While the rest of the group hiked the giant hill behind S�te, Rachel and I decided to check out the Regional Center for Contemporary Art in the Languedoc-Roussillon region which was on the other side of a canal. (Languedoc-Rouissillon is the name of our area, which is unfortunately incredibly difficult to pronounce.) We waited 15 minutes for it to open, not knowing what to expect.

We were greeted with the most emotionally striking art exhibition I have ever seen.

Pierre Adouvin, “Helpless.”

The first half of the exhibit was a meditation on childhood, helplessness, anxiety, nostalgia, fairytales, and dreams. The second half provoked questions about entertainment, pop culture, fanfare/celebrity, and memory. Each room was its own exhibit and was deliberately created to invoke certain emotions and reactions. Surprisingly, you learned more about yourself in there than you did about art.

I think that was the point.

In the room in the photo to the right, entitled Le vide remplit mes yeux, there were feelings of claustrophobia, confusion. The room was a blank white, the ceiling lowered to just above your head, with no “escapes” except for two white holes in the ceiling. At first, the holes merely looked like lights, but when you got underneath them, you could see into a bright white room, nondescript, as if this section of the exhibit was merely under construction.

Rachel said she didn’t like this room until she found out there were exits. I was confused and thought it was just a path to the next exhibit or a place under construction. The artist anticipated both of these reactions– it was so bizarre to cross to the other side of the room and read the little plaque explaining the piece, seeing ourselves mirrored back in it.

This past Saturday, we went to St. Guilhem le D�sert, which is not a real desert, but a “spiritual desert,” as our tour guide explained. It’s a well-preserved medieval town out in the middle of the mountains. It only has one main road. There’s a gorgeous church there which used to be a monastery.

If you lived at the “top” of town, nearest the church (and thus nearer to God), you were more wealthy and had higher social status. Later on, Catholics lived “en haut” (up top) and Protestants “en bas” (down low). The tour guide told us that, even today, if you were to ask some of the elderly people who live in the upper side of the village, they would tell you that, when they were young, their parents instructed them not to play with the children who lived “en bas.”

After touring around the town, we hiked a mountain. Then, we went off the beaten path on the mountain in order to check out some unmarked castle ruins at the tippy top of the mountain. I led the way for most of the journey, picking a path out of the underbrush. It was hilarious and fun as we climbed, slid, and shouted to one another from different peaks.

Reminder: I did all of this hiking with a huge head cold. Not pictured here is the mountain of tissues I went through.

Yesterday, a small group of us went back to Grau du Roi and went on a two hour ride through the beach and wildflower fields on horseback. It was probably my favorite trip so far. We rode a kind of horse called a Camargue, which is a wild horse native to France– it’s like the French version of our mustangs. They are pure white (although some are dappled), and my horse was named Bosco.

Bosco was the boss. He did not listen to me.

Bosco, turn right, I’d say, nudging him and pulling the reins. No, Marie, Bosco would reply. You have no idea what the hell you’re doing. Bosco was technically right.

“Bosco, let’s go faster, let’s trot,” I’d say. Bosco would snort, almost as if laughing at me, and he’d be like, “I’d really rather not. How about we slow down, actually? That sounds nice.” So Bosco and I would slowly meander around with the rest of the group while I nudged him faster in vain.

“Bosco, let’s go off the path, let’s just go the ittiest bit to the right of the path,” I’d try to say with the reins. “Everyone else is doing it, it’ll be fun. Let’s go.”

I was trying to get Bosco to think out of the box. He was a very conformist horse. Bosco was having none of my shenanigans. At one point, he actually bent his head and pretended as if he was going right, while still staying on the path. I’d have been mad if it weren’t so hilariously clever.

In short: Bosco was completely, utterly perfect.

By the end of the trip, I was able to get him into a trot at will, and he wasn’t as obstinately sticking to the path (presumably because I’d finally gotten my sh*t together in terms of learning to ride a horse). While trotting is fun, it’s barely faster than walking, and twice as bouncy.

On a long straight away next to the beach, Bosco and I galloped. Galloping is the most beautiful feeling, like being on a train, a cross between pushing against the earth and flying. Instead of all four feet touching the ground, for a moment you are airborne, leaning forward in the saddle, clutching the reins, the horse’s mane brushing against your hand. You’re moments from losing control, or– in my case– falling off the saddle, because holy crap does horseback riding take some serious thigh strength.

I’d never ridden a horse before, but now I understand why Julia and Emily (who have ridden for years) needed to get their riding fix while abroad. There’s something gorgeously addictive about the whole experience.

Well, now you’re all caught up on my latest escapades, albeit not as eloquently as usual. I’m going to go take some aspirin for my fever, cough up half of my lung, take a nap, think healthy thoughts, and have enough soup and oranges to cure twenty sick people.

A tout � l’heure!