When winter comes, birds fly south. I followed these birds this past week. Unfortunatly, I did not fly, but traveled by train to the small southern town of Aix en Provence. Aix is located in the southeast region of France, only 30 minutes from Marseille and the Mediterranean Sea. It is quite smaller than Paris and very much a college town filled with beautiful old buildings that line tiny streets no bigger than a shoulder’s with apart. The building seem so close to each other, it is as they reach across the street to touch each other’s rooftops. These small streets and golden brown buildings create twisting canyons that echo the buzz of speeding mopeds and excited college students. Eventually, these canyons flow into bigger streets lined with cafés, villas, apartment complexes, expensive restaurants, shops, pretty people, and big cars like Ashton Martins, Alfa Romeros, and BMWs. Aix is a wealthy town, thriving on the profit from Italian Mafia, tourists, and the students who live there. The weather is almost always perfect, great for tans, and the dry air makes it easier to stroll around.
Also sparkling the town with beauty, Aix is known for its many fountains. It was difficult walking down the street or tuning a corner without almost falling into one. But the constant sound of running water was refreshing to my eardrums, which had grown tired of the screeching sound of the Parisian police cars.

I stayed with my good friend Yuko, and her lovely roommates, Annaka and Rebecca. They live in a quaint little two-bedroom house just out side the center of town. Their house came equipped with a huge front yard and garden, perfect for sunny summer days of laying out and barbequing, or a warm sunny February morning breakfast. Inside, the floors were Spanish tiles, the walls were white, the kitchen was big, and the stove was always cooking. The living room was super comfortable and a front door did not exist. In its place were two big “French” glass doors, allowing the sun to come in and visit us when it felt ready to show its skin. But before the house was a sunroom filled with plans, and small table, and an armchair. These girls were living in style.

All three girls were a dynamic balance and a positive and amusing atmosphere to be around. Yuko, who is always so objective and wise, acted as my guide and councilor to my travels. She was always ready for whatever may happen. The first night I was there, Yuko and I went on a night hike through a little forest that runs along a running stream through the outskirts of Aix. Later we crossed a farmer’s field and found ourselves dead center in someone’s back yard. The only way out was through some bare grape vines. Yuko, with her small frame ninja like agility, easily pasted between the branches and the wires that connected them. I, much bigger and clumsier than she, found my self slowly moving through, getting tangled and tripping every 5 min. Typical.

The next day, Yuko and I traveled to Marseille, the famous port town that out looks on to the sea. Marseille, founded in 600BC by the Greeks, is the second largest city in France, and quite different from Paris, the capital of France. From my small observations of the 6-7 hours I spent there, Marseille is more eclectic than Paris. For example, the buildings aren’t all made of the same stone. There are different shapes and sizes, colors and styles. They are also more weather worn from the sea near by. The paint is peeling off the walls and the light blue and green trimmings are wood rotted. One could also say that Marseille is much dirtier than Paris. This is true, but in my opinion, this does not hinder the charm of the city, but adds a character to it. It truly is a seaside town. Where Paris can seem like a fantastical Disneyland for tourists, Marseille is rough and ready with warm open arms to incoming travelers, and the cold truth for those who think that Paris is all of France. Marseille is not so bourgeois.
Yuko and I took a ferry out to the island of If, only 20 minutes off the coast. I had missed the sea, the sight of the water, the smell of salt and fish, and the cries of seagulls over head. It was wonderful to be back in that atmosphere, to feel the Mediterranean wind through my hair. If is a tiny island with a small but very well made prison built on top. It is much like Alcatraz but much older and was made famous by Alexander Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo, in which the main character is imprisoned on the island of If. Though the day was a little over cast, the surrounding water was visibly crystal clear. And as the sun set, it pushed the clouds aside, providing us with a spectacular sky of oranges, purples, and a rich blue.

The next day I went hiking on my own on the mountain of St. Victoire. About 30 minutes outside of Aix, St. Victoire can be found among small French country lands and foothills covered in trees. The mountain is not quite Sequoia, but more than a stroll in the park. There can be some rock climbing involved and I managed to pick some wild rosemary. My trip was short and unfortunately, I never made it to the top because the higher I climbed, the faster the sun was setting. By the time I made it back to the road, the sun had set far behind the hills. But darkness was only the beginning of my dilemma. I had missed the last bus back into town and was stranded on the side of the road. What does one do when there is no bus, metro stop, taxicab, or bar for the next 15 miles? Faire l’autostop, which in English means, hitchhike. I had to get back to town, and I was already going to be late for Yuko’s birthday dinner, so I headed down the road on foot and stuck my thumb out every time a car passed me by. But I kept being denied. And because it was nighttime, I was hard to see. I walked. I ran after cars who seemed to slow down as they passed me. I sang songs. I met some white horses who acknowledged me as I passed them. Then, frustrated and hungry, I stuck my thumb out real big for a small car coming by in my direction, the first car that I had seen in a while. He passed me. I was fed up. I thought I would never get a ride. Then I saw him stop and put his car in reverse. I ran towards him.
I opened his car door and asked him if he was going to the center of town. “Ouai, viens,” he said. So I was in and we were flying down the road like he was making up for lost time. His name was Oliver. He was young, maybe in his late 20’s, and worked for a French rap group that I know called I AM. He told me, in his harsh southern accent, that he could barely see me on the road, but when he did, he stopped. He had done a lot of hitchhiking himself. We talked about the States and his dreams of going there and meeting a hot cheerleader. We talked about his disdain for Paris and his love for the rest of the country. We visited his girlfriend who he introduced me to as if I was a friend of his. He said, “Hey, this is my hitchhiker, Alexander. Alexander, this is my girl.” And then he dropped me off exactly where I needed to be, only blocks from the girls’ house. In return, I gave him a little gift I had in my backpack. With a big smile, he said it was very nice of me would dedicate it in my honor. But the honor was all his. Without him, it would have been a long, dark, and lonely walk back to Aix. But I made it back in time for desert.

That night Yuko and I met her friends, who are all super cool folks, and went dancing. The next day, the girls and I had a big breakfast and watched some TV. I headed back to Paris later that afternoon. Some how, I had ended up with a first class ticket. What a difference that made. What a comfortable ride. As I watched the farms pass, and the rivers go by, I reflected on my trip, and the things that I had learned about France, myself, and the function of other people, other cultures, and other Americans abroad in France. France is a small country, but it has got a lot invested into itself. It is a proud country, equipped with all the geographical elements a well-rounded piece of land needs, i.e the ocean, rivers, the plains and farmlands, the mountains, and the urban areas. It is much like California in that sense. And we both have good wine. Maybe that is the trick. Good wine makes people proud.
We American students came to France in search of a cultural, social, and educational experience. Some of us came because we wanted to break free from what we see as a corrupt and confused America. To get away from our self-perceptions in America and to examine our culture from outside our country, as if we were starring at the Earth from the moon and realizing, “Is that really how small we are?” Some of us came to simply learn French, make love to Europeans, and/or party all the time. And some of us still have no clue as to why we are here, we just are, and we keep going. Some of us may never stop going. Not until we reach the moon, until we can say, “Yes, that is how small we really are. So let us cover all the ground and learn all we can about this tiny place before what is becomes what was.”