By Laura Bauer

I spent the 1997-98 academic year studying in Nantes, France. I had a week off from school in January, and to escape the 25 (lovely) American classmates I'd spent almost every day of the previous four months with, I ran off on a solo adventure through the south of France. It was the first time I'd traveled alone, and I set out full of anticipation... mixed, of course, with a little apprehension. I discovered on my trip that I love traveling on my own. I felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment and independence, and I was proud of myself for taking the risk. My adventures are as follows:

Saturday January 17, 1998: Day One. I left my host family's house in Nantes before sunrise carrying an artfully packed day pack and a modest bag of groceries. It was an hour walk to the train station, so I was relieved to settle in to my comfy seat on the train, and even to remain there for the next eleven hours. I had taken several train trips since I'd been in Europe, and the SNCF (France's national railroad), orange burlap curtains and all, had become a dear friend of mine. I found a sense of camaraderie and friendliness between train passengers that I hadn't seen elsewhere in France. Everyone is curious about the lady reading the German novel, or the man snoring in the corner, or in my case, the young woman with the bag of groceries whose shoes were held together with safety pins. I enjoyed the train experience, and it was a fairly hassle-free journey. I got a good adrenaline rush, though, when my loaf of bread escaped from my grocery bag in the overhead compartment and pounced on my head just as I was drifting off to sleep.

I arrived in Aix-en-Provence that evening, found myself the closest, cheapest hotel that the Office de Tourisme could come up with, and fell asleep instantly.

Sunday January 18, 1998: Just for fun, and because I wanted to feel less like an Obvious Tourist, I decided not to use my city map that day. I had a delightful time exploring all the nooks and crannies of Aix, zigzagging around until I started to recognize certain piles of dog doo, trying out different park benches, making brief appearances at various church services, climbing the tallest hill I could find to see what was on the other side, and generally following my curiosity where it wanted to go.

That night, with a few hours of forethought on my side, I managed to find a room to rent in someone's home. Renting a chambre d'hôte (literally, 'host room') is a common and fairly inexpensive lodging option in many parts of France, and a practical way to immerse oneself in the culture. I got a list of people in the area with rooms to rent from the Office de Tourisme and called around until I found someone who could take me that night. My hostess was generous enough to pick me up in town, and my room was furnished with an enormous bed, a piano, and a couple of wonderful dogs - a luxurious contrast to the rather questionable hotel I'd stayed in the previous night. Nicole, my hostess, won my heart forever by mistaking my American accent for a German one (always nice not to be pegged as American right off), and we chatted for a while before I went to bed in what felt to me like my own personal castle. She fed me a breakfast of yummy bread and fresh fruit in the morning and then insisted that I take extra food with me for lunch and that her daughter drive me back into town to the train station on her way to school.

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