sighed in contentment. I do get tired of picnics... you know, after eleven months of them. But out of all the countries, France has the best picnic supplies. 

"How did you like Avignon?" our hosts asked us when they returned that evening.

"I loved it!" I gushed. "The city is gorgeous. And the weather today was just perfect. Sunny. Not too hot, not too cold. A breeze. The wind felt so good."

"You like wind?" Silviu eyed me skeptically.

"I love wind," I confidently asserted.

Silviu just shook his head in bewilderment.

I DO love wind... my thoughts trailed off. Why do people always seem so perplexed when I tell them I enjoy wind? 

The next day, I found out why Silviu had seemed so unconvinced. Our first afternoon in Avignon had been an anomaly. We had experienced a delightful gentle breeze. Our second day in Avignon was so windy that I felt as if I was back in Northern Ireland, facing the brutal, bludgeoning wind of Giant's Causeway.  It was so cold and windy that after a failed attempt to get to a boulangerie on the other side of the Rhone River, we retreated to Silviu's flat. Where I drank coffee all afternoon, in a desperate attempt to restore some modicum of heat to my frozen body.

Misho did not drink coffee.  I don't know how he survived.

I made risotto for our hosts that evening. When Misho cooks, he makes patatnik. When I cook, I make risotto. So when I start couchsurfing alone in just a few days, my hosts will be back down to one option.

Risotto.

Risotto, risotto, risotto. 

I don't want my Bulgarian to leave. And neither would my couchsurfing hosts. 

The next day was slightly warmer, but not enough to tempt me into lingering long outside. Especially now that I know how cold wind aggravates my sinusitis.

I hate having a "condition". Something I need to consistently worry about. Blurgh. Guess it makes me less guilty about staying inside and drinking tea.

So Misho and I spent most of the day in Silviu's flat. Except for the part wherein I tried to be an adult and walked over to the university to ask about their French as a Foreign Language program. But was disappointed to discover that no one on the entire campus seemed to speak an iota of English. Even at the International Relations Department. One woman eyed me condescendingly and told me, in French, "You should learn to speak French." The woman in the International Relations office just shrugged her shoulders and handed me a card with the university's website on it.

A website wherein all the information is in French. And not helpful.

"NO ENGLISH?!?" I exploded at no one in particular, as Misho and I walked the twenty minutes back to Silviu's, bodies braced against the cold wind. "What the hell? With whom, I wonder, do they INTERNATIONALLY RELATE? I'm not even mad. No. No, I'm not mad. I'm FLUMMOXED. I'm absolutely FLABBERGASTED. How can they, at a French UNIVERSITY, at the INTERNATIONAL Relations Department, NOT speak ENGLISH?"

Misho just looked at me with a mild smile and twinkling eyes. Which is what he does whenever I explode. Smiles. In amusement. And then I laugh. And explode again, because I like the smile.

"HOW IS IT POSSIBLE?"

Well, Avignon, it would be grand to live in you. But two things, please. a) You're not Ireland. Stop pretending to be, and b) please. Please, don't expect me to speak French before I've taken your French course. Find someone to speak English with me until I graduate. For the love of all things dairy. 

That evening, Silviu and Cyrielle drove us to the other side of the Rhone. For a view of the iconic destroyed bridge, and for a stroll through Les Angeles, a small idyllic village across the river from Avignon. 

Our hosts made us steak tartare when we returned to the flat, and while Cyrielle mixed the raw beef with onions and capers and mustard, Misho drew the couple's puppy. And put it in a helmet from one of Cyrielle's favorite video games. A game called Skyrim. I don't know what that means.

That is the face Puppy makes when a) you're eating and not sharing, or b) you're leaving. It's heart-wrenching.

We drank a Chateau-neuf Misho and I had picked up at a small shop on the way back from our unproductive trip to the university that afternoon. And we ate raw beef with raw egg. Which is more delicious than it sounds.

Yes... my future couchsurfing hosts will definitely suffer from the sad lack of Bulgarian. No patatnik AND no cool drawings. I'm going to feel like I have nothing valuable to offer... and I'm going to miss watching Misho give to people. I think one of the best things about traveling with another person is witnessing how they interact with others. Seeing what others draw out of them. I've learned so much about Misho on this trip because I've seen him interact with Diarmuid and Ger and Sarah and Silviu. Each one of them showed me something different about Misho. He shared a bit of himself -- his art, his cooking, his seemingly indefatigable knowledge of music and film and video games... and I'm going to miss sitting back and watching it happen. All that giving.

I'm That Clown -- Ambert, France

The kozunak and Easter eggs finished and on the table, Francois, Teddy, Misho and I set out for a hike. The day was chilly and cloudy, but I was prepared to brave the cold to see a bit more of this beautiful area of France.

It's so fucking gorgeous. 

I sighed. Deeply content, even though my skin was covered in goosebumps and I shivered with cold.

FRANCE! you were supposed to be warm. What happened? 

 "How are you so happy?" Teddy asked me at one point. Probably after I'd laughed at something not-funny at all. Simply for the sake of laughing.

"It's always strange to me..." I told my Bulgarian friend, who also seems to smile incessantly. "It's strange that people look at me and see happiness. I have so many references on couchsurfing that talk about how I'm such a positive person and have such good energy. And while I'm really glad that I project positivity, it's definitely not what I feel all the time."

"I get stressed. I get really stressed. That's one reason hitching with Misho was so good for me. He really helped me to stay calm and kept me laughing. Always laughing with that guy."

"I get really anxious and have to work to manage my anxiety. Like when I'm in airports. I get these nasty headaches because of how anxious I am, so I take ibuprofen in my carry-on whenever I fly. And I listen to Jack Johnson. I feel debilitating sadness. I get depressed. I can feel unbelievably lonely... so, so lonely. I once spent three months without having a single meaningful conversation. Half the time, I'm overwhelmed and confused and on edge. So I have all these other emotions which I feel intensely, and I'm flabbergasted when people look at me and think, "wow, that girl's really happy." I'm surprised that they don't see the rest of me. That all they see is the happiness."

"It makes me think of a joke," Teddy said thoughtfully. "Well, not really a joke, but a story. There was a man who was very depressed and at his therapist's office. He said to his therapist, "I'm so sad, all the time. I don't know how to go on. Nothing makes me happy anymore." And the therapist said, "I know will make you happy! There's a clown in town. The clown makes everyone happy. No one can watch the clown and not laugh." "I know," the patient responded. "I'm that clown.""

I don't expect to be happy all the time. I don't WANT to be happy all the time. There's meaning and beauty in sadness, anger, frustration, fear. I wouldn't feel like a complete human being if I only experienced happy. My life would feel so bland. So flat. It would be like someone kept plunking one note on the piano, over and over again, instead of blending notes into a beautiful song. 

The thing is... I don't think any single emotion is ugly. Just like no single note on the piano is ugly. Played together, some are discordant, sure. Played at the wrong time, some don't make sense and can throw off the song. But in and of themselves, they're just notes. And my job, as the pianist, is to practice, to develop a good ear, and to learn how to integrate the notes into a piece that is meaningful to me. 

But people seem to view me like that clown. All they hear is the happy note. And that's okay. I'm glad that they're hearing something that inspires more happiness. But I need to always make sure to surround myself with people who take the time to sit and listen. To hear the entirety of my song. People with whom I can feel whole around. Who accept the other notes. Because otherwise I'll start to feel like I'm only allowed happiness. That if I'm not happy, I'm not worthwhile. 

Teddy and Francois took Misho and me out for hot chocolate and cookies, and it felt heavenly to wrap our cold fingers around our hot mugs. The walk had been stunning, but my body felt like it could use a bit of thawing out.
 

A hot shower when we get back. Yes. And it's so comforting to know that the water will, in fact, be hot. And will last for more than two minutes. 

There are things I don't miss about Nepal. 

Luz made another of her feasts that evening, I indulged in yet more cheese, Francois ate more "it's not applesauce. It's compote!" and we all climbed into our respective beds.

I could get used to this routine. But I've only got two more nights in this bed. Two more days with these people. Just do your best to enjoy it, Bourget. 

Easter morning, we waited until everyone was up and fairly lucid before we sliced into Misho's massive kozunak. Then we each grabbed eggs and eat each other's eggs until there was only one remaining unbroken egg.


Which was declared the winner.

Bulgarian Easter is hilarious. 

We went on a final walk through the countryside that afternoon. And I allowed myself to feel sad. Sad and grateful.
  

These emotions play together so often in my life. Gratitude for an incredible, memorable experience, and sadness at the thought of leaving an experience that brought me such joy. 

But I like the sound of these notes. It's one of the defining characteristics of my song. 

And these notes. Are going to play HELLA loud when my Bulgarian leaves me in two weeks. 

We spent our last night in Ambert playing cards and drinking an abundance of liquors from Christian's ample alcohol cabinet.

We said goodnight fairly early, as we had to leave the house at 7:30 the next morning. Misho and I were to be dropped off in Marols for our blabla car to Avignon, and then our friends were driving to Paris to fly to Bulgaria.

It would be a busy morning.

Last night, I thought, looking at the ceiling, hearing those notes playing. I wonder where I'll be tomorrow. What I'll wake up to then.

Making Bulgarian Easter -- Ambert, France

When Francois and Teddy invited Misho and me to spend a week with them in Ambert, my expectations had been the following, in order of importance: 

a) friends

b) cheese

c) rest

d) that I might, perchance, be able to wash my monstrously stanky clothes (although me washing my laundry might have ranked higher on Misho's list...)

I had not anticipated day trips to gorgeous nearby towns or Bulgarian Easter parties. 

Your life, Bourget, is full of surprises. Which is funny, 'cos you hate surprises. When a book gets too stressful, you read the last page to calm yourself down. And do deep breathing. When a film gets too awkward, you get up and make a cup of tea. Or hide behind your knitting needles and peek through all the gaping mistakes in the hat you're working on. Surprise dates are simultaneously deeply romantic and "What the fuck? If you'd TOLD me we were going to the mountains, I would have brought my boots. But you didn't tell me, and now I'm wearing flipflops and can't feel my toes."  Yet, you've chosen a life where every day is a surprise. 

Go you. 

Le Puy-en-Velay was about an hour drive south of Ambert, through the breathtaking scenery of Livradois-Forez Regional Park. 

I don't even care if we get anywhere. I'd be totally content just looking through the window at this kind of nature for an hour. 

 But I'm glad we made it to Le Puy.    

 

What IS this place? 

Le Puy-en Velay is town of 20,000 people famous for its cathedral, lace and lentils.

It is a very well-rounded sort of place.

It's also famous for being one of the many starting places for the Camino de Santiago.

Why don't I start my pilgrimage here next September? I thought, mesmerized by the cobbled streets and pastel buildings and the cathedral at the top of the hill (not so much the lentils. I was not mesmerized by the lentils). Then I could spend a month walking through idyllic French countryside. And if I have enough money and energy and motivation by the time I get to the border, I could walk across the north coast of Spain too. Just another 500 miles. No big deal. 

Towns like this will never cease to astonish this Coloradan who grew up in cities built around cars.  With streets with names like 21 1/8 road and where 98 percent of the eating options are fastfood. 

I can give almost anything a personality. It's my superpower. But I cannot give American towns personality. Because they feel more dead than the wooden spoon I named Leopold. 

I like that spring somehow forgot about the one on the right. It finished with the one on the left and then took a nap. Which is something I would do, if Spring was my job.

I like traveling with my Bulgarian for many reasons. He cooks patatnik for me, I can nap to the sound of him playing piano, he helps me not catastrophize whilst hitchhiking, and he's game.

Just. Game. For all the things.

Including when I ask him to pose next to a bell to which he bears a striking resemblance.

Francois' parents treated us to drinks in the cathedral garden.

I feel like these people have just adopted Misho and me for the week. I don't even feel like we're visiting friends. We're just... adopted. There's no other word. This family, who hardly even knows us, is giving us one of the most beautiful experiences of our six weeks. 

I like this surprise. 
 

The cathedral kitty who spent about an hour glaring at us from his perch. I want him.

Notre-Dame de France

As I'm going to spend the next two months couchsurfing through France, I asked Francois if he would help me get a French SIM card. I usually travel without a working phone, relying on Whatsapp, Skype and Facebook to communicate... but when I'm staying with a new person every two days for a month and a half?

Girl needs a phone. 

So Francois spent twenty minutes helping me purchase a SIM card and getting it to work with my phone.

I'm not sure he realizes quite how much this means to me... If he wasn't here to help, I could definitely do it. Get a SIM card. I could find a way to communicate with my little-no French and set up the new number. But it would be tedious, embarrassing and take much, MUCH longer. I'm pretty sure no one would tell me that I want an easy life, but sometimes the little challenges -- like buying a SIM card at a shop where I don't speak the language -- get tiresome.  And Francois doesn't even hesitate. He just helps. 

We returned to Ambert that evening, and Luce made another one of her feasts. I don't think Luz is capable of cooking anything other than a feast. Every time I sit down at her table, my first thought is, Holy bananas, is this my life? Right now? Is this my life right now? 

Then I start eating and pretty much stop thinking altogether. Because I can't think and fully appreciate such good food at the same time.

The next day was cold and grey, so other than a brief excursion into the yard to practice yoga in the grass, we stayed inside.

And it's great. 

I coerced Misho into playing the piano for me, then snuggled up on one of the living room couches, wrapped in a blanket and drinking coffee.

Bliss. 

Sometimes I feel so lucky that I can glean such enjoyment from moments like these. 

We all went to the family restaurant that evening. And I lusted after the wine openers on the wall.

 When the waiter brought me my pizza, my jaw may or may not have nearly dropped right into it.

THAT. Is a PRODIGIOUS amount of cheese. Is this even pizza? Is it allowed to be called pizza? It seems like it's just held-together-cheese. 

But again, I did not complain. Nor did I finish it.

As the weekend was Easter and we had two Bulgarians in residence, we decided to make a Bulgarian Easter. And by we, I mean Misho and Teddy. I had originally planned to help make Bulgarian Easter, but by the time I got back to the house and the held-together-cheese had settled into my stomach, the only option was bed.

But Misho is a) a badass Bulgarian baker, b) ate a normal pizza, and c) a stronger person than me (as has been established). So he and Teddy stayed up late into the night and prepared kozunak, a traditional Bulgarian Easter bread. While I sadly counted off the remaining days I'd get to stay in Ambert and then slipped into a cheese induced slumber. 
 

We painted eggs on Saturday. And I felt like a little kid again.

I haven't painted eggs in so many years... why not? I love painting eggs. Why did I let myself grow out of painting eggs? 

The first three eggs are painted red (I'm guessing to symbolize the three days Christ spent in the grave), and then one red egg is rubbed on your forehead.

I'm not altogether sure why a red egg is rubbed on the forehead at Easter. I only find Bulgarians. I don't claim to understand them.

The kozunak and eggs were finished by late Saturday afternoon, so we set them up on the table to wait until the next morning. Like a Bulgarian Easter shrine.

There are few things better than celebrating a holiday with a welcoming family in a different country with different customs. I'm never going to forget the Bulgarian Easter I spent in Ambert, France.