I fought a mountain today.

Nature and I have a complicated relationship. I’m injured very easily due to no one’s fault but my own. I’m half ginger, so I burn easily. The combination of these things, but mainly the first one, makes mountain climbing quite the feat.

During orientation week, I read that the international association at my school was organizing a trip to climb the local mountain, Monte Sainte Victoire. The mountain hangs out just a half hour north of Aix, and gained international fame thanks to an impressionist painter named Paul Cezanne, a native of Aix. Cezanne gained much fame after his death, and apparently the US got into him before the French did. This means that the US has more of his work than France does, which they don’t like. But Aix loves their Cezanne. He has a little bit of everything named after him, including the larger university I attend (of which Sciences Po is just a part). There are bronze squares in the ground with his name on them all over town, taking you from one Cezanne landmark to the next (I live right around the corner from his middle school). But back to the mountain…he painted it like a gajillion times. If you run a Google image search of “monte sainte victoire” you get more pictures of Cezanne’s work than you do photos of the mountain.

Being quite the local landmark, I told myself early on that this was something I had to do while I was here. It worked out nicely that the association was organizing a trip. I pay them four euro, they reserve buses, feed me breakfast, and find 70 or so other students to struggle up the mountain with me.

After meeting up a few blocks from my house, we departed on the chartered coach buses. We definitely drove past a vineyard during our 30 minute ride. Welcome to France. They dropped us off in a parking lot, and we were in dismay. Are we supposed to walk all the way over there? And up that high? Yes. This is literally what I signed up for. Why am I doing this to myself? Is there a lift? Is there a slide on the way back down?

We trekked over a large dam was apparently constructed with funds received from the Marshal Plan, for people who think that’s cool. Then began the zig sagging through the woods, down some hills, and then up some much larger ones. The terrain ranged from dirt, to large gravel, to hopping from one rock to the next. I wore real tennis shoes this time, and brought water, and brought food. Try explaining to someone how you accidentally went hiking over the summer, and learned not to wear Converse in the woods/on a mountain. Apparently it’s a strange thing to have happened to you, but this is my life.

After a hike of about three hours, we finally reached the top. At many points I could have easily died. There was no shortage of steep cliffs to fall off of, especially when you’re stumbling and exhausted. Thankfully that didn’t happen. There’s a monastery at the top where I think you can spend the night. We actually climbed a bit higher than the monastery, to the true top. Everyone brought out their picnic lunch, and relaxed for an hour or so. After a much easier two hour climb back down, I was never so happy to see a parking lot in my life.

I didn’t twist an ankle. I didn’t dislocate a knee. I technically fell on my butt once, but no harm done. Some bushes tried to eat me, but I made it out alive. I made it to the top, and then back down to the bottom. I fought the mountain, and I won.