Yesterday after class, a few girls and I hopped over to the train station, bought tickets to San Remo, Italy, and spent the evening in a small Italian town eating dinner (ravioli with pesto) then getting gelato and hopping back on the train to Cannes. San Remo (or Sanremo) is on the Italian Riviera, another harbor town with half-cobblestone streets and cafés that spill their tables out into tiny alleys or public squares. Palm trees with at least forty fronds each are all over, very distinct shadows against the sky particularly at night, and cypress trees with their canopies that reach out across the roads and buildings. At ground level, the city looks a lot like Charleston with the shops, street lamps, ads, posters, graffiti, and pedestrians. But then you look up, and there are shutters in faded blue and green paint, elaborately sculpted window panes, wrought iron railings to small balconies, and tiled roofs distinctly Mediterranean. And all around you are sheer rock cliffs that surround the city, mountains near and far on the horizon.
The port is filled with boats, yachts and sails alike, and unfortunately is mostly surrounded by parking lots. Like most Italian towns, though, it had several piazza's with fountains, and this city especially is known for it's public flower arrangements, not to mention the ones in the window boxes. Their whole world is so much more colorful than the United States. People walk here because there's stuff to see, because there are places to walk to and hang around outside. We need more of that, without having to drive anywhere. Cafés lining the square and people just sitting at small bistro tables, sipping wine and eating bread.
I ordered a pasta with pesto because supposedly that region is famous for its pesto. The food was amazing, which only made today's lunch at the school (an attempt at spagetti à la bolognaise) that much more disappointing. We had about three hours in the city before we had to catch the train back, so we explored the docks and the piazzas, ate gelato, and took pictures. When we got to the place where we had to change trains, however, we realized there was a two-hour layover (which we sort of knew in the first place, but it hadn't really sunk in). So we were stranded for two hours in Ventimiglia, between 9:30 and 11:30 PM, when nothing was open, sketchy men were about, and there was absolutely nothing to do. None of us had brought books or iPods for entertainment either. Thankfully the train station had a little store and I bought a coke to keep me awake until we got back to the Collège and our dorms (we got in Cannes shortly after 1 AM and took a taxi over to the school).
Despite having class the next morning at 9 AM and getting to sleep around 2, I'm glad I went. It was 30 euro round-trip for the train, and we got to wind through the French and Italian waterfront villages. We even stopped at a train station in Monaco (where I'll be visiting for real on Saturday). The mountains are breathtaking; it makes you realize why no one really left their home towns much, way back when. The train cuts through the mountains, but walking them? I don't think so. Driving them either––talk about perilous. And there are towns built on such steep inclines, it's amazing those houses don't just slide right down. They look like they might.
This morning wasn't as fun. I had to drag myself up (and I knew I had a dictation first-thing in class, so I had to not only be conscious, I had to be fully-processing) and to breakfast. Regardless of my exhaustion, it would not have been an option to skip. This is a two-week course, in which we are graded, and attendance is mandatory. Lo and behold, I get to breakfast and half the people are still in bed (I next see them at lunch, asking each other what they did in class and each responding, "I don't know, didn't go, I was sleeping").
That's when the guy-who-shall-remain-nameless walks in. He shall remain nameless partially because I'm not sure I know his name and partially because it's not nice to give names. But he comes over to the table to my left, wearing his clothes from last night and asking anyone if they know what happened to his wallet. Apparently, his pockets were empty this morning when he woke up in a strange hotel lobby, sans wrist-watch, school ID, wallet, and other valuables. This, my dear readers, is why I don't get drunk.
But in my week here abroad with my fellow American students, I've been having a strong sense of déja vu: it's like freshman year of college all over again. Not only are people clumping into their stereotypical groups and clinging (more on this to come), many kids have lost any and all control/common sense/dignity/responsibility/maturity they once possessed (although it is in question whether or not any of them ever did. Unlikely). I call them kids (despite most being between the ages of 19-21) because they are. Age isn't a factor here; mature sensibilities are. It is simple common sense that dictates you don't go to a foreign country, get plastered with people you've known a week, and black-out to the point where you don't wake up where you're supposed to in the morning. And if you must get trashed, do so with the understanding that, come morning, you have class. You are studying abroad.
On to the grouping. It always amazes me (and it really shouldn't anymore) how no matter where you go, there are very distinct groups, and people are very protective of their group. If you aren' t part of their group, you're a "Them", which is not a good thing to be unless you have your own group. It's a neverending circle.
There are the grunge kids, the preppy "popular" kids, the wanna-be preppy "popular" kids, the cheaply-dressed girls, and the macho men. And they are recognizable right off the bat. For instance, grunge kids: they're the ones whose make-up looks several days old, hair perpetually unbrushed with the "morning after" up-do, clothes baggy and mis-matched (I think they think the outfits go––they think incorrectly), and usually with an accompanying cigarette hanging between their fingers. The preppy, "popular" kids: blonde hair, neatly coiffed, collared shirts and layered sweaters on top, skirts or pants (not jeans), and sometimes a fancy belt. The wanna-bes: noticeably fake-blonde hair, usually somewhat overweight, knock-off brand clothes that are too tight and sometimes messy make-up, not unlike the grunge crowd. The cheaply-dressed girls, well, we all know what I mean by cheap, right? Then the macho men who, despite not being gay, seem always to prefer the company of other such men. They boast loudly and crudely of their lack of memories regarding the night before, and wear pretty much the same thing everyday.
I've left out the dorks. These, I feel, are sometimes mis-judged and most times not. I am an intelligent person who values knowledge and education, enjoys a good book or conversation on philosophy, religion, history, etc. But I brush my hair; I don't resign myself to frumpy, loose sweatshirts and pants; I take care that my eyebrows don't swallow my face (not that they could anyway, thin, light things that they are); and while I do typically prefer my own company to that of my peers, I make efforts to find others of similar mindsets. The dorks, so defined because they don't apply the rules of fashion to themselves and spend time either perched in front of a computer or book whenever they're out in public (they never talk to people unless they absolutely have to), are also as easy to pinpoint.
Understand I have nothing against any of these people, or their need for a collective. To each his or her own, I try to stick to. I comment on this because it's what I observe. Obviously, I'm generalizing. There are those few who don't have such simple placements. But surprisingly, the above descriptions are not exaggerated. Monty Python had is right: we are not individuals. We see molds and go "Oh! There's one I think I could fit in. Here I go!" This happens around the age of 11, sometimes as late as 14 or 15. It's a rare person who actually changes their cast––and kudos to them. I'm not sure where I fit in, and I don't really think I do (then again, no one does, and that's the problem, isn't it? We all think we're so unique, and we're not for the most part. It's like how most people in the world consider themselves of above average intelligence. Most are wrong, seeing as how average implies half are below).
Anyway, just some thoughts on people for you to peruse. Today in class, I got my first test back, and I received 17/20. Let me explain the French grading system to you: everything is out of 20. 10 is average, literally. It's a much tougher system of grading than ours. Students are pleased to get 13s, 14s, and above a 17 is practically unheard of unless you're one of those super-students that never sleeps and has to actually, you know, study. I'm not as familiar with studying as I probably should be, I admit. But I'm pleased with my grade, I think it's one of if not the highest in the class, and if I can keep it up, that would rock.
I have more pictures to share, naturally, but they'll have to wait until I get a stronger internet connection. Or any internet connection. It's seriously shoddy wireless on this campus.
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