Foix and California

The similarities between France and California come up often in conversation. People note that both have a gently warm and dry climate, and then that both regions produce wine. They remark that San Francisco is a very European city (what they mean by this is not always clear, but I think they're pointing to the liberal political views and the appreciation of good food). This link may be true theoretically, but Toulouse has never particularly resembled my birth state in my eyes. In practice, the linguistic difference is pretty significant. So is the lack of family and old friends. The geographical differences, though slight perhaps on the scale of possible landscapes over the Earth, are still jarring to me. Toulouse is far from the ocean - there is no cool cloud layer in the morning, no hint of salt in the air, no watery vistas. There is no threat of earthquakes here, so, far from avoiding brick as a potentially hazardous building material, the people of Toulouse use brick so much it has become a point of pride. And compared to the rises of the Oakland hills, Toulouse is totally flat.

The lack of hills in my immediate context has been getting to me, so I decided to take the train to the little town of Foix (pronounced "Fwa") for the afternoon. Foix is situated at the base of the Pyrénée mountains, so I was prepared for cold with three sweaters, but I was lucky: it was sunny out, almost warm even. Perfect weather for a hike. I identified a trailhead using a map of the village posted by the train station and started walking. And I found something I wasn't expecting: the longer I walked, the more I felt at home. The path was a steep climb -- a good beginning for my hill-deprived legs -- through a wood of oak trees. As I got higher I could look across the valley where the town is situated to a display of other hills, and the mountains behind them. Near the top I passed grassy pastures where cows might graze. The act of hiking itself contributed to the feeling that I had somehow closed the gap to home, since when I'm at home I hike the hills frequently with my family or alone. It seemed strange that not only was the highway below me not I-5 or 101, I didn't even know what combination of letters and numbers might designate it as a highway.

I didn't come to France looking for California, and I didn't find it. But finding a familiar landscape was comforting -- my eyes, which grew up expecting to see the world arranged in a certain way, sighed with relief. Though it's exciting to see for myself that the world is not all arrayed in the same way, and though I've gotten used to the brick-lined streets that just won't descend, my eyes are still Californian eyes.