In 58 B.C., Julius Caesar began his campaign of conquest against the Gauls. This summer, 2,065 years later, I set out to finish what he started.
I ran into a couple of problems, though. First, Caesar apparently already finished what he started, and what was once called Gaul has transformed into a slightly more advanced collection of tribes that today call themselves the French. The next problem was that I missed my connecting flight at Heathrow Airport and had to wait in London while the enemy got extra time to prepare.
Eventually I found out about the awesome military prowess of these Frenchmen and got scared, so I called the whole deal off and, having reached the European continent, decided to take some summer classes instead.
In case you're wondering, yes, my troops were very distraught after I decided to cancel the assault. I don't know if you've ever met my troops, but they're the kind of troops who, once you get them riled up, become pretty bloodthirsty. I expressed my sincere condolences as I left them at the security line in Heathrow with several bags of weapons to check. I trust they made it back home safely.
After reaching Paris, I quickly discovered that the French speak a different language than I do. They call it -- rather confusingly -- French. Within a few hours of my arrival, I had mastered the art of pointing and shouting out the names printed on a map. At the same time, my adversaries had mastered the art of hating me. Surprisingly, no one seemed at all grateful when I conveyed that I hadn't come to ransack their country.
The town I was heading for was Nimes, and somehow I managed to butcher this monosyllabic word such that when I finally boarded a train, I still had a mere one-in-14 chance of being on the right one. That was my first "cultural experience."
My second "cultural experience" was food poisoning. By this time, I was settled into the dorm in Nimes and already enjoying my life in the southern region of Provence. Then, it struck. Like the storming of the Bastille, the sickness invaded my intestines and guillotined my Marie Antoinette. I don't want to get into the details, but let me just say that the worst part of the ordeal was that there was no warning sign. Well, there was one warning sign. It said, "NON POTABLE," but sadly my travel guide lacked that term in its "handy" glossary.
Like most people who visit France, I really wanted to immerse myself in a group of English-speaking Americans from Michigan. Fortunately, I got my wish, thanks to a study abroad program sponsored by MSU. The kids had a few quirks, such as being from Michigan, but in all honesty they were great people. And they each offered that one special thing I was craving: a laptop with a wireless card ... I mean ... friendship. Yeah, of course, friendship.
Do they have "Grey's Anatomy" in France, you ask? Good question. No, they don't. I'm thinking of moving back there after graduation, in fact. Want to come? We could rent an apartment together and talk about how great it is to live in a nation without "Grey's Anatomy." Also the health care would be sweet. Think about it.
One "cultural experience" I had that was actually a cultural experience was hiking in the Cevennes mountains. Some of the other hikers were at first skeptical of my physical preparedness, but as soon as I told them about the time I climbed up to the highest floor in Hereford, I gained their respect.
Hey, I just found out online that they actually do have "Grey's Anatomy" in France. I know, I was devastated, too.
At the end of my trip I had three days to spend in the French capital. If you go to Paris, I say skip all the touristy stuff and head straight for the Louvre. Don't go inside the building, obviously, unless you want to get a foretaste of purgatory -- every piece of art in there looks like the back of the same German tourist's head. No, just stand outside the museum and take in some of the street performers. I don't mean "take them in" like invite them back to your hotel room and clothe and feed them -- that would be weird, although it would definitely be a "cultural experience."
By the way, if anyone has seen a bunch of rowdy, murderous troops that look lost, please contact me ASAP.
Dan Dooley is a life columnist. He can be reached at dooley@cavalierdaily.com.
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