The ‘Fontaine de la Rotonde,’ with the three statues of Justice, Agriculture and Fine Arts, at the end of Cours Mirabeau, Aix-en-Provence, France *Photo by Diane Covington-Carter*

From the first moment I heard the lyrical sounds of French, the language spoke to my heart and soul, something I couldn’t explain logically, living in Southern California. I studied French off and on, starting at age 14, and carried the dream of living there, immersing myself in the language and culture, for 30 years.

In early November 1999, I set out to spend eight months in France. I rented out my home, bought a laptop, put my bills online, hugged family and friends, and flew to Paris to begin my journey. I called my sojourn my “Junior Year Abroad” 30 years late.

A close-up of the three statues atop the ‘Fontaine de la Rotonde’ *Photo by Diane Covington-Carter*

I settled in Aix-en-Provence, in the south, a town I had visited once before for two days. I had felt entranced by the bubbling fountains that gurgled on many street corners, the 16th-century clock tower in the central square that rang out the hour, and the winding cobblestone streets of the ‘centre ville’ or old town.

The 16th century clock tower on the main square in Aix *Photo by Diane Covington-Carter*

Though I knew no one in Aix, through many serendipitous encounters, I made friends and found a sunny apartment in the ‘centre ville’ where I could walk everywhere. As the sun shone in through the windows each morning, I spent precious hours writing in my journal, then set out to explore my adopted town.

One of the beautiful historic buildings in Aix *Photo by Diane Covington-Carter*

I shopped at the open-air markets each day, choosing fresh, sweet strawberries from local farms, eggs gathered from a Provencal hen that morning, many eggs with downy feathers still stuck to their shells.

Fresh, sweet strawberries in the open market *Photo by Diane Covington-Carter*

Each evening, I visited my favorite bakery, just as a baker lifted the fresh loaves out of the wood-fired oven. My favorite, ‘une baguette a l’ancienne, bien cuit, s’il vous plaît,’ ‘an old-style baguette, extra browned, if you please,’ felt warm in my hands, alive, as I walked back to my apartment.

When I sat down at my old pine table, with the hand-embroidered tablecloth I had scored at the open market, I’d savor that bread with a glass of local wine, with my dinner.

I found comfort in a 12th-century church where the monks sang the mass in Gregorian chants and the fragrance of frankincense wafted up into the lofty ceilings. Visiting there connected me to the mystery I felt in my Catholic childhood, when the mass was said in Latin.

The 12th-century Gothic style Catholic Church, Saint-Jean-de-Malte in Aix *Photo by Diane Covington-Carter*

The Romans founded Aix because of the abundance of sources, or springs that bubble up. I discovered a spa built on the site of one of the sources, using the warm, mineral-rich water for treatments. I snagged a local’s price for weekly visits and so relished the ‘soins’ (which translates as ‘care’) or treatments. I would lie on a massage table, the warm source water streaming down and an attendant massaging essential oils into my skin, and offer up a silent prayer of gratitude, ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you’.

The experience of living inside the French culture and language changed me in many subtle and not so subtle ways. I had to learn to slow down, to walk slower, to stroll on my daily rounds. What was the hurry anyway? I had time for the first time in my life. I’d enjoy a ‘café’, chatting with new friends, many of whom were from a variety of cultures, the conversations, in a mixture of French and English, enriching and interesting.

The main boulevard in Aix, Cours Mirabeau, where you can walk in the footsteps of Cezanne, who lived in Aix and painted nearby Mont St. Victoire over thirty times. *Photo by Diane Covington-Carter*

I could feel the subtle differences between French and American manners. When I entered a store or the bakery, I paused to say, ‘bonjour’ to the proprietor, then at the end, ‘merci, au revoir’ or ‘bonne journee’. To omit that would have been unthinkable. Or, if I stood too close to someone, I would say, ‘oh pardon’ and move away. A tiny child, about four years old, ran in front of me one day on the street and called out ‘oh pardon’. Amazing.

I had used an organizer for years, planning each day, and I left it behind in California. I used my writing time to reflect on the first half century of my life and to ponder the future. After my morning writing, I’d head down three flights of stairs and out into the bright light of Aix and feel a sense of adventure as I let the day unfold.

A poster of Cezanne painting Mont St. Victoire *Photo by Diane Covington-Carter*

I achieved the fluency in French I had always longed for. It felt like I had two channels in my brain, French and English, and I could switch back and forth with relative ease. By the end, I could hear my strong American accent, but because I spoke relatively well, the French smiled and called it ‘charmant’.

I came home refreshed and excited.

After all, if I could fulfill that long-held dream, what else could I do?

I began my life back in California breathless to find out.

Visiting my street and apartment years later

Check out Diane’s popular memoir Eight Months in Provence: A Junior Year Abroad 30 Years Late

My “Junior Year Abroad,” 30 Years Late

My Paris Neighborhood