Soiree Beaujolais

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To put this entry in context, I am sitting in what should be my room, but it currently has no food in it, and there are assorted piles of laundry strewn around the floor and furniture. Yes, the student's week can do that to you, and I'm sure I'm not alone in this abysmal state. I should try to conquer it, and get things back in order, but I need to charge my Ipod before I can function. The Soiree Beaujolais is a big event for the French. The third Thursday of November is dedicated to the unveiling of the new wine for the year- the Beaujolais, and student's week is timed to fit this event perfectly. After spending more time this week with alcohol than in class, it's easy to understand why I feel like I've been hit by a large French truck. Mix that with a helpful does of staying up until 5 or 6 in the morning and sleeping until 2 in the afternoon, and it’s a recipe for complete liver failure for anyone.

Clermont-Ferrand is by no means a unique city for France, at least in terms of planning. More than a few centuries ago, someone had the bright idea to build large churches at the pinnacles of local hills and mountains. Actually, it's a very old idea, and lucky, the Notre-Dame Cathedral in Clermont is situated on a hill and not one of the many puys that surround it (as the Romans and Gauls chose to do). The town is built around the dark and imposing church, and all streets seem to radiate from its centre. As you climb, the streets appear to shrink in size, become more narrow and curved than at lower levels. It’s an Alice in Wonderland effect were you find the world changing shape and dimension with almost every step.You find yourself constantly hiking up or darting down- there's no flat terrain. To get from the train station to the active city centre, a 2-km uphill hike is inevitable. I miss my train by two minutes and contemplate the merits of ascending the steep streets yet again. But the station is musty and smoked filled and 2 hours of waiting here seems impossible to bear, so I head out.

The crumbling medieval streets and dark stone seem to harken back to another era, and the dog poop makes me feel like Jeffrey Taylor, an American traveller in Morocco (I've been reading his book about travelling across the Sahara recently) chiking through medieval medinas and casbahs.

I came ill-prepared to Clermont. Maybe it was the fact that I had packed hung-over, or maybe it was because I packed about 50 food ingredients (it was my turn to cook for Ludo and I made some surprisingly good Indian dishes), but I forgot those essentials (like a hair brush and deodorant) and despite frequent showers, I feel dishevelled and tired. I dream about returning to Vichy and throwing all my clothes in the laundry and taking a long hot shower.

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