The Harvard Crimson's Summer Postcards

One of the many ineffective signs peppering the streets of Avignon. (Translation: I love Avignon. I love my dog. So I pick up after my nasty flea bag.)

AVIGNON, France — After 3 weeks of living here, I would have to say that the biggest problem I have run into has nothing to do with your typical study-abroad troubles. Communicating with the natives has been fairly easy, apart from the occasional ancient Avignonnais who only speaks a sing-song Provençal. Foraging for food has proven to be far less of a challenge ever since I discovered the 15-flavor selection of Special K in the neighborhood Marché Plus. Even surviving the 38°C weather without the comfort of air-conditioning has become less unbearable. My only complaint may seem trivial to the unsullied reader, but trust me, it will stink up your day.

Two words: dog poo.

Coming from a place where sidewalks and roads are as wide as airplane runways, I’ve found navigating the narrow, crooked streets of Avignon extremely difficult. (Did I mention that I’m also a bit claustrophobic?) When I’m not falling off the sliver of a sidewalk, I am flattening myself against the brick buildings pressed up against the streets so as not to get run over by a city bus thundering down the block or the environmentally friendly electric Baladines humming past me. I have taken to walking in the middle of the streets when automobile traffic is less heavy, only to hop back ever so often on the uneven cobblestones when a wheezing rickshaw driver tinkles his bell in feeble protest as he pedals by. (I have yet to see someone actually get around the city in one of those contraptions.)

So believe me when I say that the last thing I need in the dewy mornings—while running the 15-minute tortuous trek to class in flip-flops, tripping over the flea-infested doberman splayed across the sidewalk, and skirting the hungover town drunk’s advances—is a fresh pile of dog poo. —June Q. Wu