Three posts in one. Sorry in advance.

Hello again, fair readers. I apologize for my tardiness in posting this, but Berlin sucked Walker and I into its crazy, wonderful vortex the instant we arrived and we just haven’t been able to stop. Long days and longer nights have kept us occupied since the moment we stepped off the train in Alexanderplatz. But I’ll get there in a minute; for the sake of posterity, let’s back up a few days.

As you may have read, my birthday was basically canceled due to a Catholic holiday called the Feast of Ascension, so by birthday present from Walker (horseback riding through the apple orchards to the ocean and back) had to be delayed. We became determined to ride in Provence, and on Friday we finally spent the day on horseback. It took 7+ hours in the saddle, but we summited Mont Ventoux, which is part of the Alps chain and a UNESCO protected site due to the amazing diversity of its flora and fauna, some of which are only found in this one location. It’s a small mountain, as mountains go—only 6,273 feet—which explains how we were able to start on the plain below, summit, and return to camp in just over 9 hours. It is also featured in the Tour de France every couple of years.
My horse’s name was Nippy, and Walker’s was called Alaska. It didn’t take long to convince me that Walker’s horse should have been called Nippy, for obvious reasons. He called it Fat Albert. It wasn’t as mean as some horses I’ve known, but Alaska was obstinate to a fault on this journey. In a continued effort to lead the group, she kept trying to get in front of our guide (who was working off of a topo since there wasn’t much of a trail in places). This effort might involve walking on slippery shale or through a low pine tree, but Alaska continued to try. My horse, on the other hand, got tired of being harassed by Walker’s, and decided the back of the line was just fine. I swear the horse was watching and learning where not to put its feet by monitoring the other two in front of us. Being caboose gave me the freedom to practice my horseback acrobatics as I tried various positions to keep my knees from locking up, as well as the ability to fall back a ways so I could canter up again. We did get to canter for a mile or so at the start of the ride, but didn't want to lather up the horses too much.
We rode through ancient vineyards, where the grapevines had trunks as big as the nearby cherry trees, which were themselves flush with the fruit that you’ll see in the market in a week or two. We rode up the rocky soil, switchbacking through the trees, ducking under branch after branch. We probably spent an hour of the ride lying over our horses’ necks with various barks and beetles making their way down the backs of our shirts. We were headed for a restaurant at tree line called Chateau Reynard, a popular stop for cyclists on the way down the mountain after summiting. The restaurant is relatively cheap in order to appeal to the hundreds of cyclists who ride by it every day, but their chef is incredible. We ate the best meal we’d had our entire time in France: roasted Rosemary- and herb-encrusted lamb ribs, cheese-stuffed baked tomatoes, potatoes au gratin heavy on the garlic, and more. If they could have, my tastebuds would have handed in their notice, never wanting to taste anything again after the perfection of the crème brulée.
I could continue rhapsodizing on the view, the incredible diversity of the trees we rode through, the sweet birdsongs that accompanied us everywhere like something out of Bambi… but I’ll leave that for those of you who care to ask us about later.
Of course, the only day in Avignon that we absolutely had to walk several miles with fully-loaded packs was the day we woke up to a torrential downpour. As the locals were all celebrating the much-needed rain, Walker and I were collecting trash bags so that we could at least keep our packs dry. The bags were a success, but we arrived at the train station soaked and shivering.

After a train, a bus, a plane, two more trains, four shuttles, another plane, another two trains, and a stint on Santa’s sleigh, we arrived at Ingo’s house in Berlin. His mom is also in town and staying with him, a fact he didn’t mention, but which turned out to our advantage as she is a fantastic chef and a very interesting woman. We had no sooner arrived than we were invited to brunch with she, some of her old friends that happened to be in town, and several of Ingo’s friends and their traveling companions. It was a hodgepodge but very interesting group with conversations ranging from rock climbing to the pharmaceutical industry. That night, despite having woken up at 5am to catch our flight, we were persuaded to come out to the bars. Only the lure of Dr. Pong’s—the ping-pong bar that prompted me to learn to play two summer ago—could have kept us out as long as we were. I got 2nd place once, and Walker won twice. Ingo swept the floor with everybody, of course. I’m hoping to play him one-on-one today and see how well I do when tequila isn’t involved…

Yesterday we spent at Badeschiff, a bar built to mimic a beach—complete with sand and a sunken ship that has been converted into a swimming pool that floats in the river. What a brilliant idea! We laid on our towels playing cards and drinking grapefruit juice mixed with beer (very refreshing). Badeschiff is definitely the hip place to be on a sunny day, and you feel very exclusive heading through the warren of warehouses on the waterfront to where its entrance is hidden. The evening was much slower, and though we were out until past 3am (bars in Berlin close at 5 or 6, if they close at all) we spent the night just walking around town and eventually settling in at one comfy bar for scotch and conversation.

Not sure what the plan is for today, and that’s the way I want to keep it. It’s colder and windy today; no longer Badeschiff weather. Everyone is still asleep but me, and it’s after noon, but that is what has given me time to write. I’m going to go scrounge up some breakfast. We spend twelve hours traveling tomorrow, but I look forward to sleeping in my own bed!

Real post coming soon...

Ok, so I spent the entire evening video chatting with my mom and brother, which means I haven't had any time to post a blog, unfortunately. I promise I'll post as we get settled in Berlin on the 1st recounting our day on horseback yesterday and the pain the followed. Be patient and good things will come.

To summarize, we leave France with no regrets. We have visited huge cities and petit villages, crossed mountains, valleys, rivers, oceans, vinyards, and apple, pear, peach and cherry orchards. We have traveled by high-speed train, slow minicar, and horse. We have eaten our way through at least four different distinct schools of cuisine, and will return gratefully to the country where 24 fitness was invented.

In short, we look forward to seeing you all in the good old U.S. of A. More from Berlin...

Avignon 28 May-To Find a Car

As you may recall for Jess' birthday I gave her a horseback riding session, and as you also may recall the Feast of Asencion also happened on that day and in France, the feast took precedence. The week started out with us trying to find a suitable horseback riding place. We found one in the Mont Ventoux area, a world heritage site because it encompases all of the terrain that can be found in Europe--ranging from grasslands and riverin areas to arctic tundra above treeline. Everything seemed simple, make reservations and simply show up. reservations not so hard? showing up, much more difficult. This morning we set out to get a car after finding out that public transport would leave us over 6 km from our destination. Normally ~4miles wouldn't be so bad but 4 miles before and 4 miles after spending 6+ hours on a horse is not something we relish. Thus begain the trial of finding a rental car.

First stop the Avignon Centre Train Station where as the Lonely Planet guide puts it "all rental car companies are located and well marked." Anyone who has ever used a Lonely Planet knows the books are out of dqte the minute they are printed. the only one there was Avis and the young female attendant stated that "we have nothing." After taking a ten-minute shuttle to the main TGV station the next 5 companies told us the same. Why on earth, you might ask, would all the rental companies be out of cars? "c'est une, how you say? holiday religouse. funny that sounds familiar. For a country that stresses La laïcité or complete seperation of church and state it seems interesting that catholisism shuts France down more than car bombs shut down Baghdad. Anyway, long story short at about 5:15 we found a company that had a car if we could get there by 6. Everyone in the states is familiar with rush hour, now add a medeival walled city and see what you get. Our taxi driver was a true pro not only did he get to the rental place with 5 min to spare he did it while discussing American domestic policy.

Our driver was under the impression that people were dropping dead on the sides of the streets--no hyperbole--because of the lack of general health insuarance. Jess and I did our best to assuage his thoughts on this mater. Anywho we got the cqr and after a hair-raising drive back to the hostel we got the car. My butt hurts pre-emptively for the 6+ hour horseback ride tommorow.

A pear-fect day

Our hostel is on the Île de Barthelasse, an island in the Rhône river that is larger than the entire city of Avignon. Strangely, our guidebook has nothing to say about the island, or what can be found on it besides our hostel. This piqued my curiosity immediately, and when yesterday dawned overcast and without the usual oppressive heat, we decided to take the day and go exploring. Walker stocked his day pack with water, crackers, and Rondelé (which is embarassingly cheap here) and we set off along the water, heading vaguely northward. We eventually merged onto a bike trail, which we lost and found several times, though we weren't making any real effort to stay on it. After an hour or so, we decided to cut across the island toward the other branch of the river. Having neither map nor compass, it was not apparent to us at the time that we'd chosen the widest part of the island as our crossing point. As the sun started to peek out from behind the clouds that we'd known were too good to last, we wandered through several dozen hectares of apple and pear orchards, marvelling at the picturesque scenery.

After wanding in this aimless fashion for some time, Walker spotted a sign for a distillery. Needless to say, we changed course immediately. Another half hour brought us to the site, where a Frenchman napping under a pear tree told us the tasting room would open in under an hour. The sun was out in force by that point, so Walker and I found a spot under a tree and tucked in to our meager lunch. As the designated time approached, we headed back to the building, only to have the formerly sleeping arborist wave us toward the orchard, muttering incomprehensibly. I asked him to repeat himself, and he did, louder and even less decipherable, shooing us impatiently into the trees. Walker and I obendiantly wandered into the orchard, silently wondering which direction the axe murderer was most likely to come from, when Walker spotted that which we were supposed to be looking at. Strapped to the trees in twos and threes were bottles with pears growing in them!

Some were barely the size of a fingernail, while others were larger than golf balls, but all of them were growing merrily in glass bottles of all shapes and sizes. We explored and took several photos before heading to the tasting building, where we met the owner--a short, dark-haired man in work clothes who opened up immediately when it became apparent that we wanted to know the processes behind the products. We sampled l'eau de vie ("the water of life," indeed), which is made by fermenting fruit--like we do when making cider--and then distilling that fermentation like a whiskey mash. The result is a clear, aromatic liquid lightly flavored by the fruit it was made from. Not that the process is confined to fruit. The distillery also makes eau de vie from beer and absinthe. The French seem to be inordinately fond of sweet beverages, and we sampled several prime examples, including crème de peche (an alcoholic syrup that would taste amazing on vanilla ice cream) and the local appertif: Pastis, an anise-flavored liqueur that you dilute heavily with water.
All of this sampling (and more, I'm pleased to say) took place alongside "spirited" conversation ranging over topics as diverse as American fraternity drinking habits, water pollution in the Middle East, and the possibility of humans eventually living in other solar systems--an idea our host embraced wholeheartedly, pointing out that our own sun is scheduled to blow up in just a few million years.

It was a trip-completing experience for me. This is why I came to France: to wander sideroads among sprawling orchards, taste fine local produits, and argue educational reform in French. Come what may, I count this trip a success as of now.

Avignon

So despite the bizarre circumstances surrounding my birthday, it was a good one. We ran around town frantically trying to stock up on food before the market closed at noon, and got a tasty strawberry crème cake decorated with music notes. Then we wandered around the north part of Bayeux all afternoon and spent the evening playing poker at our hotel eating apple and cheese sandwiches. All things considered, a very satisfying day.

As evident from the title of this entry, we decided to head to Provence first rather than Burgundy. We had intended to come here only if we had time after Burgundy, but every French person we talked to said that Provence was their favorite part of France. The TGV (an acronym which translate to "train of great speed") got us for one end of the country to the opposite in only 5 hours. Crazy. We're staying at a hostel attached to a campground on an island in the river here. Centre ville Avignon is a medeival walled city, complete with castle, and thr view from our island is beautiful. The plan for now is to spend a couple days here, maybe try to go horseback riding, and then head into the mountains for a few more days to hike.



And now for the photos I've been promising...

Bayeux

Ok, we're out of Paris and into Normandy. We escaped the squalor of our Paris hostel (where at least one person had to be carted away in an ambulance for alcohol poisoning) and moved ourselves into a hotel in Bayeux, since the only hostel in town is full. Glory of all glories, we have a shower I'm not afraid to use!
I have to say, this trip isn't at all what I was expecting. After my last rambling voyage, this seems so tame that I'm--well, quite frankly, I'm bored. I'm loving the time with Walker, and the escape from obligation is relieving, but there's no sense of adventure or discovery. I guess I never thought about what we would do after we'd had crèpes in the cafés and admired the scenery. It's like being in a painting. You can see the picturesque images all around you, but you can't ever touch it or be a part of it.
That being said, we made a bit of our own adventure by attempting what should have been an easy 3km hike to an orchard and cidèrie, but instead ended up in a pasture with the biggest cows I've ever seen. Like Ford Explorer big. And not particularly thrilled to see us. We hiked back along the road rather than climb over fences and through nettles again.
Yesterday, we rented a car and drove to Mont St. Michel, a town and castle/monestary built on an island. It would be considered an architectural miracle today, and 1300 years ago it was what the Europeans thought heaven looked like. It is inaccessible at high tide, and it looks like you have to drive through the kingdom of Catan to get there. Whoever owns the nearest sheep port is making bank... I know I promised photos at this point, but the internet here is slower than most places in Morocco, so you'll have to wait a bit longer, désolé.

Well, today is my birthday. As with France, I hadn't considered the immediate future beyond 21. Obviously I knew I'd turn 22, but I just hadn't though of the birthday itself passing. Walker surprised me this morning by offering to take me horseback riding along the beach, which made me super excited. Then when we went to rent a car to go to the stables a few towns over, the car place was closed, so we walked to the next one. Also closed. We began noticing that everything was closed. Turns out today is the Catholic Feast of Ascenscion--in other words, the entire country of France closes down. So no horseback riding, though we did manage to get enough food for luch and dinner before the supermarket closed early. Our bedroom looks like a Y2K shelter. We did manage to get a cake, which is great since I didn't have one last year. We plan on spending the rest of the day alternately walking around town, reading, and doing crossword puzzles. As for the Catholics, let them--actually, nevermind. No cake for them.

16Mai - Versaille

Well dear readers I think thus far you have heard only from Jess, but I am here too. Yesterday we headed out to the Chateau Versaille. I can't remember if Jess posted about this already or not, but Eliot and Melisa Snyder gave us their four-day Museum passes which got Jess and I into, well all of the big museums for free. These passes let us skip all the long lines and just walk in, supper swell and big ups to the Snyders for hooking us up.

The approach to the Chateau is up a long wood-lined boulevard and then across a cobble-paved square to the gold plated gates. While the exterior is nice it is not quite as impressive as the Louvre just generally a sentiment of "well that used to be nice" it was a lot smaller than I was anticipating. What we could see of the Chateau was coated in gold. No wonder France was broke prior to the revolution all its money went to gold chandelliers and silly life styles. After a tour of the grounds Jess and I rented a small rowboat and cruised around the Grand Canal. We passed a nested pair of swans aggressively defending their territory. They snapped at everything within about ten feet of the nest to drive it away but were still beautiful. On the way back to the dock we saw a boat with four teenagers in it flailing wildly with their oars unable to build up much speed. They had one lad on each oar and were not really sure what they were doing. Whether deliberately or by accident I could not see, but somehow they blundered into a line of ducks--a mother and a trail of fledgelings--and flipped one of the little ones. The poor thing was unable to turn over and while Jess pulled it out as soon as we could navigate close enough it died in her arms shortly after. The youths, out of ignorance or callousness, laugh as they paddled away. So much for the innocence of youth.

It started to rain as we headed back towards the Chateau, and while the fountains had been turned on the day was quite bleak due to the duck incedent. It did get better but I'm sick of navigating this keyboard so I will finish this day later.