Europe, Spring 2015

There are parts of the world that I believe will never change with time. No matter how modern the technology, or fast the pace of life, some will always remain the same. Traditions will hold fast, culture will always be respected. In these places routine is important, and expected. You can find them all over, from the hill tribes of Thailand to small town America. Quaint, small, and often picturesque; things move as slowly as the river that passes through town.

Lagrasse, France is one such place. There is one main road that holds the school, a handful of restaurants, a patisserie, and a pharmacy. Turning off this street takes you down narrow roads that even tiny European cars can barely squeeze through. And these are the houses. Stone buildings with painted shutters, rose buses or ivy climbing the walls, and boxes of flowers lining the front of most windows. Among these streets are also small stores – the soap shop, the craft store, the leather store, a pottery store, a clothing store. Everything made from hand, every stitch sewn with utter care and concentration. We stayed in Lagrasse for about a week, in a three-story house that held five bedrooms, six bathrooms, two kitchens and a courtyard. There were leisurely mornings spent exploring the town, visiting every shop as even that only took up an hour of the day. Late afternoons we sat on the terrace of the one café that had wifi (since our house did not), sharing the bottle of wine that was bought to allow us access to the password and to hold a table as long as we pleased. Not that it mattered, frequently we were the only patrons seated, excepting, perhaps, a group of French tourists passing through to visit the Abbey on the edge of town, or a local having a coffee with their cigarette.

One morning we drove towards Province and spent the day wine tasting in the Châteauneuf-du-Pape region. Another evening we spent five hours, eating over eight courses, at a restaurant known to be one of the best in France, in another town small enough to make one wonder how it came to be rated by Michelin in the first place. We shared a bottle of wine per course. And by 1:30 in the morning – the last table seated – we were more than ready for bed.

It was all very typically French. Quite the French week we had in the South Western part of France. I’ve been to France before. I was 13, in eighth grade, and was unprepared for the French way of things. I did not know what culture shock was, or to expect it from a part of the world that seems just as Western as the one I grew up in. Years later, as a sophomore at Northeastern, I would take a French culture class and begin to see my week in France at 13 with far more clarity.

I am not a fan of the stereotypical French way of things. Something about France rubs me the wrong way. It seems unnecessarily pretentious to me. (A statement that will make my close friends double over in laugher to hear me say. I think they might think it’s ironic, or something.) I feel that much more out of place as a foreigner. Until this trip I’ve never been anywhere else in Europe. France was my only bar with which to measure this part of the world. And possibly that’s why I’ve been so disinterested in Europe. I’ve never felt a strong desire to backpack Europe. Though it’s one of the things I plan to do at some point in my life, when I graduated college I planned a trip to the Middle East instead. For my study abroad semester, I chose South Africa (which I took to the extreme by staying for ten months and returning again for another semester the following year). Currently I am attempting to figure out a way to get myself to Latin America for an extended period of time. Europe has never been high on my list – perhaps there is something about being about to find a bathroom so easily that makes travel less exciting for me; if you don’t have to work hard for it, you haven’t really earned it. Obviously I write this in jest – South Africa had wonderful, accessible toilets, and is extremely developed as far as Africa goes – but I do find myself partial to travel destinations that are a little more off the beaten path. My dad told me after my Middle East trip that they’d prefer me to pick safer locations in the future. But those just aren’t as fun, and nowhere near as interesting for me.

All that being said; I loved Spain. Spanish is just as beautiful in Spain. And Spain just feels friendlier. Everyone eats outside in Spain – every restaurant has a terrace. In many places, food is more expensive on the terrace than inside. Every meal I ate in Spain was incredible, and lasted hours. I love the way Spanish people eat – big meal at lunch, nap in the afternoon, tapas late at night for dinner. It was a routine that my friend Ranleigh and I easily fell into after our first day in Barcelona. The architecture in Barcelona was incredible – felt a little Parisian, but with a Spanish twist. One day we wandered around the old part of the city to visit Ranleigh’s favorite cathedral, and spent time getting lost down streets that seemed almost like alleys, filled with boutiques, and bars and restaurants. And the food is also amazingly cheap! The meal of the day always comes with two or three courses, a drink and either coffee or dessert and is typically around 13 euros. We easily stuck to our budget of 50 euros per day, even splurging at night on starters and bottles of wine.

The train from Barcelona to Valencia took us along the sea; blue stretched out to our left the entire three-hour journey. In Valencia our cab driver to the hostel eagerly chatted to us in Spanish. After asking where we were from he told us how Americans speak Spanish very well – as opposed to those from the UK who come to Spain and apparently don’t know a word – which did make me feel more confident about my scattered Spanish for the rest of the trip. In Valencia we ate breakfast from the market every day – freshly squeezed juice, pastries and the sweetest watermelon I’ve ever tasted. An hour an a half walk from the hostel got us to the beach, which was too windy to lay on for too long, but we did share our second jug of Sangria in Spain at a restaurant just off the boardwalk. Valencia was filled with just as many fancy stores as Barcelona, and plenty of fabulous 80-year-old Spanish women who wear pantsuits, heels and a full face of makeup just to run to the grocery store.

After five days here I already feel as if I could live here. Even after confusion at the train station in Valencia that led us to missing our train and getting in five hours later than planned to Madrid, this country has thoroughly won me over. Perhaps Spain will be the next place life takes me.