When Life Gives You Le Mans

Yesterday, I finally turned eighteen, and since that's kind of a big deal, I actually had a party.  I haven't really had one since I was eleven, but that was a paragon of parties.  How about my cake?  My parents made it. It was a masterpiece.  I am so upset that the picture is blurry.

This party was French-inspired.  I have been obsessed with all things French since I started learning to speak the language in seventh grade, and in July of this year, I actually got to go there.  Don't worry, I took plenty of pictures.  Notre Dame!  The Eiffel Tower!  The palace at Versailles!  The thing is, though, I didn't get all the pictures I needed.  I know you're supposed to relax with the camera and try to enjoy every bit of it in the moment.  But I scrambled to get a shot of these things, and sadly fell short every time.

1. Richard the Lionheart.  He's buried in a cathedral in Rouen.  It was a moment I wanted to spend thinking about Dan, but like so many crumbling, centuries-old monuments, that part of the cathedral was closed for restoration.  Thinking of him then made me particularly sad; I wasn't expecting to be confronted with a reminder of him.  As we all know, he is gone, but far from forgotten.  In fact, we remember him often, at the most unexpected times.  
2. Le Mans.  Every time I turned around, there was a sign bearing the direction to Le Mans.  It seemed that for the entire trip, we danced right around it without actually going there.  A picture of just the sign would have been worth having.  One day, I will go to the 24 Heures du Mans.  It's on my bucket list.  I can hardly miss out on an event that combines two of my favorite things.  Speaking French above the roar of a legendary race?  C'est parfait!
3. c. 1960 Mustang.  When I saw it, I forgot I was in France.  We could have been on some endless highway in middle America.  (Then we passed a Peugeot dealership.)  I wasn't completely shocked to see it, but something about it in that moment was incredibly beautiful.  As much as I was loving my time in France, it struck a patriotic nerve.  
4. A kart track.  There I was, riding through the postcard-worthy Loire Valley, imagining Joan of Arc galloping through the hills on horseback.  Then a little kart track appeared.  I wasn't sure if it was even a kart track at first, but I saw red and yellow striped curbs, and signs, a separate one for each letter, spelling out, "KARTING."  (It's the same word in French and English.  I remember writing sentences  in French class:  "Qu'est-ce que tu aimes faire?"  "J'aime faire du karting.")  It was a perspective I hadn't seen before.  Obviously, there's plenty of racing in Europe.  But since I've never seen it with my own eyes, I still picture castles and villages when I think of that continent.  Well, there are definitely castles and villages, but nestled in between are race tracks.  So this is where it happens.  This is where it fits.
5. 8, Place de la Concorde, Paris.  This is the address of the Federation Internationale de l'Automobile.  I laid eyes on that building without knowing what it was.  I was busy being amazed that Marie Antoinette was beheaded right over there.  But on the other end the Place de la Concorde was the FIA.  I only knew that later.  It turns out that colorful histories and modern motorsports fit quite well together.  And why shouldn't they?  The first-ever motor race took place in France. 

The good news is that I will hopefully be studying abroad in France soon.  I'll find my way to Le Mans.  I'll do some French karting.  I will get the pictures I'm lacking.