Int. Foreign Language Honor Society to Hold Initiation and Awards Ceremony

Editors note: this is the first in a series of journal entries written by Plymouth State student Tyler St. Durham. He is currently studying abroad, and has chosen to share his experiences with the community back home. Last Saturday, I took my leave from the Clot family, hefted my loaded bag over my shoulder, threw my leg over my velo, and headed out to see what I could see by going to the Western Ocean. I had only one week to travel, and only one month of living and speaking in the country of exploration. Leaving Aix was pleasant, although a bit chilly. This did not bother me as I rode through pretty French countryside, under stunning Roman bridges, and in the shelter of naked trees. On my way to Berre L’ Etang, I passed no fields of blooming lavender, but I did pass petrochemical factories, and marshes filled with petroleum storage tanks. Why? Well, to catch a stage of the Tour of the Meditaranee, a week-long bike race through this part of France. I was early, as they were not expecting the first team in the daysteam-time-trial stage to arrive for another few hours. I was notalone. There was one other middle aged guy in the open plaza area in front of the mayor’s office on his bike, and so we struck up a conversation. Mind you, I did not understand everything, but enough for him to not be annoyed, and enough for us to form an odd sort of “two guys in spandex standing around in a small untouristed French town waiting to watch a professional bike race” sort of friendship. It was not long before the teams started rolling up after completing their warm-up run on the course. One of the first to arrive was the Bianchi Liquigas team of Mario Cippolini. My good buddy Roger rolled right up to the car to ask for a water bottle. He was speaking French, though, so his request was misinterpreted by the Italian man with his head in the back of the station wagon full of supplies. Instead of a used water bottle, he was tossed a really cool cycling cap. Roger was rightfully quite pleased with the misunderstanding. The pre-race action involved an obstacle course set up for the local kiddies on road bikes to maneuver through. While the young Europeans were honing their handling skills, some older gentlemen standing near me began peppering me with questions. After my first few responses, it was made clear to them that I am not from around here. We continued to discuss the days events, and the events of the coming July when the Tour de France takes place. Most of the teams had arrived when I decided to depart. I had places to go, and more France to see. I left the racers of today and tomorrow, and Roger and his bottle menagerie all behind, and continued to the West. The clouds had been moseying around above the action all day, and by the time I began riding again in the late afternoon, they had decided to stick around. I kept riding, until the day’s sun started to set. It was time to find my lodgings for the night. I stopped in Miramas, and found out there was a bike shop there. Good thing, because I had left Aix without some essentials, like a lock. In the shop I asked for the cheapest bedroom for one man for one night. There just happened to be a bar that has rooms upstairs down the street. “Just like the Old West, a bar full of characters. Charactersand music. Music and smoke. Yeah, a bar full of characters music and smoke, just waiting for an oddly dressed stranger to pony up to the bar and make some uncommon request of the barkeep,” I imagined. When I arrived, my reverie came to a halt, because there was just a little bit of smoke, a TV, and one bar customer. There was, however, a barkeep, and of him I made my request of a bedroom for the night. 25 francs, and yes, there is a place for your bike. I followed him upstairs, and he tried the first door on the right. If the linens had been previously slept in, at least they had been made up afterwards. “Leave the key on the bedside table in the morning, because the bar won’t be open tomorrow,” he said. After he shared these instructions with me, he shared them with the unwell man who was in the second room on the right. I think he told my neighbor that I was going to leave my key in the room the next day, but since the only conversations conducted in English were the ones I was having with myself, I am not entirely sure. In fact, the thought did cross my mind that the barman was asking my fever-sweaty neighbor to kill me while I was sleeping, or kill me while I was awake, or worse! But if he did make the request, the man with the flu was to ill to kill. I found some dinner in a little grocery store, and made preparations for sleep. The last bit was more exciting than usual. I settled in, and kept settling and settling and settling. Well, not all of me, just the middle. It was kind of like a craft-matic adjustable bed, but also not like that at all. My feet were sort of elevated; my head was kind of higher, but mostly my torso was sinking. The slightest twitch from me unleashed a thrilling cacophony of protestations from my swaybacked old grey mattress. It ain’t what it used to be, but it was inside, and it was warm enough, and sleep did eventually arrive It gets better- but i will tell you about it another time.