FIELD NOTE 4.86 - Arroz con pollo.

Almost 4 weeks ago Elizabeth, a Venezuelan girl with whom I share most of my classes, invited me to a dinner where she would be cooking traditional Venezuelan dishes. The dinner was tonight.
I decided to stop by and dragged Darryl along with me. It was strange at first but Elizabeth made us feel comfortable, making sure we had everything we needed and then engaging us in conversation. Before I knew it I was speaking Spanish, or at least what passed for Spanish after not speaking it for nearly 3 years.
Choosing to walk back to our residence from where the dinner was being held I randomly said to Darryl, "I'm going to miss nights like this." I don't know what made me say it out loud but it was true. Now that everything's ending I realize just how much I would have liked to have connected with the other students. But there's no sense in regret and in time I might forget what might have been.

FIELD NOTE 4.85 - Catch-up.

After more than a month of failed attempts to get together and uncomfortable silences, Darryl and I finally managed to work out a night to get together and grab a beer with Ben and Ge.
It was a little awkward at first but that dissipated as we fell back into ourselves. We left Fées tonight with plans to get together again.
We did not speak of the end even though we all sensed its coming but spoke instead about what little time remains and what we can fill it with.

FIELD NOTE 4.84 - Questions and lies.

Today was my last phonetics and French history course of the semester. Never really having been in love with these classes, I was still surprised to feel pangs of sadness at their endings.
My phonetics teacher asked us all whether or not we would be staying in Nantes and if we were considering coming back to the university in the fall. When the question came to me, I hesitated and answered with just a simple "I don't know." A lie.
I know all that stuff about how bad it is to lie, but let's face it: sometimes a lie is just easier and more comfortable.

FIELD NOTE 4.83 - Fresh cut grass.

It is now officially spring here which means that lawnmowers are out in force cutting the lawns and various random patches of grass in Nantes.
This morning their area of attack was the lawns of my residence and I was woken by them at 11h12 this morning. After a 5-minute debate with myself over whether or not shoving my head under the pillow would stifle the sounds enough to let me get a little more sleep, I decided it was probably more pragmatic and I got up and rolled up the window curtain. Whatever latent hostility I may have held toward the yard men and their lawnmowers disappeared when the smell of freshly cut grass hit my nostrils.
Small things, small things.

FIELD NOTE 4.82 - Broken Things.

FIELD NOTE 4.81 - Two months.

It is to be a countdown.
I realized this today as I looked at my calendar and saw that today is 29 April, 2 months to the day from my flight back to the United States.
But whether it is a countdown to an ending or a new beginning remains to be seen.

FIELD NOTE 4.80 - Two kinds.

I have read the Amy Tan story "Two Kinds" so many times that it is no wonder that it came to mind today in class when I noticed a slight difference between myself and another student.
None of us are anywhere close to being fluent in French yet. So when we come across an unknown word or phrase we will ask the professor to explain what it means to us.
There seem to be 2 types of questioners in my classes: the kind that ask the question and are content and the kind that ask the question and don't stop asking questions about it. I count myself among the former - give me a word I don't know and I'll ask you to explain it; once you explain it I'm happy to move on and let it sink in. But there are others who come across that same word and ask what it means and once they find out start to ask question after question about it and how to use it and when it's used and why it's used until the word itself becomes forgotten and the class is completely disrupted - all this for a word that they will probably never use again.
I don't know the people like this very well but their constantly doing this makes me wonder if they are not comfortable with the unknown; as if asking question after question will somehow make sense of everything so that they can go out and live without any uncomfortable situations or slips.
I like these uncomfortable situations and slips - those are the places I've learned the most. I am more than happy to live my life just knowing the few words I've collected and letting the rest come to me as it will.
So I bite my tongue when these people ask their questions and content myself with the fact that there are 2 kinds and I am not their kind.

FIELD NOTE 4.79 - Finally a thunderstorm.

Ask anyone who knows me well and they will tell you that my favorite kinds of days are ones where there are thunderstorms.
I love everything about them: the sights, the sounds, the way all my hairs seem to stand on end the moments just before the first sound of thunder, and the way it smells immediately after. A few of my friends have told me I am crazy for preferring this sort of weather. I am fine with this.
I have grown quite jealous this past month as I have heard from person after person about the thunderstorms in Richmond and the sever thunderstorms in King William. And all the while the normally rain-prone weather of Nantes seemed to give way to day after day of sunny Spring weather.
Today was no exception as I walked from my dorm to my last oral French class. Soon after getting there and sitting down though the sky began to darken and then there was the sound of thunder. I closed my eyes and smiled - finally, a thunderstorm in Nantes.
It didn't last long, perhaps 5 minutes. It was enough though. Enough to make my day and enough to last me long enough to return to Virginia where the summer is filled with the sounds of thunder and the smell of hot dirt after the rain.

FIELD NOTE 4.78 - Bluebells.

FIELD NOTE 4.77 - Conversations.

I talk of ends. Ziming talks to me of beginnings.
I talk of reality. Jagna talks to me of possibility.
I want to believe in beginnings, in possibility.
But I go on talking my hollow talk.

FIELD NOTE 4.76 - The unexpected.

Wednesdays tend to be fun days because the only class on this day is a 3-hour French writing class in which we review random French grammar rules and argumentative structures. Or at least, this is what we do in theory. More often than not these days are lost to tangents that become lost to other tangents which transform themselves into a completely different subject to fill this 3 hour period.
Normally spending this many hours trying to follow tangent after tangent annoys me to no end. In Richmond I would not have stood for it - in fact I complained often about the tangents in one of my classes last semester almost every week. But now I have changed my opinion on tangents.
Now, instead of being little annoyances in my day, they are the places I find I learn the most - random words and sentence structures that may or may not ever be useful to me in actual conversation. Still, these tangents are interesting just the same. And they make the hours pass faster.
I guess it doesn't really matter that knowing the French verb effleurer, which literally means "to touch with a flower," is the word that infiltrated itself into the English language where it was gradually transformed until it came to mean "to flirt."
I doubt anyone will ever stop me in the street and ask me if I can trace the history of the word flirt, but I enjoy knowing it any way. Besides, I realize now my learning French will forever be a process and will never be finished. Like everyone else in my classes who has come here, I can only collect what I can while I'm here and return with that - and I would much prefer to have a head full of Annick's random stories and lessons than the knowledge of how the French structure their arguments any day!

FIELD NOTE 4.75 - A month.

Today is 27 April.
On 27 May I will be leaving Nantes, perhaps for the last time.
A month separates the 2 and stretches before me, endless.
But do I want the end? I sometimes feel like I've outgrown this city like I have outgrown my favorite button-down shirt. But there are days when I forget this and I almost feel like if I lived here long enough I could come to enjoy being in Nantes.
This is a dangerous feeling.
I have felt this same feeling in Richmond: the illusion of contentment. Realizing that feeling exists even here has filled me with this sudden dread.
No, what I want is that quiet contentment - the kind I always find after finishing a good book, drinking a wonderful cup of tea, or repotting a plant. Little moments where the world is perfect and nothing else matters.
I will not settle for less.

FIELD NOTE 4.74 - Wandering.

I had been told of a road that, when followed, would lead to another road that would eventually lead to water.

Today I needed water.
So this afternoon found Darryl and me walking down this road that lead to anther and eventually we came to some old wooden steps that lead down to a riverside path. We followed this for quite some distance and time, stopping a few times on benches and tree trunks to admire the views.
This lasted for about 2 hours. When we took a turn that lead us to an exit, we discovered that we had somehow come out at the Université de Nantes right beside the building where we attend class every day.
It seems strange now to think that all this time this path had existed so close to us and all this time we had never even known it. But I suppose this is the way of things: what before seems impossible to believe now merely is. So too this path.
Now there are plans to walk it again tomorrow and to come back in the near future with books and blankets to absorb the sun and forget that we will never have this again.

FIELD NOTE 4.73 - "I need a snack."

Today I ventured down to Commerce with Darryl with the sole intention a pair of flip-flops that would get me through the rest of my stay here in France. Of course the trip was unsuccessful as we found pair after pair of French flip-flops that had something unacceptable about them. Too many studs, too much leather, too wide, too infantile - the list went on until I just stopped explaining myself when Darryl pointed to pairs and just said "No."
One of the things I love the most about my excursions with Darryl is that she is guaranteed to say at least once, "I need a snack." Normally it is because we always seem to find ourselves outside when it's close to a meal time, but I have come to take a great deal of comfort in this line every time she says it. I don't tell her this, of course.
So today when we were leaving H&M and I heard the line, I smiled. We walked to the panini stand where she buys a chicken panini every time we go to Commerce. But today for some reason I was still holding onto the realization that in a few weeks I won't hear her say this line as often and there will be no more French paninis and so I told the woman that I would take one as well.
A change that surprised both of us, but sometimes you just need a snack. Besides I have a feeling that these panini memories will prove to be some of the dearest to me.

FIELD NOTE 4.72 - Final.

Today was the final for my French culture class.
Never having had a final before in France, I wasn't quite sure what the format would look like. Add to this the fact that since the very first culture class I had never felt like I had any real idea what the course was about and what exactly I was supposed to be learning. Normally this combination of the unknown and the uncertain would be enough to send me into nervous fits. Or at least it would have back in Richmond. Ironically here I didn't even feel a twinge of nervousness.
Maybe it's the fact that I only need a 10 in this class to receive credit for it or perhaps its that I still hold on to a little bit of my "this isn't real" mentality, but whatever it was I was thankful for it today as I walked into that classroom and sat down for the exam.
The exam itself proved to be nothing that I would ever call "exam worthy" in an American university. More like a quiz, the exam consisted of 4 sheets of paper stapled together with 10 questions and 2 maps printed upon them. We were given an hour and a half to finish the exam and it passed rather quickly as I set about answering the questions, which were quite random and seemed strangely simplistic to me.
I was the 2nd to turn in my exam and as the prof looked it over and continually nodded his head, I began to breathe a little easier, my first French exam over. Now all that's left is to wait a week for the results.
The hardest part is always waiting for the results. That, at least, is the same in every country. But I still wonder if I keep telling myself "10, 10, 10" over and over until next Monday will it eventually become meaningless and offer me no real comfort anymore?

FIELD NOTE 4.71 - Monday.

Mondays are hard. Mondays after a 2 week vacation are harder. Mondays after a 2 week vacation and with only 1 and a half weeks of class left are nearly impossible.
But I did my best to get up when my iPod screamed its horrible alarm at 8h00 this morning, grumbling as I brushed my teeth and set about my old routine. I expected this. What I didn't expect was to find myself falling so easily back into my old schedule and habits.
Perhaps it was the fact that I was riding the post-vacation high or perhaps it was because the end is now in sight, but it seemed to me that I was genuinely glad to see everyone, even the people I never thought I would miss. Strange, that.
Suddenly the fact that the end is in sight became a rock in my stomach. In just 2 weeks time classes will be over an exams finished and I will more than likely never see the majority of these people again. I don't know what name to give this feeling - it's not regret, I know regret all too well. No, this feeling weighs heavy, like an uncertainty or an unrealized possibility.
But there is no time for this, at least not at the moment. There are still 1 and a half weeks of class to get through. Once that is over I can assess everything.
There are some small comforts though in that I know I have made at least 5 lifelong friends here. The rest will just have to work itself out.

FIELD NOTE 4.70 - I noticed...

...the moon rising outside my window. There is a face in it and it looks sad with his shadowed eye and heavy lips.

FIELD NOTE 4.69 - An end.

Today marks the end of my 2-week vacation. It shouldn't come as a surprise to me but still I find myself unable to believe that 2 weeks have passed so quickly - this is the way of all vacations, I suppose, no matter where they are or how long they last.
Today I tried my best to pick up the pieces of my schoolwork where I laid it down all that time ago. I tried to piece together my culture class enough for the final tomorrow morning but ended up unable to make any sense of how it all fits together or where it all leads. I will leave the rest of it up to fate and chance - what's left I will only call a cultural misunderstanding.
Today I made my tea alone.
Today I wasted hours doing nothing but looking out the window and wondering where the time goes.
Today I reconnected with a friend after 2 weeks of separation.
Today I realized that I didn't need to know all the words, that I never did.

That was today, and there's a beginning and end to it.

FIELD NOTE 4.68 - Invasions.

The war is on again.
The air is filled with floating seeds carried by their white feather-like parachutes. Pappus. This is proper word for the floating seeds. A specific image requires a specific word.
All day, all weekend, all week I have been bombarded as the seeds have wandered in through open windows and doorways. When I notice them, I always try to collect them and throw them out the window so that they might find fertile ground.
It is a losing battle.
For every 1 I catch, 2 escape me. But still I try to make what little difference I am able while outside the window it is raining white as sunlight catches on the parachutes. It is to be an invasion in a few weeks once the seeds that make it past the windows and the crows finally settle down.
I wonder if I will be here to see what comes next. I am leaving in just a few short weeks. Time enough for the seeds to sprout?
But there is a bigger question, there's always a bigger question: Will I even care then?

FIELD NOTE 4.67 - A reawakened desire.

For the past few years I have been filled with this desire for a tattoo but I have never been able to settle on a single thing that I want on my skin for the rest of my life.

For a while this desire just simply disappeared and I thought that perhaps my going to school in Richmond and constantly being surrounded by tattooed friends had made me subconsciously want a tattoo, but that it was only an empty need.
Here in France there are very few people who show visible tattoos and those that do, in the words of one of my French friends, are generally people that you want to avoid. So I was very surprised to find that desire for a tattoo has been reawakened in me here in France. It is stronger now, too, possibly made so by the noticeable absence.
Oh I can't tell you how many days I wake up hoping just to see a peek of colorful flesh, an orange fish scale or a pink flower petal. In Richmond I could always count on having at least one person in each class showing a tattoo for me to look at and take comfort in. Some of these I still remember to this day even though the faces of their bearers have faded from my mind.
I feel that it is now time for me to finally settle down and get a piece of my own - a memorial to mark the change this experience in France has brought about in me. I have even settled on what I want tattooed onto my body: a squid.
For the past few years I have doodled the same image on all the corners of my notebooks. I don't know where the squids came from in my mind or why I started drawing them, but now they seem so much a part of me after having drawn so many and having so many people comment upon them. Even here they have been noticed by teacher and peer alike. While I do not want any of the squids I draw to be put on my own skin, I do want a simple image.
I never really considered it before but the squid is the perfect image. Intelligent, creative, flexible and mysterious, these qualities of squids have also been used to describe me by various people on various occasions. I do not know if they are true of me or not, but the idea has stuck and I feel the image already beginning to brand itself into my mind.
So now begins the process.

FIELD NOTE 4.66 - Staples.

Today I finished yet another box of my favorite tea, PG Tips, which is quite sad considering that I only opened the box less than 2 weeks ago. But 3 or 4 cups a day makes the 40 teabag box go by considerably faster than my usual 2 cup days when school is in session. But the extra cups are worth it and school will be ending soon so I foresee many tea-soaked days ahead.
It's funny but only last week I noted that the 2 things I spend the most money on here are bread and tea. Normally priding myself on being a spendthrift here in an effort to save my money for Paris, the one thing I can't manage to make myself part with is my tea.
Thankfully I always keep 2 spare boxes of tea and 1 of sugar just as a precaution. Today I had to break into 1 of those boxes of tea and that box of sugar.
This can only mean one thing: come Monday I will be making a run down to Leclerc to stock up on tea and sugar, my staples.

FIELD NOTE 4.65 - Early morning French.

Apparently I can't conjugate correctly first thing in the morning or understand certain regional accents.
Okay, so technically it wasn't "morning" when I stumbled into the kitchen today at 13h15 with yesterday's clothes on and my bedhair still untamed, but it was still morning to me. Flora, the girl with whom I now exchange words with daily was there cleaning up after making breakfast with her 2 weekend guests.
We exchanged the normal pleasantries and I tried unsuccessfully to try to make my hair at least passingly neat. And then Flora started talking to me about walks and calling her on her cellphone and how I didn't have one. She said she was going to give me her number to call and I just agreed, confused. She left me alone to go write it down and then the 2 guests from Bordeaux began talking to me, their accents strange and a little bit rapid. I tried my best to keep up and respond while knowing that I really didn't stand a chance.
Thankfully the water started boiling and the number was given to me and I was allowed to return to my room and set about preparing for the day. Oh well, you win some, you lose some.
Today was a loss. There's no sense in lamenting that, I can only acknowledge it and move on.

FIELD NOTE 4.64 - Scarecrow.

Today I stumbled across a bluegrass singer named Kathleen Edwards and since that time have been working my way through her music. One of her songs, "The Lone Wolf," grabs at my heartstrings every time I hear it.

She was a scarecrow the way she always looked around
For something she once had and never could be found
Time was on her side but she never kept track
All the hunters came and took her memories back

FIELD NOTE 4.63 - Cole, unplugged.

Normally I live here with my earbuds in - a life set to music.
This begins early on in the morning. After I manage to talk myself out of bed and roll up the curtain, I put my glasses on and my earbuds in. Typically they stay in until it's time for class and are replaced soon after class ends. I finally take them out for the night right after my nightly YouTube movie.
Often I've thought to myself that living like this might not be the best idea because it may seem to make me somewhat unapproachable in the kitchen or in the hallways, but walking the sidewalks without music to step in time to seems impossible to me. Besides, I am used to living in my own world and people have a way of breaking in regardless. So I continue to live like this and I will gladly take whatever negative consequences may arise from this.
Today though I decided to go a day unplugged. So I didn't put my earbuds in this morning as I ate breakfast and I didn't have them in all those times I brewed my tea.
It felt strange living like this. And yet I noticed things that otherwise would have gone unnoticed like the sound of pies chasing crows and the wind through the trees. I decided to sit like this for a while in my room with the window open and a mug of tea and a book in my hands - just listening for a while, letting the quiet seep into my bones.
A friend of mine jokes to me occasionally that I spend most of my life on the sidelines watching other people live. I always laugh at this but remember that half of what people say in jest is just a veiled truth. This is a truth.

FIELD NOTE 4.62 - Tea time nationalities.

Every day this break I have been in my floor's kitchen at precisely 15h00 - that's 3PM in the American timekeeping system - setting my red pot on a burner to boil the water for my tea mug. Because of this I have repeatedly run into several of the same people going about their own dietary routines.
I don't talk to them. I never talk beyond the required "Bonjour." But today that silence was broken by a boy when he asked if I like tea. Thinking that I hadn't heard him correctly, I just gave him a confused stare which was only rewarded with him saying "thé" over and over while pointing at my pink IKEA mug.
I said yes and he went back to chopping his onions. And then: "Es-tu anglais?" Am I English.
I have come to hate this question with a passion. Just those two words "es" and "tu" can set my defenses faster than anything else. I came here to live a life undefined for a semester and yet at every corner there are people who would ask me who and what I am.
I know that the question of nationality when asked in the residence normally carries with it no negative connotation, only curiosity. Especially when asked by another international student like this boy - they always seem to want to know where everyone comes from, almost as if they are making a collection for themselves of different nationalities that they can say they know.
Not wanting to be rude, but not wanting to answer the question that would come after, I poured my boiling water into my cup and said, "Non, j'suis pas anglais, mais j'aime le thé." Then I left the kitchen.
I don't know anymore why I hate answering the question of where I come from. I am American, I come from America but still there is a hesitance there. I feel the constant need to separate myself from my nationality, especially when I walk down in Commerce and see all the American brands and stores crowding the streets and see all the French idolizing American images. I know I do not measure up to their expectations and they do not want to hear that the images they are given are empty.
I am the reality. And this reality brews tea at precisely 15h00.

FIELD NOTE 4.61 - Theme of the week.

It seems that injury is to be the theme of the week this week.
Today's injury took place in the residence's laundry room as I was putting my clothes into a washing machine while another boy was transferring his clothes from a washing machine to a dryer beside me. Some time between my kneeling to better reach the washing machine's small opening and his opening of the dryer door, it swung over and hit the closed door of the dyer above my washing machine - neither one of us must have noticed it, or if we did, we pretended not to and kept about our respective tasks. We both finished at the same time and as I was going to stand, he was going to close the dryer door and - in typical Cole fashion - my head and the door met with a slight thud.
To his credit the boy did offer me a very sincere "J'suis désolé" to which I responded "Pas de problème." Normally it has been my experience that when the French do something like this and see that the other person is completely find they just give a look that says "Well, your head shouldn't have been there" or just walk off without even a look, so the apology was refreshing.
And besides, the hit on the head offers me the perfect excuse to forgive myself for forgetting to add one of my socks in with the rest of the clothes - surely it was the hit and not simply overlooking it in the folds of my laundry bag...

FIELD NOTE 4.60 - More plans, more setbacks.

For the past 2 weeks I have spent some time each day researching grad schools and other possible post-undergraduate routes and compiling them into a list. I did this in an effort to give myself a more organized way to look at things and decide what looks best.
Now the list has grown quite long and I see no order anymore, only numbers and letters that don't make much sense. When I look at this spreadsheet I feel like a general planning out various assault plans and comparing them. But those who know me also know I haven't the first quality of a general, still trapped as I am in my impetuous youth.
In February I applied for a summer fellowship. Today I was rejected. To be completely honest, the rejection didn't come as a surprise given the liberal nature of the project and the conservative nature of the fellowship board. What did surprise me though was the fact that there wasn't even the littlest measure of sadness after I received this news - no, what I felt was almost a relief. My summer is already plenty full with a program in Paris, re-entry into the United States and the reverse culture shock that will bring, and resuming my life.
I don't know why but I've always had the tendency to overload my plate and to constantly juggle multiple projects. I think a great deal of this is just an effort to keep myself busy and moving forward, almost as if without this I would be unable or unwilling to continue. My efforts to map out grad schools is just an extension of this.
But today's rejection letter triggered something in me. I've since gone into my spreadsheet and deleted it and, like when I read that letter, there passed no great sadness. There's almost a feeling now that I've freed myself from something or at least a simple joy in knowing that I've accepted that I have no plans and no answers. What remains is something I've forgotten existed inside me, excitement.
Tomorrow I will begin again anew and this time the list won't be long, just 5 choices. Those will be all and those will stand and I'll change them as I see fit. And the rest, the rest I'll leave up to faith and fate - both of which it's time I stopped worrying about.

FIELD NOTE 4.59 - Small surprises.

Coming back from scheduling my laundry I noticed there was a card and a Post-It taped to my door. The note was a simple hot pink square from Jen saying that we should get together for dinner or a drink some time before she leaves in May, something that I want to know because I have a feeling I am going to sorely regret never having really gotten close to her. The card was a periwinkle rectangle that bore only a quote by Anna Quindlen:

Doing nothing is something.

Nothing is what I have been doing all week, and doing well I might add. Later Jen would tell me that she gave me the card knowing this and, upon finding it, thought it would be perfect for me to have.
I was touched by the small gesture - just another thing that I will have to add to the list of things I'm going to miss when I'm gone, right beside being able to talk to bakers who know what they are talking about and always having the right-of-way when crossing a street.

FIELD NOTE 4.58 - Laundry and other necessary evils.

I told myself I could put it off no longer, the laundry. For almost 2 weeks now I have told myself that line I continually rely upon to not get things done: "There's still more time."
There's still time left even now, 4 days in fact. But still better to go ahead and do things now while I had the energy or, at the very least, the intention. So after rolling out of bed at 12h10 and taking my morning shower I headed down to the welcome desk to make an appointment to do laundry.
Now the appointment is writ in stone - or at least cheap black ink - for tomorrow at 14h30, which means I will have to somehow summon up the energy tomorrow to do actually follow through with it. But the promise of clean shirts and clean shirts is enough to make me confident enough to say now that it will be done.
What remains to be seen though is whether or not I actually pick up the French grammar book I bought earlier in the semester and told myself that I would read over break. Maybe tomorrow I will brew a cup of tea and sit next to the window and read.
I say this as if it will really happen, and perhaps it will. What is more likely though is that I will sit down on my bed with my book and tea in hand and I will end up looking out the window at the trees in the parking lot until the book becomes forgotten and my tea grows cold. And afterward I will bring out that time-worn line: "There's still more time."

FIELD NOTE 4.57 - Another day in silence.

Perfect.

FIELD NOTE 4.56 - Home?

I have the tendency to randomly repeat certain lines from songs and poems when they come to mind. One of the lines I continually find myself repeating comes from a Monica Richards song: What is it and why is it that this is what we all need: home. A place to rest, to lay down our heads.
For a while now I have been avoiding this word. I tell myself that it is merely a result of studying abroad, of being torn between 2 countries and 2 selves.
In the beginning I used the word "home" at least 20 times a day to refer to many things - King William, Richmond, Virginia, the United States, France, Nantes, my room in Fresche Blanc - and now I don't use it at all.
Sometimes I wonder if in using it all those times I may have somehow confused myself. That would explain the confusion I feel and the fact that I can't precisely tell where to call home these days.
When people ask me what I am going to do after the program in Nantes ends, I tell them that I will be going back to the United States. When people ask me when I am leaving, I say that I am returning to Virginia on 29 June. When people ask if going home will make me happy, I say that it is familiar at least.
So many questions. So many ways of avoiding that word.
I hope that one day I will be able to start using this word again - that I will return from this experience enriched but knowing where I belong. Or else the word will be lost to me and I will be lost in memories of my time in France - if this happens then I fear that "home" can no longer exist for me.
And what then?

FIELD NOTE 4.55 - An ugly knee.

All my life I have been prone to accidentally injuring myself on an almost daily basis - little things like running into doorknobs or finding the legs of furniture with my toes. The same has held true here in France and I can't tell you just how many times I've miscalculated and run into walls and doors.
This morning was by far my worse accident here to date. In my haste to climb into my bathroom and step into the shower this afternoon, I did not pay close attention to the fact that my path and the doorway were not aligned and ended up ramming my knee into the doorjamb. A rush of pain and one "Well that just figures, doesn't it." later, I found myself sitting on the toilet seat waiting for the water to heat up.
It wasn't until a few hours later that I realized bending my knee was decidedly more difficult than usual. Now there is considerable swelling and discoloration to my left knee and walking is something I have been trying to avoid.
Ironic, too, since today the weather has never been better and I was planning on walking down to the Jardin des Plantes. It's not looking like I will be walking anywhere any time soon and so I've tried to take a more let's-look-at-the-bright-side approach and have contented myself by gorging myself on grammar rules and more 70's cult classic films. Also, today when I opened up a random cabinet I found a box of girl scout cookies my parents sent me last month that I told myself I would save for a bad day.
So one box of Samoas and 5 films later I feel content - well, as content as I can be with an ugly knee.

FIELD NOTE 4.54 - Words.

I came here to France with the purpose of learning new words and grammar rules unknown to me before and yet this week I have found myself barely even speaking more than 5 minutes a day. The majority of my time has been spent somewhere between the Internet, reading my French books, and making tea in the kitchen - none of which is really conducive to actual talking. Even still, I've come to realize that I actually enjoy this silence I've grown accustomed to living in.
For me silence used to be an uncomfortable thing. It seems to me that I can recall plenty of memories of times when I would babble endlessly about insignificant things. Now I can't really see any purpose in any of that - it seems to me nothing more than a meaningless filler. I've become hesitant to fill the moments like this anymore, I can't see the point in expending the energy or the breath.
My new goal is to try to speak a little bit less, to grow more comfortable with the silence. Maybe in doing this I can actually learn to listen more and not feel as if my life is nothing more than filler. I have heard it said that with silence comes truth and strength - I hope this is true. I could use both.

FIELD NOTE 4.53 - Lazy Sunday.

I don't know what it was exactly that made me decide to search for full-length old horror movies on YouTube this afternoon, but I blame it on the fact that it's Sunday and, as a consequence of this, I can't seem to manage the energy to do anything more strenuous and walk down the hall to the kitchen and boil water for tea and noodles.
So I've passed the day laying on my bed watching old unremembered horror movies like Satan's School for Girls, Sisters of Death, Screaming Skull, Ghost Game, Silent Night, Bloody Night, and Slave of the Cannibal God - and I couldn't have possibly enjoyed myself more than I did today! Sure, I probably won't be able to remember anything more about the films come morning besides the fact that there were way too many white pants in 70's horror movies than I ever thought possible, but still days like these are completely necessary sometimes!
Call it what you will: a breather, a day off, a mini-vacay, a mental health day. I just call it wonderful.

FIELD NOTE 4.52 - Telephone.

One of the best things to come about by my decision to study abroad is that it has given me a perfectly acceptable reason to avoid phones. I only carry 2 with me now - an American cell phone that doesn't work here and has thus been turned off since January and a global phone that I only use twice a week for obligatory phone calls to my parents in Virginia.
Friends have told me that I should consider investing in a local prepaid cell phone so that they can reach me. I have no desire to do this.
I have quite gotten used to not carrying a cell phone with me at all times. I've come to love not living with the worries of having to remember where I put my phone or whether or not I missed a call or a text message.
In fact, I've enjoyed not being connected to my cell phone so much that I fear I will be unable to go back to using a cell phone when I return. I foresee many days of "accidentally forgetting" my cell phone or keeping it with me and turned off in the days ahead.
It may be a little bit strange, but just this idea is enough to make me laugh.

FIELD NOTE 4.51 - Translation.

Tea is the daily practice now that gives structure to my days. Breakfast, 3 o'clock, 7h30 - these are the times for tea and the times when I can always be found in the kitchen setting the water to boil.
Apparently there are others here who also keep schedules that revolve around the kitchen. I suppose this only makes sense. I have come to know several of their faces, their footsteps.
There's one girl who I have even begun to talk to briefly every day about little things to fill the minutes it takes for my water to boil and her dishes to be washed. Lately we have been lingering longer, she forgets her dishes and I let my tea steep on the table.
Today she told me that my speaking is getting better, than I translate myself well into French. I think my smile may have faltered a little bit. She didn't intend it as an insult and I didn't really take it as such. But still the same, it made me pause for a minute and ask myself: Is this all I am capable of?
I sometimes think that's all life really is, a translation.

FIELD NOTE 4.50 - Spanish strawberries.

Today I had to break my week of isolation and venture out to Leclerc after having eaten all my bread, cheese, and pasta this week.

This week, like every week I go to Leclerc, I casually checked myself out in the mirror beside the escalator leading up to the store and made sure I had my grocery list firmly in hand. Every week I make these lists for myself to remind me of what exactly I need and I promise myself that I will buy only those specific items. And every week I somehow manage to purchase things that aren't on the list.
Today's not-on-the-list-but-in-the-bag items were 2 baskets of fresh Spanish strawberries. At only 1 euro for the 2, I didn't really feel bad about buying them. Adding to this the fact that the display made the entire produce section smell like strawberries and that there was a gaggle of gray haired French ladies all clustered around it and speaking rapid excited French - a difficult thing for me to understand after having only woken up 30 minutes before - and it seemed that my choice in adding the strawberries to my bad wasn't merely excusable, but was justified.
What probably wasn't as justified though was that as soon as the baskets were in my bag I began humming Deana Carter's song "Strawberry Wine" which got me one confused look from a French man and a few actual smiles from the same gray haired women who had been talking earlier over the strawberries, though I doubt any of them recognized the song.
Oh well, some things need no translation.

FIELD NOTE 4.49 - Vagabond.

Vagabond. I've had an unnatural love of this word ever since Elton John sang about kings and vagabonds in the song "Can You Feel the Love Tonight?" from The Lion King.
Lately this word has been coming up a lot for me in casual conversation as different people tell me that they see my life headed toward a sad future if I keep giving into the urge inside me to rip up my roots and constantly start over.
They say this as if it is somehow wrong to want this.
But what if it's all I'm meant for?
Surely I am not alone in this thought.
I've been listening to the music of SJ Tucker lately after randomly stumbling across her on YouTube. There is one song of hers that I particularly resonate with called "Lady Vagabond" in which Tucker pays homage to that part of herself that craves the open road.
Maybe it is this part of myself that I now feel waking, calling me out to the road, maybe this is the reason why all the paths feel wrong and seem to lead in all the wrong directions, maybe it's time to forget the reasons why I can't see the world for myself, maybe...maybe...
I could go on for days about what all this could possibly mean, but none of that would change the fact that even now I feel the urge to rip myself up and roam. The only thing that stops me is hesitancy, but even now that's becoming a bit threadbare.
And what will happen when it disappears completely - will my vagabond self be woken, will I go crazy from it?
Already now I can sense some small changes from that person I was upon my arrival here in France. I used to be so resistant to change, to travel and even so there was an ache in me. Now I am still resistant but not to the same degree and I am slowly starting to give a name to that ache. I am beginning to realize all I want, all I have ever wanted is the knowledge that I can make it on my own.

FIELD NOTE 4.48 - Cold feet.

The weather here is still caught between spring and winter. During the daytime the sun shines into my room and quickly makes it unbearable, but 10 minutes after opening the window the room becomes too chilly.

I suppose the rational thing to do is just to not to raise my curtain; however, this idea seems almost impossible for me to entertain, as if shutting out the sun is an unspeakable prospect.

Instead I've come up with creative solution: using the radiator in my room. I find that if I crack the window open and keep my feet on the warm radiator, the cold never becomes too unbearable. I would love to say that I came up with this solution after carefully thinking about the problem - I would love to but this would be a lie.
No, it's much simpler than that.
My feet were cold, the heater was warm and I figured out the rest from there. Either way, though, it works out just as well.

FIELD NOTE 4.47 - 21h57.

I always keep my curtain partially open just until I get ready to take my nightly shower before bed.
This has been my habit since I first arrived here and yet has only been these last 2 nights that I have noted the lights in the residence's parking lot go out at specifically 21h57.
Such a random time and such a random thing to notice, but still it makes me smile.

FIELD NOTE 4.46 - Counting.

Today is 15 April, which means that I have now been living in France for 3 months precisely. I say this as if it is an important figure when in fact I would not have remembered this were it not for a specific little note I added to my calendar when I first arrived.
I don't know what this means.
I still count down the days on my calendars - both on my computer and in the little notebook I carry with me at all times - but the numbers have lost all their meaning to me. It's not just a habit I fear, a senseless ritual.
I'm not sure exactly when it all stopped making sense - perhaps when I passed the midway point of my journey. I know now that the end is in sight and is exactly 2 months and 14 days away - but even that number seems abstract, impossibly removed from reality.
So what is it to be now - counting or countdown?
Some days I feel like the numbers are the only things that really give my life here any real sense of validity. And some days I wonder what will happen when these numbers run out and there's nothing left to cross out. And I wonder what lies at the end - transformation? a new beginning? a renewed sense of purpose?
There are no answers to any of these - not yet, at least.

FIELD NOTE 4.45 - A watched pot...

...takes exactly 13 minutes to boil. I found this out this afternoon as I was boiling the water for my daily 3PM tea.
There are exactly 4 kitchens in my building, only 2 of which have working burners for cooking food. One of these 2 kitchens is also closes this week because the students here seem to be incapable of cleaning up after themselves.
Unfortunately this means that for the next few days the kitchen on my floor will be crowded as everyone in the building attempts to cook their meals at approximately the same time. This also means having to share my normally quiet kitchen with the same people who dirtied the other working kitchen.
Like today. At exactly 15h00 I walked into the kitchen to prepare my tea and lo and behold, the counters were riddled with eggshells, coffee grounds, and what I can only assume to be raw egg white - some of which had also been burned onto 2 of the 4 working burners in the kitchen. At one of the tables sat 3 men, all of whom had grown quiet upon my entrance.
Rather than say anything, I just sighed and set my water to boil. After a few minutes I felt eyes upon me and their conversation resumed. I looked out the window and started looking regularly at the time on my iPod as if constantly checking it might somehow make the water boil faster.
I recognized the low sound that my pot makes just before the water boils steadily 13 minutes later and rushed to fill my tea mug and leave the kitchen with its eggshells and horrid mess.
Tomorrow I will likely have to use a different kitchen, hopefully one with working burners.

FIELD NOTE 4.44 - Nail biting.

Lately I've been getting better about not biting my nails, something that has been a problem with me for nearly as long as I can remember. Now it mostly happens unconsciously when I am doing or thinking about something and not really paying close attention to the fact that my fingers are in or close to my mouth.
Generally I have been better about nail biting here in France than I was in Virginia and on the trip to Paris this past weekend Sharon and I both exchanged comments about how long our nails were getting. So after reading 70 or so pages of La nuit des princes charmants it came as a small surprise to note that practically all my fingertips were throbbing in pain and one was bleeding.
All those long weeks of being careful to keep my hands away from my mouth and to not bite my nails, all that time gone to waste. And now it still hurts a little to type this message now.
There's no real sense in chastising myself too much over this, so I am doing the only thing I really can: I am trying to hold onto the memory of the pain and use it as a lesson for the next time I catch myself nibbling on the corner of a nail in class or while reading. This is a good idea in theory, but pain is tricky - it exists vividly in the moment but once it's passed there only exists the memory of pain, a far cry from the actual pain itself.
But still, hopefully the memory will be enough to stop me next time...

FIELD NOTE 4.43 - Lazy weeks ahead.

I realized something in Paris. Being constantly surrounded and occasionally bumped into by people in the streets and on the metros is a far cry from the streets and trams of Nantes where there always seems to be just enough room for everyone to keep a nice margin of distance between themselves and others. And for me, as accustomed as I've become over the past few months to this sort of existence, the change came as quite a shock.
Yes, I knew there would drastic differences between Nantes and Paris but still that knowledge didn't adequately prepare me for the reality of the situation. And so, with that in mind, I have decided to use these 2 weeks of vacation here in Nantes to prepare myself for my program in Paris next month by using the time alone to recharge.
While this may sound like a completely antisocial idea, it is not without its merits - after all, it offers me the perfect opportunity to catch up on all the French books and magazine that I said I'd get around to reading but still haven't quite managed to do so. There will be wandering around the city, too, and tea - lots and lots of tea!
To me this seems the perfect way to spend the vacation time, a true break from everything and everyone.

FIELD NOTE 4.42 - Nantes, again.

When the streets went from being completely unknown to passingly familiar, I knew my weekend was drawing to a close.
This is always a sad thing - when things become familiar and you feel yourself slipping back into your old life. Is this what Nantes has become then, my old life? It's true I have become more comfortable here lately, slowly carving a niche. I realize now I could live like this for longer than my 5 months here.
But still there is a little voice inside me that says Nantes isn't where I really belong and I've come to trust this voice these past few years. I remind myself that in a little over a month it will be time to move on to Paris for my summer program. And on 27 May when I take that TGV to Paris it will be time to leave this all behind, to shed another skin.
Sometimes I worry that this will be my life: a constant need to leave places and people behind, a path of old forgotten skins.

FIELD NOTE 4.41 - French highways.

I have come to the conclusion that the French highway system is more agreeable than that its American counterpart. I think a lot of this has to do with the fact that when one is driving on a French autoroute the sides of the road are not cluttered with random exits and fast food restaurants. There is only the beautiful landscape interspersed with periodic gas stations, restaurants, and pit stops.

And for more than 5 hours I sat in the backseat of Antoine's car listening to he and Sharon talk and watching the landscape pass me by, occasionally noting a blur of pale green as we passed a pit stop. It seemed to go on forever like an American interstate.

But unlike the American interstate, the autoroute from Paris to Nantes was not an unpleasant forever.

FIELD NOTE 4.40 - Au revoir, l'Île Adam!

I don't know what I was expecting in saying goodbye to Brigette and l'Île Adam, but still it was a little more than I was quite prepared for. Not tearful exactly, after all we had only known each other for 2 days, but still it was quite emotional as Brigette told us that we were more than welcome to come back and stay with her any time we wanted, an offer that was doubly touching because it was given in France and thus more than just an empty gesture.
And then we were in the car, waving our last goodbyes through the glass of Antoine's car windows.

FIELD NOTE 4.39 - A French lunch.

Antoine, Sharon, and myself were set to return to Nantes Sunday afternoon. Before that time, however, it was decided that Brigette that we shouldn't leave before she was allowed the opportunity to cook a real French meal for us.
And so it was that we all found ourselves that afternoon seated once again at the table enjoying a traditional French meal, my first real home-cooked meal in almost 3 months. The meal passed, as French meals have a habit of doing, in 3 full hours of nonstop eating and conversation. We ate salad, veal, and French cheese while sipping on a 1983 French Cabernet. I also learned that I still don't like foie gras.
Sitting there like that in casual conversation it was almost as if life had always been like this. It was almost as if life could always be like this. It was almost as if...a million things but soon enough we were drinking coffee and preparing for goodbyes.

FIELD NOTE 4.38 - Orchids.

Sharon and I wanted to get Brigette something to thank her for letting us stay with her for the weekend and Ziming and Antoine mentioned that flowers would be a good idea so Sunday morning Sharon, Ziming, and I set off in search of a nursery to buy her flowers.
Having a particular fondness for orchids, Sharon and I immediately went to the little display of them, eventually picking out a soft yellow orchid with a few unopened buds on it and promising new root growth.
Brigette was surprised by the gesture, but very pleased. On my part, I was just happy that I could give her something that would live on long after we'd gone, like a memory, only lightly perfumed.

FIELD NOTE 4.37 - "This is life."

For some reason I've had to keep repeating these words to myself as I showered and got dressed for the day. I think it has something to do with the fact that Brigette's house reminds me of my family's beach house in Reedville, Virginia.
No, that's not right. I keep slipping there, too. They are not my family anymore. I cut them off in one of those it's-either-them-or-me moments that seems overly dramatic in the moment but after only settles into a cold reality.
But still Brigette's house reminds me of theirs and I keep finding myself thinking about what would life be like if I could reconnect with them. Truth be told, I have had many of these moments over the past few months, normally where water is concerned. I'm not really certain whether it is really the Cridlin family I miss or just that little beach house in Reedville.
Either way it doesn't really matter much. I'm too old to believe in happy endings and too disillusioned to believe that people are capable of change.
"This is life."
I tell myself this as I open my door and go to join everyone else at the breakfast table. I have a feeling this will be my mantra for the day.

FIELD NOTE 4.36 - Sleeping in.

Sunday was the agreed upon day of sleeping in since we had had to wake early to get into Paris at a respectable hour for as long a visit as possible and, because of this and the fact that when I returned to Nantes I would have to once again sleep on a foam mattress, I decided to take full advantage. I slept nearly until 11h00.

FIELD NOTE 4.35 - Dinner in Paris.

Dinner would be in Paris that night so that we could squeeze just a few more hours out of the city.
Being their guests, Ziming and Antoine dutifully asked Sharon and I what we would like to eat. We must have been on the same wavelength because we both replied "French" without hesitation.
Ten minutes later we found ourselves searching out a French restaurant in the Latin Quarter that would be both delicious and off the beaten path of tourists. We settled on La Jacobine, a quaint little tea room that turned into a small restaurant after 19h00.
Dinner there lasted 2 hours and was filled with dishes of duck and salmon, a bottle of wonderful red wine, and an île flottante dessert with Aztec chocolate. After almost paying the wrong bill and then a slight scene when Sharon and I tried to pay the tab for dinner - a French no-no when you are someone else's guest - we walked out into the Parisian night a little heavier than when we walked into the restaurant.

FIELD NOTE 4.34 - Love/Hate.

Oh my emotions went back and forth at least 100 times in the 12-hour span I was in Paris.
Okay, that may be a slight embellishment, but I did notice when my thoughts wandered to all the things I hated about Paris. Normally this occurred when I was standing in tourist spots, trying my best not to catch the attention of the vendors who would sell me 3 Eiffel Tower key chains for 1 euro - I happen to know the best deal can be found outside the gates of Versailles where I could get 5 for 1.
A few times my unhappiness was obvious for both Sharon and Ziming asked me if everything was alright, to which I dutifully replied "Yes, just thinking."
Paris was like this last year, too. I hated it the first few days I was there and yet by the end of the trip, I had to practically be forced to board the plane.
Whatever my feelings might be toward the city, the fact remains that I will be studying there for a month this summer and I've decided to reserve judgment of the city until that time. Even so, I can't wait to see what the final verdict will be - love or hate.

FIELD NOTE 4.33 - Tourists.

After having walked for a few hours, we decided to take a quick break outside the entrance to the Louvre and sit down beside one of the pools there. Ziming and I were talking in French about how different Paris is from Nantes and how I was trying to decide whether or not I would come back to the city to study or to live when a group of 3 women sat down beside us all dressed alike in black and talking very about insipid things - parties at beach houses, tanning, shopping, and where to eat dinner that night. And to make everything worse they were talking so loudly that it made talking to Ziming, less than 2 feet from me, nearly impossible.
"I hate American tourists - so loud, so stupid."
There was a brief moment and then a sudden intake of breath as I realized what it was I just said. American tourists - and just what did that make me exactly?
I've come to the point where I've lost all my borders. I am definitely not French, but no longer do I feel completely like an American. Or perhaps it's just that I have moved on, transcended nationalities and labels.
There has been change at least.
Before I came here in January, I would have probably been among those women all dressed in black, blabbering away about pointless things that wouldn't matter come tomorrow. Now I am more of a watcher - quiet and observant. I realize now that not everything needs to be said and that some things belong in silence.
I would call this growth, but honestly that word still scares me. So I'll leave it at change and hope that word suffices.

FIELD NOTE 4.32 - Impressionism.

I've never really understood impressionism. Indeed my experiences with it are somewhat limited to what I've seen in my visits to the Richmond Museum of Fine Arts and in the various waiting rooms of doctors and dentists. No, my tastes tend to run more toward classical ancient Greek and Egyptian sculptures, a far cry from erratic brush strokes and vivid splashes of color.

So when it was decided that we should go see Monet's Waterlilies at le Musée de l'Orangerie, I was somewhat less than enthused but still intrigued anyway. After passing through security with a half-eaten panini in my bag despite the large sign clearly stating that no food is allowed in the museum, I made my way into the chamber holding Les Nymphéas with only a little lingering guilt.
The room, like the art it houses, is anything but traditional. I quickly took a seat on one of the leather benches in the center of the room, looking as much at the canvases as the other people. Ziming came over and sat beside me, asking me if I liked impressionism and, after finding out I really didn't know that much about it, explaining it to me even as I continued to look all about me.
Here's what I decided: even though impressionism definitely has its merits, it's not for me. Still, it can be incredibly beautiful and powerful. All around me people from various ages and cultures were reacting differently to the canvases. And then there was me, sitting there on that bench with my head cocked trying to make sense of it all. But with impressionism there is no sense, only feeling. So I decided to do just that - to take a single picture in an attempt what it is I felt there in that room, the sum of all my emotions.

FIELD NOTE 4.31 - Bonjour, Paris!

The drive from l'Île Adam to Paris takes approximately 1 hour and it's stunning to watch the stunning transition from one to the other. It seemed to me the same thing I always notice when I travel from King William to Richmond, only now times 100, times 1000. And every time inevitably the question comes Which is mine?

I have never really known the answer to this question, living as I have between the two. I fear I will never have an answer to this question, or perhaps maybe that is the intention - perhaps I choose not to see the answer. If it even exists.
Before I know it we are in the parking garage and stopped, ripping me from wherever this train of thought was heading. Before walking up the stairs that will lead me to the streets of Paris, I notice an illuminated sign that reads "Vous êtes ici" - You are here - and I can't help but to wonder where "here" is exactly. But my time in Paris is limited and it doesn't encourage meditation.

FIELD NOTE 4.30 - A French breakfast.

Since we arrived at Brigette's house some time after 1 in the morning, she was obviously in bed when we arrived and so Sharon and I didn't get the chance to meet her until Saturday morning.

Unfortunately my first meeting with her occurred shortly after waking up as I was trying to find the shower in my pajamas, my hair terribly unkempt after a wonderful night's sleep. Thankfully Bridgette didn't make any indication of my dress or appearance, even being so kind as to make sure that I had clean towels for the bathroom. Five minutes later I exited the bathroom with my hair brushed and smelling faintly of peaches. I made my way into the kitchen where everyone had gathered around the coffee machine - at least this morning ritual I am completely familiar with and needed no help with inserting myself alongside Brigette and Ziming.
After the coffee was brewed and poured, we all made our way into the living/dining room where a table was covered with breads, jams, and fruits. Over the course of the next hour we ate croissants and brioche while telling Brigette the stories of how we both came to France - a story that seems to me to become more threadbare with every telling.
Before any of us realized it all of our coffee cups were empty and the croissants and brioche eaten. We quickly set about cleaning up and making our way out to the car to travel into Paris, telling Brigette goodbye and that we would see her in the morning.

FIELD NOTE 4.29 - A real bed.

After almost 3 months of sleeping on a slab of foam, I was beginning to forget what it even felt like to sleep on a real mattress. So when Ziming showed me what was to be my room for the weekend in Antoine's mother's house, I almost had to force myself to grab the doorjamb to stop the sudden urge to run and jump on the twin bed. Just the same, I couldn't help but to let loose a small stream of giggles 10 minutes later after changing into my pajamas and settling under the comforter.

FIELD NOTE 4.28 - The road to Paris.

The road to Paris is a long one, almost 6 hours in all. This time does seem shorter, however, when it is passed alongside friends.
So Friday evening I found myself on the road to Paris with Ziming, Sharon, and Ziming's boyfriend Antoine. The hours passed quickly in a blur of French conversation, interrupted only briefly by a quick break for dinner at a Quick Burger on the side of the French highway.
By midnight the conversation had begun to lull and I found myself beginning to nod off. I must have slept because the next thing I remember was waking up and finding myself leaning with the car as Antoine drove us along the ancient streets of l'Île Adam at an alarming speed, the clock reading 1 in the morning. So I guess there are really 2 things that helps the time seem shorter: conversation and sleep.

FIELD NOTE 4.27 - The best laid plans...

That saying, it would seem, also holds true in France. Just 9 minutes before I was set to walk to the tramway to make my way to Ziming's apartment with the plan to meet Darryl on Monday morning in Paris and spend the week with her and a friend, everything came to a crashing halt. Words were in the air "forgot to pay rent," "change of plans," "going to Italy" - I listened but didn't really hear everything, I just adjusted my plans. So instead of a week in Paris, I only spent Saturday in the city.
But if I've learned to do anything in my time here, I've learned to roll with the punches and try to accept everything as it comes. So, too, with this. And I've not a single regret.

FIELD NOTE 4.26 - A week of silence.

My teachers often tell me that I am too connected to technology, too dependent. I normally deflect this by smiling and saying that I am no more dependent than every other American but secretly I sometimes wonder if they're right.
So to prove them wrong and to give myself a little break from the world of being constantly plugged-in I have decided to go to Paris with nothing more than my iPod in the way of electronics. Because of that I will more than likely be unable to update my field notes until I return to Nantes, but I promise to write down my daily observations in the City of Light in my notebook and write them down as soon as I get back.
But until that time, silence. Until that time think of me walking the streets of Paris, walking through the Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay, and sitting and drinking coffee at a posh café.

FIELD NOTE 4.25 - Packing.

Tomorrow I will be going to Paris with Ziming and Sharon and that can only mean one thing: I will have to pack. I've known this all week and still I've been putting it off for as long as I can.
I don't know what's caused this hesitance, my constant wavering between being ready go to Paris and being ready to back down and spend the week in Nantes or just that fact that packing means leaving and there is an even bigger "leaving" on the horizon.
So I've swallowed all of that and forced myself to get together an array of shirts, pants, and underwear big enough to fill a week but small enough to fit in my leather duffel and, after minimal struggle, I've since zipped up the bag and placed it by the door where it will stay until 18h00 tomorrow, ready. But will I be?

FIELD NOTE 4.24 - Invasion of the caterpillars.

The sidewalks have become a war zone between people and caterpillars and the pavement is littered with the corpses and innards of the casualties, one-sided of course.

Actually to be completely honest, I'm not sure if the French really think of it as a war when they walk to and from the university without looking at what their feet are crushing, but still this war is nearer to me than any other, a reality. I try to tell myself that life has gone on like this before I came here and will continue to do so even after I leave, but that doesn't make it any less difficult. No, the only thing that does that is seeing the little finches and red throats come and carry off the caterpillar corpses, presumably to some grander place and purpose.
This morning as I was passing the bushes where they crawl out from I thought about King William where each spring my father burns the caterpillar nests from the trees - something he's done for as long as I can remember but something that I still see no purpose in. They don't burn them here, they just squish them underfoot - which is the crueler fate, I wonder.
And then I noticed a line of caterpillars walking parallel to the bushes, end to end, and had to do a little jump to avoid stepping on them. This was rewarded by a few strange looks by French students walking heedlessly in the opposite direction. Oh well, there's a war on and I think I'd rather be on the side of the caterpillars anyway!

FIELD NOTE 4.23 - Looking up.

My grandmother used to tease me that I looked up at the sky too much, saying that it was a sign that I was dreaming too much. Somehow over the years I've stopped doing this, focusing my attention nowadays either directly in front of me or on my shoes.

A few days ago Darryl and I took a walk down a nature trail and I started looking up into the tree branches. Since then I have constantly been looking skyward, so much so that I accidentally almost walked into a parked car this morning on my way to class.
I have a feeling that my grandmother might start admonishing again. Only now there are no dreams, just upward glances. I tell myself that maybe dreams will follow shortly and that maybe this time I will swallow my fear and just go with them - I just hope there are no more parked cars to block the way...

FIELD NOTE 4.22 - Dandelions.

I've really enjoyed walking back and forth to the university from my dorm - it just seems more practical to walk the 8 minutes rather than the nearly 15 minutes it takes to walk to the tram stop, wait for the tram, and then take it to the university. Much more practical and much more enjoyable.

One of the things I've noticed in passing the gardens of the houses is that the French have some strange choices in their planting choices - or maybe it's just me. I don't profess to have an extensive knowledge of plants, but still the thought of planting a blue clematis beside a red azalea makes me cringe - possibly due to my personal hatred of the azalea plant.
But still there is one thing that I very much appreciate that the French do, or don't do rather. In almost every garden and yard there's at least one dandelion. Knowing the traditional fates of dandelions in Virginia I have kept a close eye on these dandelions. For the 4 weeks I have spent walking to class all of them have stayed where they are in gardens and yards - well, all save one. This makes me smile.
I've never been a huge fan of dandelions but still it saddens me when my father talks about putting down weed killer or pulling them up. The fact that the French see them and respect them makes me never want to leave, makes me believe that if the dandelions can make it here then so could I!
But this is wishful thinking and I keep being told to be practical. Practical, I hate this word.
Dandelions don't seem to worry about practicality when they set root in gardens just as easily as the cracks in the sidewalk. No, their only worry is survival. There is one dandelion in particular that I walk by every day that's managed to grow to a size big enough to draw a "Wow!" out of me.
I've told myself for days that I am going to take a picture of it and for days I've forgotten my camera. Today I finally remembered and took a picture of the dandelion, now past its bloom. But that doesn't seem as important to me as the fact that it's still there, still growing.

FIELD NOTE 4.21 - Connection issues.

Last night the internet was down again. This time the network wasn't down but I still couldn't connect. Each time I tried I was met with only a white screen, blank save for a single error message: Connection failed: too many connections or Invalid login: RoundTable.exe not valid.
Surprisingly my reaction to this was just a sigh. I soon shutdown my computer and, taking this as a sign, decided to use the time I would have spent surfing online to catch up on my sleep.
I think I'm getting used to these issues and I'm not sure how I feel about that. For some reason I don't find the idea of getting used to something only to have to leave it behind in a few weeks as a comforting thought. I wonder sometimes what will happen when I return to the world of stable internet connections - will I be thankful or will I just be sad?

FIELD NOTE 4.20 - A breather.

Today was beautiful in Nantes - the sun was shining and the temperature actually broke 60 degrees (Fahrenheit - I never could manage to make the Celsius scale work for me in those first few weeks here and have since that time kept my weather discreetly in the scale to which I am accustomed with the reasoning that it's better to be properly dressed than not).
After classes ended at 14h00 and I had walked back to my dorm and eaten a quick lunch of sandwiches followed by a cup of hot tea, I sat myself in front of my computer to...do what exactly? I really have no homework at the moment and studying for my final on Friday was the farthest thing from my mind. So I decided that the rare weather needed to be enjoyed and I went to see if Darryl wanted to go on a walk.
Fifteen minutes later we were out walking the same path we had walked the week before to a nature walk about 10 minutes away from our dorm - only this week we chose to go in retrograde. After several wrong turns and awkward stops for cars that ended up stopping for us, we began exploring the nature walk.
I always enjoy walking in nature and yet for some reason actually rarely seem to do so. There are reasons - I either think of something more pressing or make up an excuse as to why I can't. But walking outside today for almost 2 hours made me fall in love with Nantes all over again.
For these past few weeks I have been wavering between love and hatred when it comes to this city - normally when my thoughts have turned to the future and my imminent departure. I think I live to much like this, out of the moment, and today's walk made me realize that. It was a breather, a chance to just forget everything and ground myself - something I forget to do all too often, something I need to remind myself to do when I get back.

FIELD NOTE 4.19 - Chapeau and such.

There are good days and there are bad days. Today when my writing prof handed me back my argumentation with a score of 15 on it and told me "Not your best" I was about to swear that today was going to be one of those bad days.
And then Anick also handed back our critique. Mine had a 19 written on the top as well as a "bon travail" written in red ink and I began to rethink the whole "It's going to be a bad day" thing. The rest of writing class passed in a blur of daydreams and basking in the rare Nantes sunlight streaming in through the windows with a brief period of confusion about the use of the gérondif.
Before I knew it I was sitting in my French oral class trying my best to listen for answers to the listening comprehension in the recording over the scratching of pencils and pens as the other students wrote their answers. After the exercise we were given the choice to have the exercise graded or to have it count as a class activity - I was 1 of 4 to select having it count as a grade even though I knew that half my answers were wrong. Still the prof decided to go over the proper responses to the questions with us for the remainder of the class, each time playing the conversation, asking us for responses and then writing the proper one on the board.
There was one question - something about what one is able to do at a particular pool in Paris that can't be done anywhere else - that was met with only silence. Finally I decided to try my answer and said, "On peut jouer à la caisse sub-aquatique." Okay, the answer was techincally "On peut jouer aux caisses subaquatiques." but still the prof seemed kind of shocked that I managed to give her the answer, even going so far as saying to the other students that she hadn't expected them to get it because it was hard to hear, hard to know, and easily lost. Then she turned and looked at me and said, "Good for you. Chapeau."
I've never been told chapeau before - the French equivalent to our "My hat's off to you" and, as is the custom with French compliments, a more concise one - so being told that today made me feel what can only be described as giddy and it's quite possible that I may have giggled a little. And the fact that it was Marion, my oral teacher, who said it to me only made everything better. She is 1 of the 2 profs I have this semester that I have the absolute hardest time reading - some days she seems to like me, others no. So receiving the compliment seemed like a strong nod toward the former and I just went with it.
Which brings me to the other prof I have the hardest time reading: my economy and society prof. Since she won't be able to attend class the day we return from break she has decided to make us meet for 2 1-hour classes these past 2 weeks much to our dismay. But since these classes aren't at their appointed time it means that we have been forced to find out own room and the one chosen happens to have a class in it that ends right before we need to use it. This week that class ran over slightly and she took the opportunity to talk to me, asking me when I was leaving France. We talked for about 5 minutes, casual things that probably won't matter tomorrow, but still it seemed to change things. I realized standing there that she didn't hate me as I may have once feared, it's just her mien.
So I guess today might have been a good day. And to to think I almost gave up on it a few minutes too early.

FIELD NOTE 4.18 - Network issues.

It never fails: I finally sit myself down in front of my MacBook with the intention of focusing myself on work and the network here crashes. It's happened so often now that it no longer comes as a shock to me and I just find something to do until the network is finally restored.
Normally this takes anywhere from 1 hour to 2 days. Since the Monday after Easter is practically a national holiday here and having access to the internet is decidedly not as important to the French as it is to an internet junkie like me, I knew that there was little chance that the problem would be resolved until Monday morning.
And, true to this expectation, I couldn't get online until after class this afternoon.

FIELD NOTE 4.17 - Faire la grasse matinée.

I have taken the liberty of using this 3-day weekend to catch up on all my missed sleep. For the past 2 nights I haven't woken up before 11h00 in the morning, a first for me considering before this weekend the latest I have every been able to sleep in my room was 9h40.
The sleep was welcome and it makes the days go by faster, but I have a feeling that I will pay for it when it comes time to wake up at 7h00 on Tuesday morning for my early classes.
Still, the late hour seems to me a triumph of a sort.

FIELD NOTE 4.16 - Easter in France.

Today is Easter - the day of resurrection to some and to others just the day of chocolate.

Never having been very religious, I typically count myself amongst the latter. But this year, being so far from home and having asked my parents to send me nothing else, I knew that there would be no candy come this morning.
Even knowing this, it was hard to accept. It's wasn't even the thought of not having any chocolate that made me sad, it was as if I was somehow willingly breaking a cycle or ending a practice before its time.
So I did the only thing I could think of: I bought myself a chocolate Easter bunny at the grocery store. It's not that much to look at, this hollow shell of dark chocolate wrapped in gaudy gold foil, but it means the world. So the cycle continues and the practice is unbroken and the world will not fall into chaos.
I couldn't quite bring myself to tear open that foil today and begin nibbling on the ears. Instead I merely contented myself with the bunny's presence on my desk, occasionally reaching out and ringing the bell on the ribbon around its neck. And I smiled, the world here seeming a little more like home.

FIELD NOTE 4.15 - Deal.

My hair is longer now than it has ever been and I am now just beginning to learn things about it that I never knew before: it curls as it grows in a way that brings to mind the word "Greek," it refuses to be tamed some days, I don't know if I can name its color or if I've ever seen it before.
So many things I never knew about about a part of me I rarely ever thought about until I decided to make a deal with my mother. It was one of those early days soon after my arriving here when I realized that my hair was growing and I was still a little bit homesick. Somehow in the course of an email dialogue my mother and I both came to the following agreement: that from that day until the time I arrive back home neither of us would cut our hair.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now it just seems like all I can see are the split ends and that life is almost always a bad hair day.
But even still, I don't regret it for a minute, this decision.

FIELD NOTE 4.14 - Lemon trees and metaphor.

A few weeks ago in my phonetics class we listened to a song called "Le Citronnier" by Amélie-les-Crayons, a song about love and lemon trees. Since that time the song has constantly been in my mind.
Some days I wonder if my heart became a lemon tree and I had to take it back to Virginia with me and replant it, then would it survive there? To be sure the same sun shines there that shines on France, it just shines here 6 hours earlier. And it's actually warmer there then here. But still, this lingering doubt, a question: Is it even possible to go back to the way things were and will the roots ever run as deep as they once did?
I fear the answer is no.

FIELD NOTE 4.13 - Broken umbrella (again).

The wind stole my umbrella then ripped it.
This has happened before, the last time I managed to fix the rip with a few bits of string and a few well-placed knots. This time there is no room for strings or knots.
So now I must content myself with searching for a new umbrella, this time one that can stand the wind.

FIELD NOTE 4.12 - How sad.

I realized something in the middle of Alice in Wonderland that suddenly made my breath hitch and a bloom of sadness grow inside me as the Hatter walks Alice toward the castle of the White Queen and mutters the words to "The Jabberwocky" under his breath. I have long loved this poem and now as it was being spoken to me in the voice of Johnny Depp and the translation appeared in those annoying yellow Ariel letters at the bottom of the screen I realized that some things can never be translated, that in translation they will always lose something - that undeniable and all-important something that makes them perfect.
How sad that the French will never be able to understand the words in quite the same way - neither the words of "The Jabberwocky" nor the phrase "Have I gone around the bend?" No, for them it will always be a flatter picture, the bend replaced by the cool question "Have I gone mad?"
How I wanted to tell them that there must be bends to madness, that madness is never a straight line or a simple phrase.
And then the sad realization that the same is true of me - I will forever be forced to live in the shallows of this language, never to understand the deepest parts.
Sad, that.

FIELD NOTE 4.11 - Movie night.

We've been saying that we should do it for quite a few weeks, go see Alice in Wonderland one weekend. Tired of waiting and tired of plans falling through, this week I decided would be the week that we actually followed through and went to the cinéma.

The movie ended up not being quite what I expected, inflated by weeks of waiting. But still that wasn't really what mattered. What mattered was the time spent there in those red velvet seats and the memory of the four of us holding our voices as the movie began and the collective sigh of relief when the movie turned out to be in English. That will linger longer than anything else.