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.

I am not edible, please

Bienvenue a France! It was a long, long journey. I didn't even get a chance to sleep the last night in Italy––we drove from Florence to Rome, packed up the bags, dropped off the cars, navigated the airport for a six AM flight, then drove three hours from Paris to Tours. By the time we reached our final destination, I felt strained past my breaking point. I staggered upstairs and face planted on the bed. The end of everything.

But at three o' clock, in the dead, dark hours of the morning, I was wrenched from my sleep by a sharp pain in my finger. I frantically flung my hand and jerked upright, waking Emme, who had been sharing the bed. Clutching my finger, I looked around. And I saw…

Nothing

I hastily apologized to Emme for what I assumed had been overreacting (one time I woke up certain that somebody had dropped a bowling ball on my stomach, only to discover it was a shoe) though my finger really did hurt. I was ready to roll over and go back to sleep until Emme turned on her phone and shone the light on my hand.

There was fresh blood pooling on my finger.

We both froze. I was pretty sure something had bitten me, presumably a bug, but what monster of a bug causes that much pain and draws that much blood? AND WAS IT CRAWLING AROUND IN MY BLANKETS? All I knew was that my finger hadn't been bleeding when I went to bed, and now it was.

As you can imagine, I was somewhat alarmed.

After some bleary-eyed searching in the eerie glow of the flashlight (because of course the bulb in the room was burnt out), we wearily gave up, hoping that whatever-it-was wouldn't strike again.

The light went out. Something starting scuffling along the floor.

Does this mean I'm going to get the black plague now??

Emme swung the flashlight toward the source of the noise to reveal a shaggy-haired door mouse with glowing eyes and blood dripping from its snout. Okay, maybe not. Maybe it was kinda cute at first. But after thirty minutes of throwing shoes (and missing) and repositioning all possessions to high shelves, this mouse definitely developed an evil glint to his demeanor. I mean, it had been eating me. I realize that French cheese requires an "acquired taste," but really, little mouse, I HAVE YOUR TEETH MARKS ON MY FINGER.

You're so goin' down.

Tori's Travels: Italia!

Oh Italia. Oh. Oh. So many thoughts, so many stories, SO MUCH HAPPY. We were only in Italy for a week, yet a bunch happened:

First of all, I got lost in Rome.

Then I got lost outside of Venice.

Then I got lost––just kidding. (You really thought I was going to say a third time, didn't you?)

ROMA

It was a long flight from Ecuador to Italy, and when we finally reached Rome at noon, I'd had very little sleep. But the adventure was juuuuust beginning. We rented two cars for our group's Italian tour, both cars were manual and I was one of the drivers. To be clear, I knew nothing about driving stick shift until about a week before our vacation. And now, suddenly, I was driving stick through the streets of Rome.

Crazy? Yeah, maybe. (I gotta say, though, driving in Rome is not as bad as Quito.)

After a quick driving tour of Rome––which included me accidentally taking a wrong turn, getting lost with three kids in my car and no phone, silently freaking out for an hour then miraculously catching sight of Emme walking down the sidewalk––we decided to drive out to Florence!

That afternoon of driving is one of my most treasured memories. The sun didn't disappear until after ten and every curve of the winding road revealed a lush hillside topped with a villa nestled amid olive trees or vineyards, or an old clocktower and duomo silhouetted in the golden light. I have never seen a place as beautiful as Italy and am so grateful for this world and the wonders it possesses.

San Marco

VENEZIA

Everything good you've heard about Venice…it's true. Envision musicians serenading gondoliers, sunlight splintering against the water, cobbled alleyways with flowers hanging heavily in the window boxes, gelato. Also more gelato. GELATO FOR EVERY MEAL!!!

GUYS! GUYS! WE'RE TOTALLY IN VENICE!

San Marco in Venice

FIRENZE

Finally, Florence. Home of Santa Maria Del Fiore and Brunelleschi's Duomo, one of the three things I've wanted to see in my lifetime. We were winding down the twisting mountainside road when the beautiful city abruptly came into sight––and with it the Cathedral and Duomo. I was shocked and awed and might've started screaming and honking the car's horn in delight. We skidded to a halt and I dashed across the road to balance at the edge of the overlook, clutching my camera in breathless excitement.

Can you see the Duomo to the right?

The best event of my trip happened a few hours later, just outside of the Florence Cathedral (keep waiting, it's funny, okay?) When I was in college, I took two semesters of Art History with the amazing Professor Crawford. Despite all our efforts to rendezvous, things repeatedly fell through, which was a big disappointment. Prof. Crawford's deep passion for the Italian Renaissance is what sparked in my the desire to visit Italy. I can still remember spending hours studying the life of masters like Brunelleschi, scrutinizing photos of his duomo and dreaming of one day seeing it in person.

And then…I was seeing it in person. I was standing within the hushed, shadowy walls of the cathedral. Around me, people whispered and took photos while I just stood there, neck craned back, gaping at the massive dome above me. So many brilliant and creative minds had come together in the place I was now standing. And I was about to encounter one of them.

The Duomo

It happened as I stepped out into the bright, Florentine sunlight. I stood at the top of the stairs, turned to the left, snapped a picture of the square (remember that part) and walked down the stairs. That's when I heard someone call my name. I spun and caught sight of my beloved instructor, standing a few paces away. In all of Italy, we miraculously ran into each other! It was definitely Divine Intervention.

Now, go back to that picture I took right after stepping outside. I was looking at it a few days ago and noticed the funniest thing. Check it out:

Now look a little closer…

It's Professor Crawford, just when she noticed me! Funny? Yes, yes it's funny.

Ghiberti's "Gates of Paradise"

Well, that's it for Italy! Check back soon for a post on France, where I had the most bizarre welcome…

Countryside of Vinci, where Leonardo was da.