Scary Night.

Vingrau: Where I'd Write My Fairy Tale.

Today warrants a longer post. Aside from the fact that I drew the short straw and didn't get a ticket to the huge rugby game tonight, I wouldn't change a thing.

Moi, Marie, Roman, and Marie's little brother, François, went climbing. (Mom, I know what you're thinking: does every "it was a great day" have to be preceded by "we went climbing!"?) Just the drive to get there was memorable. We left Villesèque, passed through the lowlands of Corbières, and wound up a narrow road into the mountains. The vineyards sat below us, squares of red and orange and yellow, and smoke rose above us. People are now burning the dead wood and leaves from this year's harvest.

I thought we would turn onto one of the gnarly dirt roads to the left and bounce our way down to a little cliff with a few decent routes. Instead, we came up on an enormous plateau and in front of us stood a massive, three-tiered spread of limestone cliffs, dotted green with shrubs and ledges, stretching for miles in both directions. My jaw dropped. Whhhhat? It's not in the backyard or anything, but it's less than an hour from Villesèque.

These cliffs and the town below are called "Vingrau." I kept pronouncing it "Van Gogh." Non! Lots of climbers live in the town, and it is completely surrounded by cliffs, rivers, vineyards, ruins, and all things fairy tale-esque. The town itself has funky little restaurants and cafés, typical old European apartments, narrow streets, and lots of granola types just living the dream. It's too far into the mountains for tourists, and since I'm not writing for Outside, hopefully it will stay that way.

The climbing was excellent: long routes on slightly-polished limestone. Tiny feet, tiny crimpers...très bon. Roman and I got lost in translation again today. Marie got down from a climb and threw her climbing shoes into the bushes because her feet hurt. I nodded my head and told Roman that, yes, my big toe was sick too. François smirked and Roman belly-laughed and farted. Several times. He informed me that at the dinner table, this is "impoli" (impolite). But in nature, pas du tout, c'est naturel. At least the humor does not get lost.

*Deehan, if you're reading, I couldn't help but think of Al Natural from the City of Rocks.
Smoke over the vineyards.
Driving past the first cliffs of Vingrau this morning.
Just fartin' around at the "Azine Wall."
Castles really do exist. I wanna go in there.
Where we'll climb next time.

A L'Automne.

Getting ready for Halloween. The Frenchies aren't big on dressing up, so we're throwing our own party. Last year Ashley Pafford came to my rescue with a Rainbow Bright costume. This year...who knows? Tune in Saturday to find out.

Corbières.

The vin is as good as the view. Villeseque lies in the foothills of the Pyrenees, a short drive from the coast of the Mediterranean and the border of Spain.

I Teach.

Shooting.Editing. I heart Apple.

The light here...it could not be better, especially with the change of seasons. The buildings and landscape are truly inspiring for any artist. Not to mention the "cat house" (top photo), with cats lounging around on the perfectly old, rustic stairs next to the crumbling building. These little scenes are everywhere.

At Play on the Plateau.

Villeseque is small. We do what we can.

Actually, there are miles—no, scratch that—kilometers of exploring to do on this huge plateau above the village. You can bike or walk to the top from Villeseque and see the Mediterranean on the other side. There's a maze of dirt roads and endless little footpaths marked with cairns. The area directly above Villeseque has 20-30 of these monstrous wind turbines. Underneath them it sounds, all the time, like a small plane is flying over. Aside from the turbines there are ancient vineyards (who the heck is up there tending to them?), crumbling rock walls, and limestone slabs jutting out of the ground. The plateau is weird, peaceful, beautiful, eerie, and interesting all at once.

SiCk.

Museums + teenagers = desperation for stimulation. He didn't stick it. But another guy did. SICK.

The beautiful, quaint mountain town of Céret, France.

Cwrazz-ee.

Today marks exactly one month since I arrived. I have some French friends to show for it! Voila Marie & Roman. They are a fun couple and they live a hop, skip, and a jump away from our house. Marie works for the school as the activities and PE coordinator. Roman is a chef. Both are climbers as well as my unofficial French teachers. I told Roman on Thursday, in what I thought was perfect French, that I wished more people in gym shorts spoke English. He pondered this for a minute with a confused look. I meant I wished some people at the climbing gym could speak English. Oops. This happens a lot. Stupid American. Roman's favorite phrase seems to be "Ca-zzrine, yoo are ver-wy cwrazz-ee."
And the lay of the land: the village, surrounding vineyards, and the limestone cliffs at sunset. This vineyard in the foreground was green last week. Fall is here; the colors are gorgeous.

La Cheville Marche. (The Ankle Works.)

Healing up nicely.

Taking me places.
Hiking again.

I will get my last x-ray next week in Narbonne. Everyone cross your fingers for clean healing and all screws, plates, pins, and bone graft in tact. The rain and low pressure this week brought a lot of pain, but I am walking a lot and...drum roll...ran a few yards last week.

Thank You To Whoever Wrote This In English.

"No Stress" on the gas station checkout window in Perpignan.

These Are, Like, So Dope.

I am not just a teacher here but a student. I am getting schooled in teen lingo and high fashion.

I bet you are looking at these shoes and imagining the rest of the picture showing a little red dress and a stylish Euro scarf. No, my friends, that is not how it works. One of my fabulous students sported these shoes today with tight, ripped blue jeans rolled up. Girlie boxers hung out the top of the low-as-you-could-possibly-go waist, and on top she wore an elaborately-layered combo of hoodie, tight t-shirt thing, and another something-or-other. And accessories? Let's just say there was not room for anything else to be put on the ears, around the neck, or on the wrists. Or in the nose crease. You go girl.

In Perpignan on Monday I tried (Mom, I swear, I really did) to find some more stylish clothes so that I do not look like the lone mountain woman in Southern France. I simply could not do it. I cannot put these outfits together, I cannot spend the money on them...there is some feminina neuron that does not fire in my brain and therefore I hate to shop. I must make the students dress me; this is getting desperate.

Bling.

Seriously? Apparently, this is cool. Apparently smoking is cool again too, not only in Europe (I haven't met a single Euro that doesn't smoke at least occasionally) but among American teenagers. The teenagers I get: they don't give a you-know-what, and if you care it only fuels their fire. But the Euros as a whole? They know everything that we know...so what gives?

Perpignan & Back on the (Plastic) Rock.

Today in Perpignan, about an hour from Villeseque.

This was just hours before my first experience in a French climbing gym. I would have taken photos, but it was not the view that was different; it was the attitude. There were no belay or lead-belay tests, no waivers to sign, and as far as I could tell, no Euros to pay (is it because I'm a lady or because my French is so bad that they gave up on telling me how to pay?).

Sidenote: For those who saw me on crutches for four months this summer, you know that this was big--HUGE. I went climbing again; I felt, in many ways, like myself again; and I was reminded that I should never take a functioning ankle, a solid foothold, or properly-placed protection for granted ever again.

You think learning French is hard? Try learning French climbing lingo. Just like in English, it is a whole other language. And no, the French do not climb in hot pink spandex or multi-colored hammer pants. But it'd be way cooler if they did.

Let's Start from the Beginning.

I've only just decided to do a photo a day for the folks at home. It starts today, October 19, which is exactly two months from my end date here in Villeseque des Corbieres, France.

I'll post some past photos with the dates they were taken, but from today on, there will be a current photo every day.

Look, leave comments, leave criticism, and hopefully enjoy.

Ciao,
Ca-trine (as my French friends call me)

Turning Slightly Golden.

Les Punks.

Taking over Barcelona, one teenager at a time.

A Lesson in Blur.

Rosé.

It was cold and windy and I felt like drinking Rosé on the terrace.

The School In Blur.

Quaint, old, and elegant on the outside. Full of wild teenagers on the inside.

The Fruits of Our Labor.

All in a day's work.

The Pink Hour from My Front Door.

In the Tetons, we have the Golden Hour. Here, we have the Pink Hour.

Figs In My Shoes.

Our refrigerator smells of fermented figs. They must go. I hate wasting food, although I feel better knowing that at least we tried to eat these, unlike the millions around Villeseque that are caked into the gravel roads. They grew, turned ripe, dried perfectly in the sun, then plunged to their deaths as the world missed out on their deliciousness.

Each time I return from picking figs, I spend several minutes bent over my shoes at our front door, picking figs out from the treads. What a shame.

Montpellier: Young People, Crepes, Bars, and City Lights.

Montpellier is a haven for townies, college-goers, shoppers, and all things trendy. We went to Montpellier for the afternoon and evening with the students, and I ate the most amazing crepes for dinner AND dessert. I promise the salty ones are just as good as the sweet ones. Actually, that is a lie. There is nothing more heavenly than a sweet crepe with Nutella.

This is a FUN city and a great place to meet other young people. I want to go back.

Searching for Light and Lines.

They are large and small, they are new and old, they are on the bottom, middle and top floors, they open and close a thousand times a day, they flap around on windy autumn afternoons and wake me up from naps, and when opened, they give views of vineyards, rocky cliffs, or the neighbor smoking a cigarette out his kitchen window: these are the shutters of Villeseque.

This was shot to be in black and white but I couldn't part with the blue.

The View.

It doesn't always look like this...but most of the time it does. We are fortunate enough to have two big terraces and lots of sunny days. Our friends live in the little house in the center with the red shutters.

Barcelona, Encore.

Full moon on the Mediterranean. Nuff said.

Barcelona.

First weekend trip: Barcelona. I fell suddenly and unexpectedly in love with Barcelona. The diversity, the carefree Spanish energy, the Mediterranean, and the endless boardwalks and benches somehow make this enormous city feel welcoming and intimate in its own right. We spent three days recklessly abandoning our sight-seeing plans because, in Barcelona, the "sights" are a just tiny part of all there is to see.