I Shall Be Released

On Friday, my international program went on a guided excursion with some our trip advisors to the South of France.  We were to visit the charming little pueblo of Saint Jean de Luz and then move on to Biarritz, the summer hot-spot for the hot-shots of the Basque Country.  We were promised delicious pastries, quaint and beautiful shopping areas, and breathtaking views of the Bay of Biscay.  I was so excited to go to a new country and see the sights.   

We arrived at Saint Jean de Luz and I decided I should run to the bathroom real quick.  There was one big bathroom with a bunch of stalls and a long line.  However, I found a lone room with one bathroom stall off to the side that no one else had bothered venturing off to, so I ducked in there and tried to hurry back to the rest of the group that was getting antsy to head into town.  I was also rushing due to all my excitement to see France, with no time to be bothered by the fact that the toilet had no seat, only enough time to be very grateful to my mother, who sent me away with approximately a million travel-sized bottles of hand sanitizer.  I hurried to gather my camera and purse and reached for the lock on the stall to let myself out when my heart dropped into my stomach, which proceeded to do about sixteen somersaults. The lock was one hundred percent, undeniably, through and through stuck.  I was stuck.  I was in the South of France.  I was locked in a gross little bathroom stall in the South of France.  The only sight I was going to be seeing all day was that seat-less toilet. 

I could hear the rest of the group crossing the street and heading into the town.  My friends were all leaving.  …Why doesn’t anyone notice I’m missing?  Do I…have friends here?  But there is no time to be offended.  I quickly surveyed my options:  Can I climb under?  It would require lying completely flat on the tile of the bathroom floor and attempting to squeeze under the six-inch gap like an inch worm.  Can I jump over?  It would require acquiring Spiderman-like scaling abilities followed by a ten-foot plummet to the other side.  Should I just…stay…in here?  I suddenly remembered that I had finally added some euros to my tiny little cell phone the day before and that I could call someone to come back and get me.

“Kelsey, it’s Christie.”
“Christie?  Oh...Christie!  …Where are you?  We’re leaving.”

“I’m aware.  I need you to go back to the bathrooms.  Not the room with all the stalls, but the room all by itself, off to the side, the room with only one stall.”

“…Why?”

“Because I’m stuck in that stall.”

“Oh, God.”

Thank God for Kelsey Anderson, who came running to that bathroom stall (cracking up, mind you, but I’ll forgive her for blatantly laughing at my compromising position) ready to rescue me.  I begin screaming from the inside, “I CAN’T GET OUT! KELSEY I CAN’T GET OUT.”  Through her laughing, she realizes that if she pushes from the outside, the lock becomes slightly easier to move from the inside.  I make a little progress, but my fingers are really starting to hurt and the lock has barely moved.  “KELSEY.  I AM STUCK IN A BATHROOM STALL IN FRANCE.”  I can now hear some of the program advisors outside the door: I guess someone had called for backup assistance.  I am not only fully embarrassed, but also still fully still stuck in the bathroom stall.  I am literally banging on the door like a two year old and screaming, as if that is going to help me at this point, when Kelsey the Angel starts putting all her energy into calming me down so that I actually begin addressing the problem again instead of just screaming helplessly about my whereabouts.  “We know you are stuck in the bathroom stall.  Just keep pushing the lock.  It will come undone eventually.”  And it did.  The door opened.  I was out.  Hello, France!  I’m here! I’m free!!!!!

We ran to catch up with the rest of the group.  A few people came up to me and asked, “Hey did you hear someone got stuck in the bathroom?” You don’t say.  I wish I could say my awkwardness in France stopped there, but it continued well into the rest of the day.  I thought I was over the whole new-girl phase, but this was a whole new country, so I guess I should have expected some bumps along the road. 

Haven't gotten any more photogenic.

At least my friends are pretty, and blinded by the sun.

We all seemed to forget the fact that French people don’t necessarily speak Spanish, or English for that matter, and that we would be rendered mute upon arriving in France.  My girlfriends and I ventured into a small pastry shop, and I wanted to order a chocolate croissant.  I figured that “one” in French was “un,” so I just went up the counter and said with all the confidence I could muster, “Un crossant au chocolat.” My friend Elana looked over to me in absolute amazement and screamed, “You speak French?!?!?!”  All I had done was read directly off the placard in the display case.  But I guess compared to Emily, who (to our amusement) was incapable of doing anything but speak in Spanish with a French accent, I did a pretty good job at playing the part of a French girl.  “Mu-eehy bi-eeehhhhn,” Emily.

We are happiest at feedings times.

Saint Jean de Luz was beautiful, and we enjoyed singing “Tale as Old as Time” as we wandered through the cobblestone streets, pretending we were all Belle from Beauty and the Beast.  We weren’t there for too long before we were off to Biarritz.

Saint Jean de Luz, Cue musical number:

Look there she goes a girl who's strange but special
   A most peculiar mad'moiselle
It's a pity and a sin

She doesn't quite fit in

'Cause she really is a funny girl
A beauty but a funny girl

 She really is a funny girl

That Belle

Biarritz, a city whose population multiplies by six during the summer, but is still quite charming during the fall.  After running along the gorgeous beach and declaring that I had found Heaven for about the 76^th time since arriving in Europe, Kelsey and I skirted off to find  some French chocolate.  Unfortunately, Johnny Depp was not inside the little chocolate shop…seductively plucking  at his guitar strings, with his whimsical pony tail swaying back and forth, serenading me, staring at me with his beautiful brown eyes, asking me to run away with him so that we could start a new life together in the South of France…but the feeling of the little shop did remind me quite a bit of the movie Chocolat.  My excitement over all the sweets that there were to choose from did not translate to English, Spanish, or Spanish with a French accent, and least of all to French.  I sounded kind of like to an excited whale, but the shop owner somehow understood me and I literally skipped down the streets, licking my fingers and screeching with happiness. 

Beach at Biarritz.

Me and my savior.

Wrap it up.  I want it all. 

 Our trip to the South of France had us back to Spain before dinner.  As I got back to Bilbao, I realized how comfortable I have become in my Spanish surroundings and how far I have come from that first week here, which I spent hiding in my dark hallway, starving in my bed because I couldn’t find the cafeteria, and panicking every time anyone even attempted to speak to me in Spanish.  After leaving for France and being once again completely uprooted and socially inept, I realized that Bilbao and I are friends now. 

I know my running route.  I know where the sunniest benches are in the quietest part of my favorite park when I want to read outside.  I know the best place to grab un café con leche or a glass of wine, and the barista knows my name and asks how everything has been going for me every time I come in, and if I’d like a table outside if it’s nice evening.  I know what food in the cafeteria is edible, and what will leave me curled up in my bed wondering if I accidentally just consumed rat poison.  I know which receptionist is the most patient with pesky tourist questions, and he most certainly knows me.  If anything, I have learned to ask for help when I need it.  Even if I’m embarrassed, even if I feel stupid, even if I really am stupid and locked myself in a bathroom stall. There’s always a new door to be opened, and always someone willing to lend a hand.

Bilbao.

My home.

Other than our trip to France, this has been a rather uneventful, yet lovely, week.  My classes are going well and keeping me busy.  My Hispanic Literature teacher made me laugh so hard the other day that I spit out the water I was drinking while in class.  Graceful and delicate as always.  In my defense, my teacher is always trying to learn new English words, and never fails to use them incorrectly.  On this particular day, whatever he was trying to say not only made no sense, but was such a clumsy mixture of Spanish and English that that water had no chance at staying in my mouth: “Yo no soy freaky, pues, I’m freaky but not en sexo, que pasa con my reputation here?” 

Minor victories of this week include successfully getting a hair cut without accidentally communicating to the hairdresser that I wanted her to chop my hair off and bleach it white, and major victories include booking my final trip in December that I’ll be taking with Elana and Kelsey.  We shall be having some very romantic dates with each other in the most romantic city in the world.  Good thing I love you girls. 

As for what’s next on the list:  I’m off to Dublin on Thursday, and will be there until Sunday, when I take off to spend a couple days in London! More adventures to come…