We're talking about OLD

In Florida we have the pride of claiming for ourselves the oldest city in the United States. St. Augustine dates back to the mid sixteenth century. Here in France, after driving through ville after ville of charming, rose-covered houses, we asked our host, Mégane, how old the buildings were.

"Oh, these are not that old," she replied in her lilting accent. "Only from the seventeenth century."

Cathedral by the river in Périgord (not gonna lie, I love this shot)

Here in Europe, you are practically tripping over ancient ruins. You drive on old Roman chariot roads and rest beside neoclassical columns from the Renaissance. At the park, Mégane nonchalantly informed us that the public restroom was originally a Medieval prison, built in the eleventh century. That's old.

Castles here are commonplace. Every town has one. Some are the gaudy, glistening Renaissance châteaux, casting a Disneyland aura to the cobblestone streets and rose-trellis cafés. Some are the blocky ruins of Medieval fortresses, gnawed at by the passing centuries until only the grim contours remain.

Amboise, location of my favorite movie, Ever After (if you haven't watched it, you should)

Snapped this while driving (actually I was in the passenger seat). Beautiful châteaux are everywhere!

Donjon de Bourdeilles

I love walking along the outside of the châteaux. True, it's neat touring the inside and standing in places where kings and queens stood, but the exterior is always beautiful. Châteaux are usually set on the highest point in town, overlooking the river. We've picnicked along the Loire, painting watercolors of the way the sunlight drenches the walls of castles like Amboise or Chinon. It's perfect.

Drawing sesh outside of Chinon, where Jeanne d'Arc (Joan of Arc) confronted Charles VII

"Pique-nique" along the Loire River

This weekend, however, we visited a place that makes Medieval castles look young and fresh. Montignac, France. Home to the Lascaux Caves, a stunning gallery of prehistoric art. Sadly, the caves are completely sealed off in order to protect the art from erosion––or something like that––but you can visit a near-exact replica, "Lascaux II," if you want to see cave paintings younger than your parents.

The cliffs at Les Eyvies (any help on the pronunciation would be welcome)

I didn't. I was in awe of just the cliffs themselves. They hurtled towards us from the darkness at one in the morning as we drove into the ville of Les Eyvies, a town dwarfed by the the massive cliffs that stand guard around it. At some points the rock juts out completely over the road, ready to make a sandwich of drivers. We spent that night in the car, sleeping under these cliffs which once sheltered prehistoric humans, and in the morning, they were the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes.

I still can't get over these cliffs

The houses are built into the rock face

I had such an amazing time in Southern France. The ruins were stunning and we visited one of my favorite castles yet! If I find some wifi, I'll be posting later. Au revoir!

Wait, WHAT am I chewing?

France is a magical place. I've walked through the sunlight along fields of tawny wheat to pick up toasty baguettes at the local boulangerie. The heat soaks through the paper and warms my fingers on the short walk home. The bread is baked fresh every morning and served at every meal. It's a sweet, simple yet deliberate lifestyle. 

Sadly, they don't eat french fries in France, but they do eat some pretty exotic, uh…stuff. Stuff that one might not usually expect to find at the dinner table. First of all, moldy cheese. I'd eaten bleu cheese in the States, but that was pretty mild compared to what passes as edible here. Walking into the massive cheese aisle at the grocery store smells like you've just strode into a locker room. I have sampled every type of cheese placed before me (which is, in my opinion, rather brave) and some of these cheeses are so alive they could be placed in a zoo and observed.

So french fries aren't really French, but escargot definitely is, and you MUST eat escargot while visiting France, right? Unless, of course, you have shellfish allergies. In that case, it would be really stupid to eat escargot because you could have a reaction and die. I, unfortunately, have had shellfish allergies since I was fourteen, so I obviously couldn't eat any escargot…

…But I did anyway! I ate a snail! And then I had an allergic reaction, so it appears my wild, snail-eating days are over. Poor me. (Common sense will definitely be a higher priority for me from now on.)

I've learned that while traveling abroad, it is wise to ask what it is you're eating either before or after you eat it. Don't ask mid-chew or you may be sorry (that's how pig-snout pie happened). Another night, I sat down to what looked like a cute, little chocolate cupcake. I bit into it to discover a flavor that was decidedly not chocolate or cute. Meat, maybe? I finished the "cupcake," but declined seconds because it was too disconcerting chewing something that looked and felt like cake but tasted like sausage.

Emme smiled and met my gaze. "That was blood," she announced.

"Like…blood blood? Blood as in runs-through-your-veins-blood?"

"Yes. Blood."

STOP SAYING THAT WORD.

I like France. I like having bread at every meal, taking morning walks to the bakery…and I like blood to stay far, far away from the kitchen.

Oh l'amour part un: Love, you nasty thing

I've come to Ecuador to learn French! (Odd, that.) Since I'm going to be living in France for several weeks, and I previously knew nothing about the language, I figured it'd be smart to take some classes. I ended up in a super-intense-five-week-two-hour-a-day French class taught for Spanish-speakers.

Not gonna lie; it's hard.

Luckily for me, many Ecuadorians take English in school, so I've been able to carry out basic communication with most of them. One man in particular, Leon, strove to converse with me.

"Victoria," he murmured, "you are distracting me."

"I am?"

"Yes. With your beauty."

"Oh. Well, I can come looking like a bum from now on if that would help."

"God has a garden with many flowers, but you are the most beautiful flower of all."

Leon's romantic attentions escalated quickly. Two weeks into class, he presented me with a bouquet of roses in front of the entire class (the heat I felt in my cheeks could've roasted marshmallows). After that, when I sat apart from him, the other women (giggling loudly) would rearrange themselves so that Leon was seated next to me, giving him ample opportunity to brush against my arm or touch my hand––despite my pointed glares.

"Sorry, but I'm not really interested in romance right now," I announced to him after class.

"I want to spend more time with you," he replied.

"No. I'm not interested. In you."

"Can you come to my house?"

I toyed with the idea of pulling out my iPod and playing my theme song for him. Instead I shook my head and said, "Nope."

"I will expect you sometime this week?"

"No, I'm never going to your house. Ever."

"Victoria, God has a garden with many flowers, but you are the most beautiful flower of all."

"Huh. Never heard that one before. But look, here's my ride. Goodbye."

He sighed in defeat, then leaned in for the customary "kiss" on the cheek. You always have to kiss everybody goodbye here––it basically involves bending towards somebody so that your cheek is next to theirs, then making a kissing sound. It still feels odd to me, but I suppose the custom of shaking hands looks odd to outsiders. Still, I should've been smarter…

Leon leaned forward, then made a quick dive for my lips. I jerked my head to the side and his lips landed at the corner of my mouth. His soft, squishy lips. "NO!" I shouted, shoving him back with all my strength, then turned and stomped to the car. I was livid, horrified, disgusted––and absolutely, irrevocably enraged.

Seething, I went home, listened to some angsty Taylor Swift music, plotted my revenge, and wrote mean things about men in my journal. Then…I transferred to another class. This section is a lot smaller, with only five girls (all my age or younger) and one young man who could be an Abercrombie & Fitch model. Not that I'm interested.

We'll see how it goes…