The Turning of a Month in France

Let me say to begin with that, despite the fact that I was warned that time would fly here in France, the turning of the month still astounds me in its swiftness. I feel as if I’ve only been here a week, yet here I am in my SIXTH week! But, on the other hand, I have learned so much already and know that I still have much to learn.

First of all, my studies here are rather unusual. I am only taking twelve hours, including only one course that is remotely related to engineering (the rest satisfy core curriculum requirements), which means that I actually have what people call “free time,” so much that this semester is practically a three-month vacation for me. Since my four classes only meet once a week for three hours, my schedule has ended up with my only having to go on the twenty-minute bus ride to school in Sophia Antipolis Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, leaving me with a four-day weekend EVERY WEEK. (Oh, yeah!) So, I have the flexibility to be leisurely walking down next to the water, hearing the waves lap on the shore, and suddenly tell myself, “I’m going to take the train to Monaco tomorrow,” without having to be too concerned about homework due. Granted, I do have homework that I have to do sometimes in the evenings, but it is not near as intense as every other semester has been. However, this study abroad experience is a little different from what I had supposed it would be. You see, I had thought that I would come over here, study some, learn a lot of French, meet a lot of new friends, and see new places. I have been doing all of those things, it is true, yet the thing that surprises me is how God is using this experience to draw me closer to Him. I have been going to a Baptist church in Nice, where the people are very welcoming and the preaching is (thankfully) not as Arminian as I had feared, but I had never known until now what a blessing it is to be able to go to a Primitive Baptist church. Benjamin Franklin once said that the value of water is not known until the well is dry. That is definitely the case here. This region once contained some of the first churches, and, as late as the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, there were groups of believers such as the Waldensians who believed what we as Primitive Baptists believe. However, they were persecuted by the Catholics to near extinction, and their remnants were absorbed into other denominations. Sometimes I walk up to see the vistas at the Chapelle de la Garoupe and pray outside the chapel over the city because I believe there may still be people here whose hearts are being opened to the doctrines of the Primitive Baptists. I just pray that someday I’ll be able to meet them. Sure, it is a little ironic to be praying about that outside a Catholic chapel, but, hey, God has a sense of humor.

As far as my other day trips go, I am forced by limited time to briefly summarize the ones I have had since Nice, Èze, and Monaco (see my previous post).

The next excursion occurred on September 8, my birthday in the States but not in France because of the time difference (that was a really odd fact to find out). While our previous trip had been by land, admiring the views of the sea, the mountains, the beautiful villages, this trip was mostly by water, namely a two-hour ferry ride from the suburb of Antibes called Juan Les Pins to what I like to call the Ritziest Resort of the Ritzy Riviera: Saint-Tropez. One can compare it to the famous beaches of Los Angeles made quainter by the age and small size of the actual town, even more elite by the crowd of famous people—Hollywood stars, international sports stars, music stars, etc., and even richer by the fantastic villas that are found in the beautiful hills surrounding the harbor.

On September 22, our resident director, Kristin, took us on another day-trip, this time a quick look at Cannes. I felt as if I were following in Mr. Bean’s steps—for those of you who have seen the movie “Mr. Bean’s Holiday” when I stood there taking pictures of the steps up to the building where the Cannes Film Festival is held every May.

I was so excited to see this, not because of all the famous Hollywood stars that have stood on this stairway, but because of Mr. Bean's Holiday. I'm weird. I admit it.

Next, we took a boat out of the harbor of Cannes a little way to the island of Saint-Marguerite, the location of a prison where the famous Man in the Iron Mask (his mask was actually velvet, but iron sounds more dramatic) was held for ten years before being taken to the Bastille.

The entrance into the fort containing the prison where the famed masked man (not Zorro, the other one) was kept

Being the bookworm that I am, I got goosebumps when I walked into his cell and looked out the double-barred window to the sea—the same window where I could almost see the mysterious man whose identity is still unknown today looking out, perhaps in contemplation. The other side of the prison from where the prison cells are used to be a series of Roman cisterns. The tiny island has no fresh water on its own, and so the Romans built these cisterns to contain fresh water for their baths. Today, there are displays containing remains of a Roman wreck from a few years before Christ that was discovered near the island, including large amphorae that used to contain wine and oil. I also saw on display remains of walnuts that were on the ship. Yes, my friends, I have officially seen 2000-year-old walnuts. They looked rather black, I’m afraid. Two thousand years is a long time for nuts. After our tour, we walked across the island to some fantastic beaches looking toward the neighboring island of Saint-Honorat, the location of a monastery from the tenth century, still inhabited by Cisterian monks. I’m not able to swim at all, but a couple of the other study abroad students gave me a few pointers for dog-paddling. (Yes, The Princess Bride does come to mind: “I only dog-paddle.”) Unfortunately, we ran out of time since we needed to catch the ferry back to Cannes. But, overall, it was an awesome day!

The beach where we spent the afternoon. Across the harbor is the island of Saint-Honorat, and the mountains to the right are the mainland Esterel Mountains.

A couple of weeks later, a few of us went hill-walking with Kristin in the majestic Esterel Mountains. Compared to the busy cities of Antibes and Nice, the hills were very isolated and verdant. The vistas of the sea were incomparable, and the walk delightful! 

Looking toward the southwest

However, the best was yet to come, for Kristin told us on the way down that we would be able to have a unique opportunity because there were only seven of us—there was room in her and her husband’s two cars to take us to one of the beaches where the Allies landed on August 15, 1944, to liberate southern France from the Nazis. 

Le Dramont, near the towns of Saint-Raphaël and Fréjus

When I saw the beach, called Le Dramont, I could hardly believe that I was standing where the Allies had landed in a hail of bullets to finish the French liberation. The beach itself holds an even older unique history: The beach, as shown in the picture, is covered in stones, but these stones are in fact not natural. The Romans carried down rocks from their nearby quarry, which we also saw, and carved them on the beach before carrying them off to their building projects, leaving the remains to the sea. Over two thousand years, the sea has washed the stones smooth and round. I couldn’t resist picking up a few small rocks because of both histories—the ancient and the new. But, the day quickly came to an end, and we had to return to Antibes.

Between all of these trips, I explored the region on my own. It felt as if my comfort zone was expanding little by little. When I first arrived in France, I hardly wanted to walk down the street for fear of getting lost. The bus routes seemed daunting and confusing to say the least, and getting on a train by myself was out of the question. I felt really self-conscious speaking French because I could see myself making all sorts of mistakes. Yet slowly I started growing more confident. I learned to laugh at the mistakes I made, some of which were really hilarious looking back on them now, and I learned to enjoy going out of my comfort zone a little.

Two weeks after arriving in France, I decided to go on a little adventure: The French Riviera is not far from the Italian border, and I knew of a market in the city of San Remo a little way over the border that has a Saturday market. I decided to take the train to the border town of Ventimiglia (Vintimille in French) and then catch a bus to San Remo. However, my directions were a little off. I was under the impression that the bus stop was just outside the train station, but I quickly figured out that the bus stop was definitely NOT anywhere near there. “Good grief!,” I thought, “Why in the world did I have to get this idea into my head?” After wandering around for about twenty minutes, I tried to ask someone in French where the bus stop was and where I could buy a ticket. After waiting in a long line for twenty minutes or more in front of the train ticket counter, I found out that the bus tickets were sold in the train station café. I then discovered that the directions given to me by more than one person were somehow being lost in translation. However, I finally figured out where the bus stop was (indicated by an itty-bitty blue sign beside the road) and made my way on a rather grimy bus to San Remo, but ended up getting off a stop down from the market. After so much frustration, I finally arrived at the market! Unlike most of the French markets I have been to so far which are held in a square in the old part of the city, this market was on a long promenade next to the sea. This market made me glad, once again, that I was a guy, because most of the stands contained items such as dresses, scarves, necklaces, earrings, rings, etc. and I’m sure the temptation to spend a bundle would be too hard for anyone of that gender. Now, the idea had come in my head that I could not quit Italy without having an Italian pizza, and I duly set out to find a reasonably priced establishment of that genre. Eventually, I found a ristorante where I had a pizza with tomato sauce, mozzarella, pesto, and a melt-in-your-mouth crust. I feel bad, but Pizza Hut will never taste the same anymore. After that life-changing experience in Italian gastronomy, I returned to Ventimiglia and proceeded to buy some Italian gelato, which makes American ice cream taste stale. (I will say it, though it may cause gasps and agony among some of my friends: Italian gelato—even French gelato—puts Blue Bell to shame. There, I said it; I have that off my chest.)

The promenade in San Remo where the Saturday market takes place. Notice the rather interesting tiling on the promenade.

My heavenly Italian pizza.

If I remember correctly, I had  limone, cioccolato, and fragola gelato (lemon, chocolate, and strawberry).

I later visited Biot, a nearby hillside village famous for its glass-making factory. I was actually able to watch someone making blown glass, with a red-hot shape being slowly formed into beautifully colored glassware by multiple times in ovens and having someone blow into it through a pipe. Unfortunately, most of the things for sale—including a gigantic glass menorah—were much more expensive and much heavier than I could afford, but I did hap upon a tiny glass cat that happened to be just a few euros. I had to buy that!

I believe this table set was a few hundred euros. Maybe later...

I really wished I could buy this ball, but it was  thirty-five euros. :( I like the bubbles.

The city of Antibes is not itself void of interesting places to visit. Of course, it has three or four large beaches and is well-known for its yacht port. However, I find that these things interest me less than the old places less visited by tourists. One of these places I “discovered” shortly after arriving here is known in French as Le Chemin du Calvaire, “The Way of Calvary.” 

The bottom of the Way of Calvary

This rocky, uneven pilgrimage trail from the 1600s climbs up a hill for about half a mile to the tenth-century Chapelle de la Garoupe, dedicated to Sainte-Hélène, whom Catholics believe to be the patron saint of sailors. Shrines line the left side of the path, depicting various stages (in Catholic theology) of Christ’s path from his trial to the Hill of Calvary. On the left are walls of villas, alternating with modern roadways, and on the right is the Wood of Notre-Dame. Yet this trail, so close to a rich city and a busy beach, is strangely quiet and solemn. Even though I am not in any way Catholic, I could not help but feel a little in awe at the thought that, four hundred years ago, pilgrims made their way, probably barefoot, up a pathway that is a workout to walk up even with shoes on. The chapel on top and the neighboring lighthouse command a vista not to be rivaled by any other place in Antibes, and I have taken many pictures from on top of it. Yet the most interesting part of this spot is found in the Wood of Notre-Dame. This wood has three entrances from the Chemin du Calvaire, one from the top, the middle, and the bottom. Numerous trails wind through the wood, the one spot of untamed wildness in Antibes. Yet the wood gives off an air of mystery that even the 400-year-old path could not match, for in it can be found ruins—Roman, medieval, or otherwise. Even the trails are old, with old stone stairways that must be a few hundred years old at least. But the mystery of it all is that there are no signs on the ruins or stairways, either to explain their existence or to keep tourists away. For tourists do not come here. Some of the people who live here do, but it still remains undiscovered to the world outside Antibes. Personally, I wonder if the ruins were once a medieval or even Roman fort. I found what appear to be six walls in succession with a path intersecting them in the middle and what might be a guard house a little further down the path. 

The first ruin I found in the wood

The six walls, or at least that's what they appear to be.

One of the stairways from the wood back into the Way of Calvary

What was also baffling is that the few people who do come here do not seem to be astounded by these ruins at all. No, they just nonchalantly walk their dogs and chat with each other while walking past the ruins of one or two thousand years ago. Every time I enter the woods, I feel a little chilled, even in the warm sunlight of the Riviera, at the thought of the secrets the wood contains, some perhaps not even yet discovered. I think of the woods and the chapel as my hideaway, where I can go when I want to think, but it is sometimes hard to recover from the mysterious yet sad air of all three places: the pilgrimage path, the chapel, and the wood.

On another subject, I am happy to say that my spoken French is already improving. My Advanced French class is completely in French, and we discuss all sorts of random subjects for three hours, including, of course, mistakes that American students often make when speaking French. My host mom, Madame Françoise, only knows individual words of English, so I have to be able to converse somewhat intelligibly in French whenever I talk to her. Needless to say, I am a constant source of amusement for her.

So, there’s the past month and a half here in France in a nutshell. I already know that I will miss many places and people terribly when I leave in December, most especially my beautiful Mediterranean and my beautiful Antibes. As I told someone in French at the Baptist church a couple of Sundays ago, “Je suis déjà assez Antibois” (“I am already rather Antibois”).  

P.S. Okay, for those wondering why my birthday is not September 8 in France, here's an explanation:
I was born on the evening of September 8, 1992, in Georgia (which happened to be a Tuesday, so I'm "full of grace"). Now, France is six hours ahead of Eastern Time. SO, I was born in the early morning of September 9 in French time. And there you have it.