Very recently I went to the beach. You may be thinking, K-dawg, what the hell? Isn't it winter? Why yes, dear readers, it sure is. But that doesn't stop me, you see. Not at all. That and, I bought the tickets in September. When the sun came out almost every day. And I didn't have to wear all the clothes I own, all layered like some kind of ironic and tasteless cake. Funny, Pau. Funny.
One of my exchange student friends, LilliBelle, and I decided we wanted to meet up while I was in France, so we both took the train to Narbonne, a town near the Mediterranean coast. Shockingly enough, when we got there the sun was out and we could actually take off our winter coats. We recognized each other immediately, which was a good feeling--an even better feeling was the one that came when I realized that she really wanted to see me, and did everything in her power to make this weekend happen--she wrote letters to the Tourism Office, she found the hotel, she even reserved my tickets for me online and I paid for them at the station. I've noticed that a lot of French people treat visits like that--like they're the most important thing in the world. I like that :)
We took a bus to Gruissan, the beach town, and walked along the absolutely empty beach while the sun was setting. It was absolutely breathtaking. During the summertime the position of the bay shelters it from wind and the tide isn't very strong, so there are literally no waves, but since we went in the winter, there were little ones.
LilliBelle was shocked at how much my French has improved--I am, too, even though I had a little run-in with my host mum recently when I told her I was going to take a shower (je vais me doucher) and she thought I said "je vais me toucher" (I'm going to go touch myself). Regardless, I'm improving :)
We saw a fight on our way back to the town! For realsies! The bus driver (who was really cute, I might add) waited three minutes past his pull-away time so that we could catch the last bus back to the town (if not, we would have spent the evening in the coldest, windiest, most deserted beach village I have ever encountered.) The only other man on the bus was having a bitchfest about how late he was going to be (three minutes) and how much of an inconvenience it was (shut up). The bus driver, after several minutes of listening to Incessant Ignorant Man repeating the same phrases over and over, finally slammed on the brakes and sent the guy face-first into the windshield. Not through it (it was thick :P), but down the little bus stairs, and then the yelling began. Cute Bus Driver put his finger in Incessant Ignorant Man's face and said things that were wholly impolite, very true, and really funny. Afterwards, he apologized to us and offered to take us out for a drink. Sweet, cute bus driver man :)
That night we stayed in a hotel that catered to travelers on tight budgets. We were the only young people there, as the rest of the guests were approximately 60 or older and there for a convention. At 3 a.m. we were rudely awakened by a fire alarm, so we put our boots on over our pajamas and went downstairs. We ended up in the middle of a giant room full of grandparents doing the Hand Jive in front of a giant cake topped with sparklers sitting directly beneath the smoke alarm. I wanted some cake, but the alarm stopped and we went back to bed.
The city was really deserted because it's not the season for tourists, but we found some good places to eat and, on Sunday, we found a giant market where we bought jambon de pays (smoke-dried ham, straight off the leg), chèvre de corse (goat cheese in a crust of Provençal herbs, mushrooms, and chili peppers) and fresh baguettes, and we had basically the best lunch I've ever had. Ever.
On the train on the way back I was sitting in a bank of four seats by myself. I had my ipod in, I was listening to my playlist aptly dubbed "TrainMusique," and I was generally aware of the countryside, the train, my car, and everyone around me. Suddenly, I saw a little black boy who looked uncannily like this one. He popped his head up over the back of the seat and looked at me so quizzically. I smiled a little. He proceeded to move his eyebrows up and down to the beat of the song I was listening to, which he clearly couldn't hear (or could he?!), then disappeared back behind the seat. I never saw him again. I wonder, did I imagine this little black boy? Or perhaps he was real and just very, very sly. Or maybe magic. That must be it. The magic little black boy I saw on the train on my way back from the beach after Thanksgiving. Oh, you.
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