Yeah, I totally climbed that...

THIS RIGHT HERE:
This, my friends, is the Château de Peyrepertuse, in the middle of nowhere (also known as the Razes region of the Languedoc). It is on a really frickin' tall mountain. And no, I did not climb all the way from the river valley. I did, however, climb for half an hour over some very slippery trail in some ferocious wind and rain. As usual, I neglected to bring any practical clothing. But sometimes, kids, you have to strap on your ballet flats, pull your cashmere throw over your head, and man up.
The Château was occupied by the Cathars during the Albigensian crusade. They lasted a decade or so because the local lord was a sympathizer (and had ties to the crown of Aragon), but eventually everything falls to the Church. But really, it must have been a crappy place to live--all they had were rocks and heresy.

Heretical Tapestries!

How exciting is it to have a beautifully preserved tapestry of mysterious origins and possibly mystical themes? I know, I know: YOU'RE PSYCHED. Yesterday, my mom and I continued our tour of Languedoc-Roussillon by heading to Narbonne. The 13th century cathedral is impressive in itself, especially because it was unceremoniously bricked up halfway through the nave when people got tired of building it. There's a series of Aubusson tapestries hanging in the side chapels, and a couple of impressive 15th century Brussels tapestries showing King David. In the treasury room, there are two Flemish tapestries: one shows a kind of Purgatory, and the other depicts the Creation. Those three robed men who appear everywhere are a bizarre depiction of the Trinity, occupied with creating the universe. The Purgatory tapestry is even weirder: Vulcan, the Roman god, is at his forge in the sky, sending down rays of lightning to a bunch of people drowning in the sea. The people are labeled, and among them are Cleopatra, the city of Antioch, and Helena (mother of Constantine). What they all have in common, no one can figure out. There are symbols that hint at an unknown thread of mysticism, though, and that's more fun than I can stand.
Today, we leave our very own castle (of which I am undoubtedly the princess) to go south towards Collioure. We plan on seeing a lot of ruined castles (of which I might be the princess as well: stay tuned) and ending up at the beach.

April in Paris

The cliché about spring in Paris being a quasi-mystical experience is mostly a bunch of hooey. As a counterargument (to myself), I present to you: ducklings. These little darlings live in the pond in the center of the Square des Templars. Long ago, before they were driven bankrupt and then burned at the stake, the Templars had their French headquarters here. Now, a duck family and lots of flowers are making much better use of it.
I don't know how I'm going to survive Chicago, because I am absurdly glad at all the blossoming trees, new leaves, and faint snatches of sun here after only two months of grey weather. Just grey, not even snowing and freezing off my extremities. It's going to be a long road, people. Luckily, I don't have to think about that right now, because my lovely mother is meeting me for a week in the Languedoc region in the south of France. Medieval ruins + sites from religious wars + beach = my perfect vacation.

So it's true: Katie has dumped me for the United States. I just got off the phone with her, and she's landed in San Francisco. We had a lovely time, and her air mattress will miss her.
On Thursday, Katie met me after school and we walked through the Jardin de Luxembourg. This week was actually rather warm, and it was a good time to do it. We walked down a bit to the Closerie des Lilas, a famous café where many famous authors have written famous books. We kept meaning to take an entire tour of Places Where Hemingway Put His Ass, but this was our only day of it. Katie's Frommer's informed us that in Hemingway's poorer student days, he would walk a pram into the Jardin de Luxembourg and wring the necks of unfortunate pigeons, which he would then hide in the pram and take home to cook. He wrote The Sun Also Rises on the terrace of the Closerie (where Katie also studiously recorded things in her notebook).
Making this afternoon all the more lively and all the more French, a student protest was taking place all down the Boulevard St. Michel, which passes both the Gardens and the Closerie. We were separated from a very loud bunch of chanting people by a juniper hedge. Juniper is not a good soudproofer.
Still, we were not nearly as French as the man we passed on the way, taking a break from the protest and chatting with his friends while drinking white wine out of a bottle and smokind a cigarette. French civil disobedience is terribly civilized.

Sunday Dinner

There are many lovely people in my class, but chief amongst them is Hannah. I can say that, because none of them know the URL for this blog. This is Hannah with her partner Jason and their lovely 1-year-old daughter Naomi. We had what is becoming our traditional boozy weekend lunch yesterday. Katie's come along for the last two, and she might be as close to adopting this family as her own as I am. Let me tell you about them.
Hannah has a scientist father who has invested in many a start-up research project over the years. Having a serial start-up father myself, I can relate. Her father, several years ago, was close to bankrupting himself over a particular agricultural product when Hannah and her sister decided to buy him out, giving him money with which to retire and giving themselves a business. It went rather well, and they sold the company two years ago. Since then, they've been traveling from their home base outside of Toronto (Jason is Canadian, Hannah is British but has lived in Canada for many years) to various exotic destinations. As of now, they're here, where Hannah is taking the course at the Sorbonne and Jason is tending Naomi in the mornings. Jason is very funny: a dry, kind of dark sense of humor. Naomi is a little ham who eats as much as she can stuff in her face and cracks herself up constantly. She's also a very entertaining dancer.
So last Sunday we set ourselves the project of a truly French Sunday meal. In France, as in certain parts of the US, all of the extended family gathers on Sunday for lunch, which lasts just about all day long. Ours lasted for six hours and several bottles of wine, so I think we did pretty good. Hannah made grilled white asparagus, beef bourgougnion, and tarte aux citrons (a French lemon-custard tart). Pretty damn French, right? Annie, our lovely Chinese friend, passed out on the couch after two glasses of wine, which is admittedly a lot for her, but the rest of us powered through. Katie did a lot of weaving on the way home, but I got her back here. She flopped down on the bed, without even taking off her shoes, and slept for hours. We may have to build up to the French thing...