Category Archives: Postcards

Personal reflections of The Arles Project contributors

Arts, Postcards

Inclusive efforts misfire at LUMA Arles

Story and photos by Kylie Clifton

LUMA Arles is not just an art museum. Guests enter the whimsical, stainless steel-clad LUMA Tower to meet intertwining metal slides accompanied by the eerie echoes of an hourly singing exhibition composed only of sounds. The design inspires excitement and confusion alike — a theme that continues far beyond the entrance. Inside the exhibits, visitors are encouraged to touch the work as if they’re an active member in the creation.

My visit there brings to mind “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.” Much like Charlie’s journey in Roald Dahl’s children’s book, in which a grim reality was revealed just beyond a fanciful entrance, my troubling fate awaited me beneath a staircase, one of many unique sets of stairs, this one mirrored a double helix.

Our group of American students stood together in a tired sweat as we surrounded our English-speaking tour guide. She introduced an exhibit featuring work by Diane Arbus, an American photographer who published most of her work during the 1960s. Arbus is most recognized for her style of direct and intimate photographs of “social deviants,” which often included members of the LGBTQ+ community, drag artists, nudists and sex workers.

The LUMA Arles exhibition “Constellation” is, with 454 photographs, the largest presentation to date of Diane Arbus’ work.

In introducing the exhibit, the tour guide said, “Diane Arbus’ subjects included … homosexuals and transvestites.”

My mind stopped, and I was taken back to Pride 2019 in New York City. Outside a sea of rainbow joy, transphobic protesters roared vile messages and “transvestite” was their slur of choice.

However, the tour guide’s usage was different. She wasn’t angry; she was addressing the subjects of Arbus’ work in a calm manner. I was struck. I had only heard this word paired with rage. I kept asking myself two questions: “How could this be said so casually? Is it possible they said the wrong word?”

I raised my hand, my only instrument to break the silence. “Why is it necessary to use the word transvestite?”

“Is there a different word you’d prefer?” the tour guide responded.

“Well, perhaps the word transgender or…” I offered.

Before I could finish my sentence, the tour guide told me there is a significant difference between the words transgender and transvestite. In the same breath, she said this was the language tour guides were instructed to use for a plethora of reasons — including the fact that Arbus used that word to title her works.

I knew the difference between the words and realized I should have used the word cross-dresser. The 11th edition of the GLAAD Media Reference Guide says cross-dresser has “replaced the offensive word ‘transvestite.’”

The tour guide serves as an educator and, in that role, has tremendous influence. I fear if global visitors to LUMA Arles hear a tour guide using the word, they will use it, too, without realizing how offensive it is.

This usage of this word upset me in 2019 and now again in 2023 for the same reason, but I too often forget that strangers don’t know why. I think everyone should be concerned about the usage of offensive language, but this word cuts deeper for me. I came out as transgender over eight years ago with pride and fear that still lives inside me. Today I have the privilege of “passing” as the woman that I am.

Each day I function like the entire universe knows that I am transgender. I’m always on guard, but it’s a personal battle only I’m aware of. To my knowledge, the LUMA tour guide didn’t know. This left me thinking, if she had known would she have used the word transvestite around me?

I take issue with the fact that Arbus had enormous power over her subjects. She was a cisgender white woman who was born into a wealthy family. There is a distinct power dynamic in which she held a remarkable amount of privilege over her subjects. She’s celebrated for her intimate portrayals of underrepresented subjects, but to me all of her work feels exploitative, as if she crossed a line that wasn’t hers to cross. I’m not the first to raise this issue; it was debated in her own era. 

Yes, this was language that was used at the time, but the term transgender was coined in the 1960s, and people had been challenging the gender binary long before then. It’s possible that some of the drag artists Arbus photographed identified as transgender but hadn’t begun transitioning or more likely feared to start. We don’t know, but using more neutral language or even supplying context for the word would be an act of respect to Arbus’ subjects.

Instead, the conversation with the tour guide became an uncomfortable argument. This was not my intention, and as it continued, I felt the eyes of my peers with pain. What was I doing? As a proud and open trans woman, I am acutely aware of how important it is for me to speak up, but I always forget how difficult it is to do.

At the moment the group was silent, I had to excuse myself. My embarrassing fear was realized, I was the trans woman tearing up in the corner who couldn’t handle confrontation. However, I can recognize now this was not weakness, but strength.

At the close of my tour, I wanted nothing more than to leave and never be seen again. As a trans woman I yearn to be accepted in every space I enter, and often I’m the only one in the room. I wish to be able to blend in and be quiet. This time I spoke up.

After the tour, I spoke privately with the guide. She was apologetic and pledged to speak with her superiors about the use of the word. I recognize that the tour guide was not acting out of malice, but I question the attention to inclusive language in her training.

I don’t care what she titled her pieces; Arbus should not be the authority to follow.

This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.

Postcards

The Talking Walls of Arles

Story and photos by Ella Lepkowski

Although Arles is known as an inspiration for Vincent van Gogh, I discovered a more underground world of art while wandering its streets and alleyways. The walls are scattered with graffiti, vibrant colors, posters, stickers, and words of motivation. The walls serve as canvases not only for these underground artists but also for political activists who silently shout their opinions. 

While I am used to seeing street art throughout the metro and buildings of Washington DC where I live, I sense a difference between the intentions of the painters here and there. Here, the message is more raw. Whether it is an inspirational phrase, a personal philosophy, or a political belief, the messages that are scrawled on the walls here seem to carry very personal meaning, as if the creator wrote it in the spur of the moment, flowing directly from their minds to their paint, and onto the vibrant walls of Arles.

In contrast, of course, the street artists in Washington, D.C., create art that is often astounding and impressive, yet their activism and beliefs tend to seem more “organized,” crafted and displayed in a manner tailored for maximum audience consumption.

The graffito “helm” can be found all over the Roquette neighborhood.

In Arles, there is a greater sense of passion and fury scrawled onto the walls. These graffiti were not meticulously planned or polished. They are an immediate reflection of the artist’s inner turmoil, inspiration and pride.

Walking through Arles’s smaller alleyways and slightly barren roads, I found more and more of these personal statements. In the Washington D.C. metropolitan area, poetry and political messages are mainly saved for their designated spots, with waves of political talk momentarily filling public spaces when there is new unrest. In Arles, however, it seems like an ongoing conversation. If someone wants their unique voice heard, they make it obvious. This is moving for me as someone who typically only looks straight ahead when I am walking through the big city. 

Everything, where I am from, is impersonal, while here in this little town, it is the opposite. Among the vibrant messages, I find a sense of connection. I may not agree with every sentiment expressed, but there is something undeniably human about the act of putting one’s thoughts out into the world for all to see. 

Among the messages:

“Long live France”

“The whole city is mine”

“64 years is not okay”

“Death to fachos”

“Win your life”

In Arles, the local population has a different perspective from mine on this abundance of street art. June Ofstedal, an intermittent resident, observes, “There’s so much stuff on the walls, like posters, that it all just sort of blends together.” Those who are new to Arles, it seems, are some of the only ones who stop and observe what is written and painted on the walls, as it is so common to the residents.

Not only do individual beliefs and messages exist, but there is an obvious presence of community and conversation between the street artists, no doubt due to the small size of Arles in comparison to Washington DC. During my exploration, I stumbled upon a particularly intriguing tag: the word “helm,” written in cursive with an elongated cross extending from the last mark of the letter ‘m’. This distinctive tag is found at least thirty times throughout the Roquette neighborhood. In some locations, the tag is left untouched; however, many times, another street artist has drawn a dash over it in a contrasting color or stroke. Rather than completely erasing the original tag, the dash seems to serve as a form of protest against it, drawing attention to the clash of styles. 

The sheer repetition of the “helm” tag, appearing far more frequently than any other tag I encounter, adds an additional layer of intrigue to my exploration. I wandered around the Roquette for a couple hours, snapping photos of the tag wherever I found it. It is still unclear to me who the artist is, or what exactly it means, but I did find a couple messages next to “helm” that shed some light. 

One striking message consists of an arrow pointing towards the tag with the words in French, “This is a fascist tag.” It’s apparent that “helm” sparked controversy and garnered criticism within the local street art community. Furthermore, I observed a curious trend among those who attempted to cover up the “helm” tag in Arles. It was clear that they made a deliberate effort to conceal the cross at the bottom of the letter ‘m,’ using various methods to do so. Some opted to place an ‘x’ over the cross, while one chose to overlay it with a heart symbol. In some instances, a simple dot of paint was sprayed over the cross, effectively erasing it from view. The acts of covering the “helm” tag created a visual conversation that unfolded across the walls of Arles. It reveals one story within the inherent power struggle of street art.

Another message, written by the helm artist themselves, read, “It is not against you!” This message appeared on a wall already covered in “helm” tags, offering a glimpse into the artist’s intent, which is perhaps seeking to assure viewers that the tag was not meant as a personal attack. 

Upon further research into the symbolism associated with the “helm” tag and its accompanying heart symbol with a cross extending from its top and the singular eye, I discovered parallels to Christian imagery. The cross emerging from the top of the heart, resembling the Christian symbol of The Sacred Heart, adds a new layer of interpretation to the composition. The Sacred Heart is a religious emblem representing devotion towards Jesus Christ, and can be often seen in Christian art. 

Additionally, the eye could be a reference to The Eye of Providence, an eye that represents the all-seeing eye of God, seen on the Great Seal of the United States. This mystical symbol represents divine guidance, protection, and omniscience.

Recently, however, during my stroll through the crowds of the photography festival in Arles, I stumbled upon a previously unnoticed wall, absolutely covered with countless “helm” tags and hearts. To not much of my surprise, most of these tags had been forcefully slashed in a striking blue paint. It was by far the most fervent display of opposition I had encountered against these tags. 

Intrigued, I approached a woman standing nearby and struck up a conversation, and asked her if she knew the significance behind the tags. She said the blue slashes were a visual protest against fascist ideologies. As for the “helm” tag itself, she explained that it, along with the accompanying heart symbol, was seen by some as a representation of France as a Christian nation. The “helm” tag likely derived from someone’s name, lacking any overt political connotation, she said.

My exploration and findings in Arles serve as a reminder that street art, despite its bold and “in your face”  nature, often carries a broader intention and deeper meaning. It seeks to provoke thought, spark conversations, and challenge societal norms.

This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.

Postcards

Iel or elle?

Photo and story by Gabriela Calvillo Alvarez

The worst part of the first day of class is introductions. I dread having to come up with five fun facts about myself on the spot to share with strangers I have yet to know. When I came to Arles for my study abroad program, it was no different. I heard one of my professors explain that we would start the lesson off that way, by getting to know each other.  

She had just announced the agenda for the next few hours when she posed a question to the class about their pronouns. This part doesn’t bother me; it actually makes me feel welcome. But what I found interesting about it is that she mentioned “iel,” the gender-neutral pronoun in France. 

“Iel,” pronounced roughly like “yell,” combines the male (il) and female (elle) pronouns of the French language and has been a source of contention within the country for some time. Originally introduced by the online French dictionary, Le Robert, in 2021, “iel” has upset multiple people who don’t consider it a part of the language. 

One of the main forces against its usage is l’Académie Française, an institution that is designed to protect the French language. One of its statutes reads: “The main function of the Academy will be to work, with all possible care and diligence, to give certain rules to our language and to make it pure, eloquent and able to deal with the arts and sciences.” As of now, “iel” is not officially approved by l’Académie. 

Prior to my trip to France, I wasn’t aware that a gender-neutral pronoun existed here. I was under the impression that it would not be a popular concept. But to my surprise, it had already been a topic of conversation. 

Back in 2017, l’Académie Française wrote a statement on inclusive writing, warning that “with this ‘inclusive’ aberration, the French language is now in mortal danger, which our nation is now accountable to future generations.” This kind of reaction in regards to inclusivity reminded me of a similar sentiment that many people in my own culture share. 

My native tongue, Spanish, has gendered pronouns for most of the words included in everyday language. And similar to the French, the Latinx community has been having a hard time accepting gender-neutral terminology. While it has gained some traction amongst folks, many do not understand it and are afraid of what it means to the integrity of a beloved culture. Some of the older generations in my family are so enthralled with tradition that they perceive this push for inclusivity as almost a personal attack on them.

As a queer person, it’s hard for me not to feel a little alienated anywhere I go. Most of the time, I don’t force people to use they/them on me in my everyday life since I do feel comfortable with feminine pronouns. But in Arles, I have had complicated emotions surrounding gender because it feels like I have to overperform femininity to fit into the culture, both for safety and acceptance. Outside of the classroom, I’m in an entirely new environment and it’s hard to understand what is socially acceptable and what isn’t. 

However, I’m glad that this conversation has begun in Arles and France generally. Perhaps Spanish-speaking cultures will follow suit. Discussions about “iel” or even “elle,” pronounced like “eh-yeh,” in the Latinx community could make way for more inclusive language in the future.

This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.

Postcards

Small Streets Make a City Walkable

Story and photos by Anaïs-Ophelia Lino

“There’s a bar around the corner,” my hostess told me a few days after I had been living with her in the south of France for my study-abroad program. “You’ll see a lot of men outside, but I’ve never felt unsafe walking past at night.” It was the first time I thought about how safe the neighborhood was.

When I prepared for my trip to Arles with ieiMedia, I researched the little town next to the Rhône and its culture. I learned that French cafes close between lunch and dinner. I worried about making a fool of myself when ordering iced coffee because it isn’t popular in France. But I never considered how I would get home at night, let alone how safe I would feel, even though it’s ingrained in my routine back home.

The night before my conversation with my hostess, I walked from a pub to the apartment pretty late down the skinny streets lined with old houses and apartment buildings. Of course, harmful situations for women can happen anywhere, but I didn’t feel at risk. 

I didn’t consider why I felt this way until I had walked home with another student who said her route felt “sketchy” to her. And when a third student agreed, I began thinking about the differences I saw on her way home. Her route was sparsely lit with big, wide streets more suitable for cars.

Her walk home is very similar to my walk in California. I also have to go under an overpass and walk through a dim street. I walk on the opposite side of incoming cars and always call my mother or a friend as a sort of safety net. I change my routes and make sure no one follows me home. 

There could be many reasons why I feel safer walking in my neighborhood in Arles. It doesn’t get dark until 10 p.m. and the buildings are much closer together compared with the wide open car-oriented streets of San Francisco.  Cars barely squeeze by in my Arles neighborhood, which dates back to the medieval era, and when the sun does go down, lamps illuminate most, if not all, of the street.

When I walk in the morning, I see parents greet other parents as they take their toddlers to school and I watch friends chatting over their morning espresso at a little cafe. Seeing all the Arlesians meet for dinner or drinks while I walk home makes the neighborhood feel like a community, and I myself encounter acquaintances on the street. I also feel more efficient because Arles is so compact that I don’t have to carve out time to run across the city for a single errand. 

Meanwhile my colleagues back home talk about how American cities are so car-dependent. Anytime I encounter friends spontaneously, it seems like an outlandish coincidence instead of just a probability.  If my city was as walkable as Arles, I think I would feel more calm there as well.

This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.

Arts, Postcards

The Body and its Images

Story and photos by Alexie Zollinger

As I walk the narrow streets of Arles, I find myself pausing periodically to admire a piece of graffiti, art displayed in storefront windows, or the occasional flier posted around the city, of which there are plenty. Many of the pieces I am stopping for are public art that display entirely nude figures or they incorporate messages of sexuality or love. 

My assumption is that these are no more than your average piece of artwork to the French and to Arlesians, hence their public display. While I was eating lunch Tuesday and absentmindedly watching French cable television, none of which I understood, on came a commercial depicting a group of nude male and female models being doused in colorful plumes of smoke. It wasn’t until the end of the commercial that I even knew it was an advertisement for deodorant. I sat back and thought, “Wow, that would never fly in Salt Lake City, Utah.”  

Utah is largely known for its five beautiful national parks, outdoor recreation opportunities and, of course, its impressive population of members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (LDS), in which I was raised. The religion itself is a branch of Christianity which shares many of the same beliefs as other Christian religions, but varies in certain aspects. For the purpose of this reflection, I’ll stick to the beliefs I grew up with surrounding sex, modesty and virtue. 

As a young girl, I was first introduced to the concept of sex and intimacy through the context of the LDS church. I was instructed to treat sex as an extremely intimate and sacred act only permitted between a married couple, (additionally– only between a heterosexual and cisgendered couple) for the purpose of reproduction and an important stepping stone towards a primary goal of LDS members, to bear and raise children. 

As a pre-teen and teenager in the church, I learned the church’s guidelines on morality. 

For women, there were no tank tops, no shorts shorter than three inches above the knee, same deal with skirts, no midriff visible, no tattoos or facial piercings beyond one ear piercing in each ear, no low T-shirts or dresses, etc. What I disliked about these messages, even from a young age, was how closely these rules were tied to self worth. 

In Salt Lake City, if someone is not viewing intimacy through a religious lens they are talking about it in a way that is so hypersexualizing that it is dehumanizing. It feels as though there is very little room for healthy sensuality.

Thankfully, being raised by a rather feminist mother, I was taught that I am very capable and what other people think of me is not my concern. I was never attracted to the “better than” narrative I was picking up on through these lessons: “Women who show lots of skin are often women of bad morals,” “Women who have sex out of marriage lack dignity and self respect.” 

In high school, I pierced a second hole in each of my ears, and the glances and suspicion really only increased from that point up until last year, when I signed a letter, had it notarized and sent to the LDS Church’s lawyers, notifying them of my wish to be removed as a member and have my records erased. I had stopped attending church a few years previous to this, but the decision still made my mother cry, and my father sigh. My extended family still doesn’t know, as far as I know.

In Arles and perhaps in all of France, nudity and sexuality appear to be less of a taboo subject than in the United States with its Puritan roots.

I am grateful that through personal growth I have come to find my body as a gift given unto myself, one that is capable and is able to feel all things from sensuality to sadness. I am grateful for having open conversations with friends that help normalize intimacy and encourage comfortability in my skin. 

I am grateful that in other areas of the world, such as Arles, nudity and the human figure are spoken about in terms of art and beauty, and not in privacy and shame. I hope one day to see nudity and physicality and intimacy portrayed in this manner at home, where women feel uncomfortable in their feelings and skin. I will bring more of this approach home with me, and will continue to discourage negative language around the human body, sexuality and intimacy, and act as the French seem to–as though it is something normal and even beautiful. Because it is.

This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.

Environment, Postcards

Taking Flight

Story, video and photos by Louis Denson

Last Tuesday in Arles, I was walking back to my host home when I  heard a smack and a splat. Looking over my shoulder, I saw a small black sparrow spread-eagle on the ground looking around like it was waiting for me to tell it what just happened. 

After watching the bird make a few failed attempts at flight, I thought to myself, “I’ve  never touched a wild bird before.” It seemed its shock at hitting a wall had turned into helplessness as it just lay  there with its wings spread wide. Stroking the wings and body with the back of my middle  finger, I could see that this bird was in no immediate presence of death. “Maybe a broken foot?” I thought as it gave another effort of flight that jumped me back into the street. Natalia Puglia, a  language teacher and interpreter for Arles à la carte, stopped on her bike and told me that  sparrows can’t fly from the ground and need wind or velocity from height to take flight; so this  bird was not broken, it was just stuck in a rut. 

Before I could think of anything to do, a woman approached the three of us and had a  quick exchange of words with Natalia in French that went along the lines of “What happened?”  “This sparrow ran into the wall and can’t take flight on its own.” Without hesitation, this woman  scooped up the sparrow in her hands and gently examined its body. Not only was I surprised that  the sparrow made no attempt to prevent this from happening, but I was also slightly jealous that I  missed the opportunity to hold and help the bird. After only a few seconds and the lifting of her  hands, the sparrow took flight in the direction it had been going when it crashed and landed on a  windowsill. We exchanged glances, assumed the bird was safe and said, “Bonne nuit,” and went  our separate ways. 

How quickly, confidently, and casually all parties–other than myself–handled this  situation really shed light on the different air in the streets of Arles. I’ve seen and been a part of  conversations that consisted of strangers asking about each other’s children and wellbeing,  and leashless dogs looking over their shoulders to check in with their owners as they walk down busy  streets in the middle of the day. Arlesians show a calmer attitude than I see in people back home toward flies and mosquitos. Their sensitivity to nature almost brings to mind stories I’ve heard of Native Americans who could pick up a scent in the wind as they ran without sound or shoe  through woods and forests. There is an energy that is quick acting but also calm and collected, that is so natural and harmonious with its surroundings that I can’t think of another way to say it  other than that Arlesians are tapped into something special.

This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.

Postcards

Comment dit-on?


By Ella Slade

I point to my dinner, a full plate of tomato salad and fried egg crêpes, and rack my brain for the French translation of “this looks good.” The words exist only in English, and I stifle a sentence I know my host won’t understand. 

Communication with my host “mom,” a wonderful woman named Djamila, involves an amalgamation of French (with the aid of Google Translate), English, gestures and facial expressions. I have never before experienced this kind of difficulty in finding the correct words; English was always my strong suit, and I have nearly three years of communication-related college courses under my belt. 

When it comes to speaking French, however, the average second-grade student could shamelessly wipe the floor with my written and verbal abilities. I now feel slightly ignorant in calling myself an expert communicator, as I’d only ever attributed the skill to communication in my native language. 

The frustration I feel at not being able to exactly express my thoughts is a new and special experience. If I could tell Djamila anything, I’d ask her where she found each and every one of the paintings that ornament her apartment walls. I’d speak precisely about the differences between my town in Iowa and Arles, France. Instead, I use choppy French to say something about how Iowa has a lot of farmland, a lot of corn, as she nods and smiles. 

Surprisingly, I continually find that being “taken down a notch” in my preferred area of expertise is not discouraging. As my proficiencies are challenged, I gain new skills. 

After one of Djamila’s home-cooked meals, I now can express my satiety in French, thanks to her teaching. We laugh together without use of complete sentences, and respond to the television with sighs and smiles and eye-rolls. 

This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.

Postcards

How I got scammed at the Arles market


Story and photo by Destene Savariau

Let me start by saying that I love bunnies so much that you could call them my kryptonite. I have wanted one since I was young. Since my parents would not let me have one, anytime I see one, I cannot help but fall prey to their adorable faces, fluffy bodies and floppy ears. When I came to Arles, I was not expecting to see any, especially not at the open air market.

The author pets a bunny at the Arles Market.

The Arles market has been held Wednesday and Saturday mornings since at least 1584, according to a letter written by King Henry III. The market of Arles takes place right outside the limits of the old town, alternating between the Boulevard Émile-Combes to the east on Wednesdays and the Boulevard des Lices to the south on Saturdays.

One Saturday, I went to the market and the street was jammed with vendors. The sound of bargaining French people rang through the air. The air smelled like fresh olives and paella, which simmered in huge pans. Many of the vendors sold fresh produce straight from the countryside, and others offered inexpensive clothing, including shirts and dresses from Senegal. Those were my favorite as they had vibrant colors and patterns that complimented my skin beautifully. 

As I walked further down the boulevard, I noticed two tiny carts. They were filled with hay and little furry bodies. As I got closer, I realized what they were. One held a lionhead rabbit, which is a rabbit with an extra furry face, and a dwarf pig. The other had a black and white lop-eared rabbit and three snowball bunnies. 

When I first approached the carts, a man asked if I wanted to know how much they were. I answered, then he joked as if he wanted to sell them as food. I immediately denied wanting to eat them as they were too cute to eat and much more suited to be pets. I pet them, held them and learned why they were there.

The two men who ran the stand explained that they rescued animals, like the bunny and the pig, and helped them get medical attention. They sold candy to raise money for vaccines so they could be adopted. He showed me an open box and gave me a sample to try. The candy itself was not so bad, just a bit too sour for my tastes.

“Thirty euros for the small box of candy can cover a vaccine for a small cat and two rabbits,” the vendor said. “And the big box is 50 euros, which can cover vaccines for two cats and a dog.

The small box of candy was actually a small circular metal tin. The words on it were French, but its background was of a serene plain with a river. There was a barn at the forefront and a small French village tucked in the mountains.

I told him, “No, thank you.” Fifty bucks? That is way too expensive, I thought, especially for such a sour candy.

But then, he hit me with a deal I could not refuse. 

“I’ll give you the big box and small box for 30 euro.”

That was nail one.

“It will go towards treating a whole family of bunnies.”

That was the final nail in the coffin.

Hell, yeah, I was going to buy some of the candy! I would not be able to leave the market knowing that I did not do anything to help these poor, helpless baby animals. Buying the candy felt like I had done something really good.

When I got home to my host family, my host father explained that  those guys were scammers.

Apparently, it is illegal in France for people to use animals as a tool to sell things. After my host father told me that, I felt kinda stupid. Those guys really tricked me and made me feel like a silly American tourist who was an easy mark. 

But then again, learning from those experiences is what makes traveling so enriching and unforgettable!

This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.

Postcards

Why Aren’t You Fat?

Story and photo by Sophie Wyckoff

I sit at the wooden table with a mother and her two children, whom I luckily get to call my family for the next four weeks. We’re sharing our first meal together. My host mother, Isabel, breaks the silence and blurts out in her broken English how shocked she was when we first met that I wasn’t “fat and didn’t eat a lot.” 

Since then, my host family and I have often compared portion sizes, meal choices and grocery shopping differences between the United States and France. I find myself confirming Isabel’s stereotypes as I describe how much fast food our country has. Isabel shares that on Wednesdays and Saturdays, a market with fresh produce and butchered meat is located less than a half mile from her home.

On Wednesday morning, I stuff my purse with euros and start my journey to the Arles market. I hear the voices of the Arlesian people doing their weekly shopping as the smell of freshly baked croissants hits my nose. I have experienced farmers’ markets in my hometown in America filled with homemade items, but nothing compared to the abundance of fruits, vegetables and baked goods available at this market.

As I walk down the street surrounded by produce, my mind begins to wander to life at home. Instead of freshly grown ingredients, the aisles at Target, Hy-vee and Walmart are loaded with prepackaged food, saturated fat and high-fructose corn syrup. If we had as easy access to farm-fresh ingredients as we do fast food, America would not have earned the image of poor health it has today. These next couple weeks, I will relish the locally grown food until I am back to the reality of America: processed food. 

This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.

Postcards

Spare change

Story and photo by Ella Ehlers

As I was sitting outside a small bakery in Arles with some friends, the remains of our lunch scattered around us, when a small boy approached our group and caught our attention. 

The boy looked to be around 7 years old, but his clothing looked a lot older. He was wearing ripped-up shorts and a gray T-shirt with gashes through the fabric. His hair was shaggy, and he had dirt smudged all over his face. I was instantly hit with a wave of sadness after seeing the state this young boy was in.

He looked up at us and softly asked for some coins for a pastry. I was too stunned to speak, but quickly turned to my wallet and started digging for coins. I could feel the boy’s eyes looking at me, making me hope I could find some spare change. I snatched a few euros to give him and my friends chipped in too. We ended up collecting enough for him to buy some food. The boy’s eyes started to glow, and he smiled ear to ear as he thanked us for the coins and quickly scurried into the bakery. 

As the boy walked away I was filled with a wave of relief, knowing that he could buy something to eat. But I was quickly taken back to a dark place, knowing there are children fighting hunger and homelessness every day. Then the boy came out of the bakery with a bag in his hand. 

He sat down at the table right beside us and quickly gobbled down the sandwich. It seemed like this was the first time he had eaten in a while, which made me upset. From the way the boy was eating, it seemed like he didn’t know how or when he would get his next meal.

As the boy was leaving, he said, “Merci, mes dames,” and rode away on his rusty bike.

I was left with a pit in my stomach and many unanswered questions. I wondered where his parents were and how he could be left alone at such a young age. 

After this interaction, I feel grateful to have grown up in a family that was able to financially support me, and I feel deeply sorry for the children who aren’t sure if they will eat every day.

This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.