FIELD NOTE 6.63 - The end.

And here it is: the moment I've dreaded/looked forward to/avoided/awaited. Tomorrow at 11h00 I will be boarding a plane back to the United States.

My bags are packed and waiting beside the door. I came here with 2. There are now 4. I hope that I can take them all with me; I hope that they are all within their weight limits.
I am not good with endings or goodbye's. I tend to be one of those people who avoids them at all cost, walking away without a backwards glance. So I will fall back into that old pattern once again.
This is the end of "A Field Guide to Being Lost" - I am no more found than I was at the beginning of it.
So there it is. The end.

FIELD NOTE 6.62 - Haggling.

He wanted 100euro for a handmade leather bag and I didn't want to pay that. So I made my friend Pegah go with me to the marché today and we had decided that we would tag-team the man until he gave me a lower price.
Eventually, after shrewd bargaining on her part and pointing out flaws on my end, he finally conceded and agreed on the price of 85 euro. It was a fun experience and I left the market with a handmade leather bag, the perfect way to carry my glass bowls back from France.

FIELD NOTE 6.61 - Cleaning house.

Before we are able to vacate this Parisian apartment it must be clean. Living here for a month has led to the accumulation of dust in corners and promises to clean later. But now we are at the point where all the "I can get it later"'s in the world are not enough and so today I took the dustpan and broom out and began the long process of cleaning.
Funny to think that for such a small apartment cleaning it should last so long. But now the sun is setting and the apartment is finally clean to the point where it looks like none of us have ever been here. Were it not for my luggage and made bed I would be tempted to believe that even now I was gone.
This sterilization of space has been the same for every room I've ever rented. And even still every time it comes time to move again, the entire process feels new. But if I could count the number of rooms I've left behind without a trace of me, the number would be great - all those dorm rooms, apartments, and hotel rooms.
So many places where I am not remembered. But the irony of this is that even now I begin to forget what all those rooms looked like. I fear that this apartment will soon be among those fading memories. But this is a fear I always carry, like a coat.

FIELD NOTE 6.60 - La March des Fiertés.

Today was Paris Pride, the culminating experience of my Gay Culture & Identity Studies course in Paris.
I'm not exactly sure what I was expecting. From what I'd gleaned from pictures and clips of international pride events on Logo's news shows, I expected something large and loud. And I wasn't disappointed.
I cannot describe to you all of the sights and sounds of Paris' Marche des fiertés - they were just too much and too many to ever recount. But it was an amazing experience just to stand there beside the train of floats as people passed out pamphlets, fliers, condoms and candy and watch all the people going by.
And in less than 2 hours it was all over and the tractor announcing the end of the parade was passing us. Some people just began to follow the float path as it wound toward Place de la Bastille but I decided it was time to go home and take a shower to clean off all the glitter and sweat that had accumulated.

FIELD NOTE 6.59 - One class down.

That is is.
I have just emailed in my final exam for my queer theory course, which means I am officially done with my Queer Paris course and now nothing is left to wait for the grade, to wait for the grade. And in the interim between the 2 there are endless things to do: clean the apartment, buy coffee bowls, buy a leather bag, buy gifts.
I knew it was only a month even before I came here but now that the end of it is at hand I find that even still it felt shorter than I ever thought it would.
Just another thing that's over, just another ending.

FIELD NOTE 6.58 - Têtu.

Today our last queer theory class was devoted to 2 guest speakers from Têtu, the most famous and mainstreamed gay magazine in France. Ursula and Tim were both amazing and as they talked to us about the magazine and French queer history I found myself lamenting my imminent return to the United States.
Sitting there and listening to them I wished I somehow could find the time to work my way into a job with the magazine (I imagined myself a half-wit translator, but that is tentative and I would settle for less). That way I could stay here in France.
But dreams are silly and destined to fade when classes are only 2.5 hours long.

FIELD NOTE 6.57 - Strikes and other inconveniences.

Today it was almost impossible for me to muster the energy to get up and start the day. This is nothing new since I have had to get up at 7h00 every morning for the past month but it seemed harder today than ever before - possibly due to the knowledge that today marked the last day of queer theory or perhaps due to the knowledge that today was a massive strike by the public transportation system, a strike that I knew would take my normally 20 minute ride to the Sorbonne and make it an almost hour-long process.
Eventually (and by "eventually" I mean 5 minutes later) I managed to push the covers off of my body and to drag myself to the bathroom. Forty minutes later I walked out the door and through Parc Montsouris to the RER station where I learned I would have to wait 20 minutes for a train that would take me only 1 stop to where I would catch a métro for 12 stops to Saint Michel.
Class begins at 9h00 and at 9h03 I walked in the door with a breathless "Bonjour" and the professor, noting my breathlessness, only told me that she didn't really think it was that bad of a strike today. And as she said this, the majority of the class was absent.

FIELD NOTE 6.56 - Farewell, farewell dinner.

Tonight CEA was hosting a farewell dinner for all of us at a restaurant in Paris' most famous mosque. I had every intention of going and so at exactly 6h10 I left my flat to make my way to the RER station.
As soon as I walked out of my door, the air was filled with loud noises that ended up being a seemingly endless stream of French supporters of the Algerian World Cup team walking down the side of Parc Montsouris. Deciding to brave the crowd and not speak any English just in case there was any negative sentiment remaining from the Algerian loss to the American team, I walked alongside the park until I came to a line of French SWAT officers. As soon as I approached the spot where they were standing, they began to move and bring their transparent shields in front of them to barricade people so that the metro wasn't overfilled. Thankfully I and my 2 roommates just made it past their shields in time to crowd into a non-active metro.
So it seemed that dinner was impossible as it was by this time 7h00 - 15 minutes past the time of our reservation. Any attempt at finding another route would take us at least an hour to get there.
So we admitted defeat in the metro and walked home, a walk that would have been only 7 minutes had there not been SWAT and rioting Algerians but one that ended up taking almost 30.
So farewell, farewell dinner. My baguette ended up being just as nice as I opened my bedroom window and grew happy in the fact that I had chosen not to brave the metro once the voices escalated to a near deafening level just before dying out.

FIELD NOTE 6.55 - Maps.

Six hours and 4 cups of English tea later, my final project is finally done. I only just finished adding the final touches to it an hour before class.
It felt like a triumph. The sleep I gave up on to make this project possible, however, didn't feel so much like a triumph as an impossible hurdle.

FIELD NOTE 6.54 - Project.

Tomorrow I have a project due for my queer theory class which means tonight will be devoted to its completion regardless of how long it takes to put everything together between readings and random French conjugations.
But tomorrow I will have my life back and tomorrow I will have something to share with the class.

FIELD NOTE 6.53 - A gift for Maite.

Maite and I have formed as close of a friendship as two people with language barriers and 9AM French classes can form in only a month. I've come to regard her as a constant and reassuring presence here in France.
Last week before our phonetics course she said that it was important for her to give me something before I go and she handed me a 20 centavos piece of Argentinian currency. Not knowing what to say, I just said thank you.
I don't know why I am always like this, but I don't really know how to accept gifts. Ziming said once that I am one of the most thankful people she's ever met and that it seemed to her that she couldn't believe someone would actually want to give me anything. While I don't know if this is true or not, I thought it might be nice to offer Maite something in return.
Since she had given me a piece of her currency, it only seemed fitting that I should do the same although the only piece of American currency I had on me is an Adams dollar my aunt gave me for good luck 3 years ago when I graduated from high school, something that I've kept on me ever since.
After some hesitation, I took the coin from the pocket of my bag where it stays and handed it to Maite telling her, "This has always brought me luck." Having seen the coin earlier and knowing that it was the same one I had told her about, she was on the verge of not accepting it. But it was only when I closed her hand and told her that I hoped it would bring her luck that she well and fully accepted it.
It's strange now to think that the dollar is no longer with me. I like to think though that the coin was meant for her and maybe the luck it brings will come once I return to the United States and she remains in Paris and we see if we keep in contact.

FIELD NOTE 6.52 - One week.

Seven days from now I will have packed my bags and cleaned this apartment. Seven days from now I will be preparing for my last night of having to close the shutters and remember to close the bathroom window. Seven days from now I will already be lamenting what I haven't yet lost.
It's strange to now have the span of a week separating me from the United States. It seems like only yesterday was January and I was counting down the days. And now I'm still counting down but all the numbers are half-hearted and abstract.
What is it that I want of this week? Right now all I want is to get through the classes and muddle through the realization that I will leave here without any real connections to this city beyond the handful of people I've come to know.
I guess this is life. I guess this is how it happens. After all, what could I really expect from a month?

FIELD NOTE 6.51 - Si loin.

"Tu viens de si loin... mais je ne te demande pas qui tu es."

François Cheng wrote this in his work Le Dit de Tianyi, which appears in the anthology of French literature that the Sorbonne gave me my first day of classes. We weren't scheduled to read this piece but even still I just happened to stumble across this page and found the passage fit entirely with what I feel now.
I am not, nor will I ever be, French. The French know this. I think they can see it in my hair, in my skin, in my walk. And if not there, then in my accent and my half-wit words. I can only say enough to get by, they can understand. And even in this, they let me pass and pretend that I can speak French.
That's enough for now, I guess. It will have to be at any rate since I can't change it now.

FIELD NOTE 6.50 - Again.

...and here it comes again, this feeling that I could live here in France forever and be happy.

FIELD NOTE 6.49 - Marché.

Today's goal was to find the Marché aux Puces at the Port de Clignancourt. My roommates and I had originally intended to wake early and set out before 9h00 as the tour books all suggest but noon came before any of really managed to wake.
Before the flea market there stands another marché where vendors sell nothing but clothing and accessories and men stand on the outskirts of this with various designer-name bags, watches, belts, and scarves and approach anyone who dares to even glance at them in passing.
This first marché ended up being more enjoyable than the flea market - we spent nearly 2 hours wandering and looking at all the things. I had to tell myself to walk away from a gorgeous 100euro handmade leather bag and ended up buying only a gift for someone and a 10euro piece of luggage for my trip back since I'm not sure my suitcase as it is now will pass the weight limit.
But oh how enjoyable it was to be in a Parisian market, so much bigger and grander than those of Nantes, but still it had the same energy. I love markets for this reason: it's the only place where I feel that I really get to know the city past the monuments, past the souvenirs that come in their plastic bags.

FIELD NOTE 6.48 - Paris by boat.

...is actually quite cold at 23h00. But even still it was nice to just ride around the Seine hearing the story of the city first in French and then again in English.
I sat through the entire voyage with my camera in hand but without ever turning it on while all around me tourists from various parts of the world kept igniting the Parisian night with their flashes and the Parisians on the banks of the river occasionally waved and called out to us.

FIELD NOTE 6.47 - Couscous.

Two weeks ago CEA gave us tickets to go on a boat tour of Paris with Bateaux-Mouches. Since the weather that week was both cold and rainy, my roommates and I decided not to go until this week. Our professor, who also didn't go, suggested that we go together and that we should also grab a quick dinner together before.
So 8h00 found Pegah, Susan, and I standing in front of one of the two fountains at the Hôtel de Ville and praying frantically that that fountain happened to be the one Dr. Provencher had meant in his message to us. At 8h05 and worried that we had chosen the wrong fountain, Susan and I walked around to the other fountain. When we came back Pegah and Dr. Provencher were waiting for us.
And so we talked about what to eat and eventually couscous was decided upon. We went to a restaurant on a backstreet of the Marais where the owner was very nice but the waitstaff left much to be desired in terms of friendliness and speed.
But the couscous was wonderful and the merguez was amazing! And sitting there, eating and talking was one of the most enjoyable moments of the week and I feel like it was a wonderful bonding moment.

FIELD NOTE 6.46 - Crime et Châtiment.

Friday I finally went to the Musée d'Orsay to see their temporary exhibition, Crime et Châtiment, before it finally closes this week.
So many rooms filled with paintings, death masks, and newspapers of or relating to death. I think the most striking thing for me about the exhibit though was that, even though the works themselves spanned the centuries, the themes and styles seemed to all be the same - I continually found myself thinking "Oh this painting has to have been done in the past century" only to find it was done in the early 18th century while a drawing that seemed quite aged would only be 50 years old.
I wonder if this means anything about death and crime in general. Perhaps we never really come to view it in a new way, but continue to resee it in the same way over and over again.

FIELD NOTE 6.45 - The end is in sight.

It's strange to think that the end is finally drawing near. Stranger still to know this and be unable to really imagine it.
It seems that life can go on like this forever. When I walk beside Notre Dame on my way to my Sorbonne class or when I pass the fruit merchant who always tries to get me to buy his strawberries, I almost forget that this isn't my life.
Every day my prof tells me stories of students who came here for a semester or a summer and ended up deciding to stay here for years. Years is a scary word for me. I realize that I could in fact be one of these people.
Never having been one to give any real attachment to many people, I feel that I could pick up my life and start it over again without a moment's hesitation. And I'm finding now that the thought of this doesn't scare me anymore. I can say that I want to live around the world, in countries where I know how to say nothing more than "hi" and "I love you."
When I go back to Virginia maybe this will all be different again. Maybe I will return to that life where I get though the day by telling myself that this assignment will be worth something, this class will be worth something, this degree will be worth something. But what worth can a piece of paper really hold when I know that there is no interest in me remaining?
So now I fear Paris will be an end. In more ways than one.

FIELD NOTE 6.44 - Proper French.

I'm afraid my French has become a little informal after months of talking out of class and growing used to using tu and dropping ne's whenever I speak. This is the wrong language to use in a classroom and I can practically see my prof cringe.
And so I've decided that from now on I will only speak in proper French. So there go the tu's and here come all the ne's! Maybe now I will finally be able to move past my Shakespearean meerkat phase and become more like Moliere as Ge suggests.

FIELD NOTE 6.43 - Beginnings, endings, and in-betweens.

There's suddenly all this talk of endings and beginnings now that class will be over and my return is in sight. I don't really know what any of this means.
People talk about how they can't wait to talk to me and hear about my adventures, but there are no adventures. All there is to talk about is the slow process of trying to start a new life and form some semblance of independence.
And since that is the story of us all, no one would want to hear it.

FIELD NOTE 6.42 - Life is a caberet.

Tuesday 15 May, 1h30PM

Class had just begun and midterm exams had just been passed out. We were all about to begin writing our answers when the prof said that he would be upstairs for us to turn in the exams after we had finished and that he would see us at 7h55 in the front lobby to go on the class field trip to a local caberet.
After he noticed our confused looks he realized that he had never actually announced to us that we would be going that night, he proceeded to tell us that CEA was sponsoring a dinner for us at a local caberet where we would enjoy both a meal and a show. Never having been to a caberet before, I found a certain image coming to my mind.
This image was, of course, completely wrong.
We ended up being escorted to an exposed brick basement with a few tables and a makeshift stage complete with a keyboard, TV, and MacBook Pro. Even though this wasn't exactly what any of us had had in mind, we ended up having a wonderful dinner which was made even more wonderful after drinking a kir and a few glasses of merlot.
The highlight of the evening though was the entertainment. Knowing that we were all American, the man playing the keyboard and his accompanist began tailoring their set mostly to us, throwing in as many American songs as they could, something the French diners didn't really seem to mind at all. And as the wine flowed the mood became more and more jovial until we somehow all ended up in an impromptu singing competition, which we ultimately won - though I suppose this probably had more to do with the fact that we poured water for the pianist more than our actual singing ability.
But even still, a win is a win I suppose.

FIELD NOTE 6.41 - Off day.

Today has been one of those horrible Mondays when I seem to always be behind. First in French I seemed incapable of putting together words and forming sentences, then the prof in my phonetics course decided to talk to me in front of the class about how bad my pronunciation was, and finally by the time I made it to my queer theory course I was so tired and so angry that I couldn't focus.
People keep asking me how I find my Parisian life. I respond with the happy "Oh it's wonderful" but there are some days when I crave to pack my bags and move on to a new city and a new beginning. Days like this I wonder just what it is that keeps me from doing just that.

FIELD NOTE 6.40 - Dior's roses.

The next and final part of the trip was a visit to Christian Dior's childhood home and gardens which have now been preserved and turned into a museum filled with his most iconic pieces and history.
Walking through the displays in the house I was struck by just how modern and beautiful his pieces are and that I could imagine them still turning heads today - all this and they had been created more than half a century ago! I guess this is the way of classic fashion, but who am I with my cotton tee shirts and jeans to know this sort of thing?
And yet for all their beauty, I still found the gardens to be more beautiful and touching to me than anything inside the house. There were trellises covered in various types of climbing roses while beside them even more roses were planted. In a secluded corner of the corner there was also a little courtyard filled with still more varieties of roses, some of which had blooms whose size I found unbelievable.
I don't know why but I've always thought the rose a pretentious flower with its bold colors and heavy fragrance. And yet here the mixture of the roses and the salt from the sea nearby just seemed the perfect fit for the garden.
I sat there for a time beneath the roses and just breathed it all in, not quite ready to return to Paris where there would ultimately be homework and words I don't know. But all too soon the tour guide called for us and we piled back on the bus, piled back to return to the City of Light.

FIELD NOTE 6.39 - Mont Saint Michel.

The next day's activities began with a tour of Mont Saint Michel after finishing the complimentary breakfast offered by the hotel. Never one to pass on free coffee, I readily took part in it but it was a decision I ultimately regretted on Mont Saint Michel when I was forced to search out the bathrooms after an impossibly long tour of the church.
Oh it was beautiful there, all those old stones and rooms with picturesque views of sheep grazing on salted grass. Like Rennes, I wondered if I could find a little niche somewhere behind or above a tourist shop to make a life but ultimately decided against it since life behind the walls of Mont Saint Michel would ultimately become viewed as constraining rather than cozy.
So I walked back to the bus without a backwards glance and waited for the next part of the trip.

FIELD NOTE 6.38 - The sea.

The second stop on our trip was the old fortified city of Saint Malo. Before our bus even stopped we were driven past dock after dock of sailboats and fishing vessels and the smell of salt and old seaweed had managed to go through the vent system.
It was wonderful.
When we finally made it into the city and around the wall, I ended up being separated from the tour guide prematurely when a sea gull I was taking a picture of started talking to me. By the time a second gull joined in and I was done taking pictures the tour guide was long gone. So, instead of doing the reasonable thing and following after her, I decided to walk down along the beach with 2 of my roommates - the joy of looking into the tide pools replaced the joy of the ramparts.
And so we spent an hour walking the beach, making our way over stones and exposed seaweed. Occasionally we would poke our hands into the tide pools to feel the delicate little arms of anemones or gather up a baby crab. It was an amazing experience that somehow reawakened that childhood dream of being a marine biologist - the one that ultimately died when I realized that people wanted only to kill Jaws and the fight for funding in marine biology would likely preclude me from any stable career.
And then I wondered if I'd somehow taken a wrong step along the way. Or many.
Looking back at my entire college career it seems like I've made nothing but change after change once I realize the track I'm on is really not what I want. Even now I feel that and I wonder whether any of my majors will mean anything in a year once their printed on paper and forgotten in the back of a closet. Does it matter that I can analyze English literature, talk in French, or discuss gender norms? Not likely.
It's a sad realization, this. Even sadder to realize that I would change it all for the opportunity to live a life near the ocean and be able to look into tide pools for starfish and anemones...

FIELD NOTE 6.37 - Kouign amann.

The pastry is a specialty in Rennes and is a barbarian word that is pronounced nothing like its orthography: kouign amann. But it's made with nothing but flour, sugar, and butter so I tried it.
1,80 euro bought a small pastry that was something like an extra buttery croissant with a sugar glaze. In a word, it was delicious.
I told the tour guide I could have eaten a dozen of them and still wanted more. She responded that I should have, that I have one of those famous frames Christian Dior referred to as an hericots verts, a green bean. It was a compliment. I think.

FIELD NOTE 6.36 - Rennes.

There's a feeling that I don't think I'll ever stop getting when entering a new and previously unknown French city. It's that "I could so easily live here and be happy feeling."
Of course I got that same old feeling as soon as the bus' wheels started rolling over the old cobblestones near the Rennes Parliament to drop us off.
We walked up and down the streets, through the medieval town and the Saturday morning marché and I told myself that I could live and study here for a semester or a year without hesitation. It seemed to different from Paris, so different from Nantes. The French were more open and smiled, something I can't remember seeing on the streets of either city for quite some time.
When the tour guide turned us loose on the city, my friends and I decided to go back to the market and buy some of the strawberries that looked so wonderful and so fresh. We ended up finding a man who, in the interest of the closing market, decided to sell us 3 boats of strawberries for 2 euro. When I translated to everyone else what he had said, he immediately tried to switch to English, to which I responded in French. And so the conversation stayed in French and he gave us the strawberries in a plastic back and me a compliment that I speak French very well.
And so I may speak it well, but still that didn't change the fact that he sold us rather rotten strawberries. Of the 3 kilos that we purchased, only 5 strawberries were in a state somewhere close to be called edible.
So Rennes might be a place I could see myself living, but the ordeal in the market brought me back to realization that here was no mecca, no place without faults. There are people here like all the rest in the world and lessons for me left to learn.

FIELD NOTE 6.35 - Departure.

Departures are never easy things. I think it has something to do with the last minute hesitations and questions: Did I close the windows? Did I take out the trash? Did I remember dental floss?
This process is arguably even more difficult at 5h30 to make it to Place de la Bastille in time to catch an early morning bus out of the city.
But I somehow managed to wake myself enough to pack everything, get the apartment cleaned and locked down, and get myself to the bus. And with 1 minute to spare!
What felt like an accomplishment at the time quickly settled into the back of my mind as the tour guide's voice filled the bus and I passed out on my leather duffel bag. Sleep, it seemed, was more important at the time.

FIELD NOTE 6.34 - Weekend excursion.

This weekend was to be an overnight weekend excursion sponsored and paid for by CEA. The day before the trip I was sent the itinerary, which follows.

Saturday:
7h15 - Rendez-vous with the bus in front of the Banque de France
7h30 - Departure from Paris
12h00 - Arrival in Rennes, free for lunch.
2h00 - Departure from Rennes
4h00 - Arrival in Saint Malo
4h00 - 5h45 - Guided tour of Saint Malo followed by free time
6h00 - Meet at the bus to go to the hotel
7h00 - Arrival at the hotel, Formule Verte
8h00 - Dinner at La Rôtisserie

Sunday:
9h00 - 10h00 - Hotel breakfast
10h15 - Departure from the hotel
10h30 - 1h15 - Guided tour of Mont Saint Michel followed by free time
1h30 - Meet at the bus to go to Christian Dior's house and garden
3h00 - 4h30 - Musée et Jardin Christian Dior, Villa Les Rhumbs
4h30 - Departure from Granville for Paris
8h00 - Estimated arrival in Paris

FIELD NOTE 6.33 - Falafel.

I was supposed to meet my English friend Sarah and go out to dinner with her tonight since it's her first trip to Paris. But she ended up getting to Paris much later than she thought she would and so was unable to meet us.
So I went with my roommates Pegah and Susan to l'As du falafel, a restaurant in the Marais rumored to be the best place to buy a falafel in all of Paris.
And I must say that if our dinner was anything to go by, then this rumor is most definitely correct. Our dinners ended up being 11 euro apiece which included a falafel and a lemonade made fresh by the restaurant.
After a little playful banter with the waiter we left the restaurant with full stomach and definite plans to come back and have another falafel before leaving the city.

FIELD NOTE 6.32 - Cemetery wishes.

After our trip to the catacombs we decided to continue our macabre-themed day by taking a brief tour of Père Lachaise cemetery before going to the St. Paul métro stop and meeting my friend from England for a falafel.
The entire short 45 minutes we were there was spent on a quest to find and kiss the grave of Oscar Wilde. After a few wrong turns and a few stops for pictures we finally found the grave. It was just as I expected it, covered in lipstick from past kisses and little notes from past visitors wanting to leave their mark on the grave of the writer who left his mark upon them. The front had fresh roses and lilies, also from visitors, and a single candle stood before a plaque noting that the plot was a national monument.
And so we did what we came to do: we each of us in our turn walked up to the grave and kissed it after asking for a wish to be granted. I thought that my wish would be one of those ones that I would instantly know the minute I set eyes on the stone of his grave, but it ended up being one of those pointless ones I've wished for at birthdays and while passing over bridges and holding my breath.
I guess some things don't change.

FIELD NOTE 6.31 - Momento mori.

Today I went to the catacombs with 2 of my roommates. It was quite strange walking down all those spiral stairs and then through all those tiny passages, but then all that gave way to long passageways piled high with bones and people began to take pictures left and right as they made their way through.
I, too, did this. I took pictures of broken femurs and skulls broken by time or tourist. It wasn't until I had been walking for some time that I began to realize that all the bones I was looking at had once been people. Before then they were just objects to me that I captured with my camera when something would move me.
It sounded like the group of American high school students in front of me had been going forward with the same sentiment as well. They were touching the bones in photos before screaming, giggling and moving on to the next bone they wanted to touch. I can't say if they ever made the same realization I did - I wonder if they would have screamed a little louder if they though of the flesh and tendons that used to be attached to that femoral head.
When I had walked through the entire length of the section of the catacombs open to the public and gone up the small spiral staircase, there was a security guard posted to check my bags before I was allowed to exit. Before he said "bon" and allowed me to pass I noticed that beside him on a table were 3 broken skulls, presumably all of which had attempted momento moris from previous visitors. I could only wonder what is the value of a skull when it has no name or face and why disturb the remains just to please some passing desire for a souvenir...

FIELD NOTE 6.30 - Chic and impressive.

My French phonetics teacher is one of those very hard to read French women, which is saying quite a lot since I tend to find the French hard to read as it is. But she sits in front of me in class giving me sentences to say and repeat until I manage to turn the linking consonates and vowels into something resembling a sentence.
But today she actually smiled at me after asking the entire class to, one by one, tell her "I don't know" in our best effort at using une langue soutenue - very formal French. The answers ranged from "je ne sais pas" to "j'sais pas" but when she finally got to me I just told her, "Je ne sais." She looked at me for a moment before saying that she was surprised to hear me say that but that it was both chic and impressive.
Coming from her I take that as quite a high compliment. And seeing how I spend most of my days not knowing things, being able to say it in as chic of a way as possible seems to me the next best thing.

FIELD NOTE 6.29 - Losing boundaries.

I feel as if I've grown foreign in my own skin. I am caught between languages, between cultures.
I catch myself these days speaking English but having my hands and mouth go through French gestures. And even then my English is partly French. I've lost track of the number of times I've told one of my roommates that I was going "to take" tea or dinner or that something they said "had reason."
It's strange realizing this. Even more strange to realize that I want to do nothing to stop it - I fear that I wouldn't even know how to stop it in any case...

FIELD NOTE 6.28 - Test results.

This morning we received our test results from the previous day's class. After having asked a woman at CEA about relative pronouns and realizing that one of the answers I had put was wrong, I could only imagine how bad the rest would be.
So I was rather surprised to see the grade of 19+ written on the top of my test when the prof handed it back to me. Apparently the only mistake I had made was the one I had asked about, and I guess it really shouldn't be counted as a complete mistake since I realized right after the test that I had made it.
But now for better or for worst I will forever remember which relative pronouns go in the following statment:

C'est le chien dont je t'ai parlé. Le jour oú il a disparu, j'étais très triste.

Small comfort, that.

FIELD NOTE 6.27 - Running.

I am beginning to feel a bit tired. Three classes might just be a little too much for me. My schedule has begun to frighten me a little.

7h00 - Wake up.
8h15 - Leave apartment to walk to the metro
8h20 - Metro to Saint-Michel Notre-Dame.
8h45 - Walk to Sorbonne
9h00 - Cours de langue et civilisation française
11h00 - Metro to Vavin
11h30 - Entraînement phonétique
12h45 - Metro to CEA
1h30 - Queer Theory
4h05 - Metro to home
4h50 - Afternoon tea.
5h00 - Begin homework.
7h00 - Dinner.
10h30 - Finish homework, prepare for bed.
11h00 - Bed.

I tell myself there are only 3 weeks left and then I will no longer have to worry about catching metros and reading class assignments. Even still I know that I will come to miss these hectic days.

FIELD NOTE 6.26 - Test.

I hate grammar tests. It seems pointless to me to test me on little rules of grammar that are either never used or easily overlooked in spoken French.
But the Sorbonne likes them apparently and today was my first.
I finished it in a little under 10 minutes and then came the part I hate: the doubt. I began to question whether that verb in the imparfait should really be in the plus-que-parfait or whether that subjonctif was really necessary. After a few minutes every single relative pronoun I had used looked wrong to me - one of which I found out after the test was most definitely wrong.
I can't be expected to know all these rules and I can't really think of a reason where I will ever need to say some of the things covered on the test. I suppose part of all my doubt is because I have no real idea of where I stand in this course and I feel that I'm going to class every day without a center or direction.

FIELD NOTE 6.25 - Shoulder to shoulder.

I have never in all the time I have been in Paris been forced into a metro car crammed full of people until this morning.
When I got to the platform this morning I was struck by the number of people standing on the platform. Normally there are a quite a few other people when I arrive, but never enough to make walking nearly impossible. I thought this strange and was about to write it off as just a coincidence but upon noticing the metro going in the opposite direction stopping and letting off passengers 4 times, I realized that this was going to be a problem.
The metro finally came right as the 5th car going in the opposite direction was approaching and I tried my best to get as close as I could to where one of the metro car doors would be. When the door did open it was already full, presumably of other people at previous stops also importuned by this strange new traffic pattern. I shoved all my American hesitations aside and armed my way into the car alongside the French. To top it all off, just as the annoying buzz that signals the immanent closure of the metro doors began I was shoved from behind by a man who also wanted to get on, but with nowhere to go, I just ended up crushed between him and the woman in front of me.
It was a strange ride, those 5 metro stops seemed to go on forever. And to make the uncomfortable ride even more uncomfortable there was a man 2 people from me sneezing periodically loudly and without attempting to cover his sneeze so we were all forced to endure his germs.
But even in all this the one thing I found remarkable was the comedy and helpfulness the French were able to find in the situation. Concessions were always made to ensure that everyone got off at their appointed stop regardless of how much movement or rearrangment it required in the cramped cars. And room was always made for people trying to step aboard.
Even still, I was unspeakably thankful when the mechanical voice announced "Saint Michel, Notre Dame" and I was able to pop out of the metro car - and that's is not hyperbole - and walk to my class where I decided to look at this whole experience as a cultural experience and set out looking for a place to wash my hands.

FIELD NOTE 6.24 - Letter from home.

And in the letter she wrote: I can definitely see you living in France.
She said this with such conviction and such sadness that I could only bring myself to respond with: I don't think I will ever be able to settle down to a life you wanted for me. And in the letter I wrote: There are many names in history but now I know that none of them will be my own.

FIELD NOTE 6.23 - Ants.

We are at war in our apartment at 24 ave. de Reille.
Ants have taken over the kitchen and we have had to wrap our honey jar in a plastic bag and to put our bag of sugar into the refrigerator to keep them away. Even still their little red-black bodies crawl over our counters, blending in with the Formica.
I fear the war zone is expanding to the living room and my bedroom because I have counted 8 ants there today. Sadly, I think is one of those wars where there can be no victory, only a hostile sharing of ground.

FIELD NOTE 6.22 - No death.

I wanted to know how to say death, la mort, since it's a word my mouth seems incapable of reproducing though I've tried again and again with results ranging from l'amour to a few unintelligible syllables, but all of which are not death. My question ended up inspiring my prof to go off on an unforeseen tangent.
According to my French prof Mme. Maurice there is no death in France and no one dies. She says this is a product of the youth-obsessed French culture and that people will always find a way to get around saying that someone has died by using a different verb - he is lost, she has passed, they are deceased. But never he is dead, she is dead, they are dead.
Death, she says, is reserved for animals like dogs.
And as she was saying this all I could think about was that when I die I want it to be said that I am dead. I want that verb, that specific verb. Because death is a specific process and a specific process requires a specific verb. Rather than saying this aloud, I just decided to call it a cultural difference and I still can't pronounce death properly in French.

FIELD NOTE 6.21 - (Better) French?

Something is happening and I don't know what it is. Perhaps it's just that the Sorbonne grades way more harshly than the Université de Nantes. Perhaps it's just that the one-month span of time to receive all this information isn't enough and I'm being overloaded with information. Or perhaps - and this is the most likely reason - my French really isn't anywhere near to being "avancé".
But whatever the real reason, I have now reached that threshold where my French and my grades are actually starting to get worse. But I'm sure there are even reasons for that: the addition of a new phonetics course this week, the test this week, the fact that today was rather dreary.
I tell myself that I need to keep going and so I push through my badly translated conversations and turn over the papers with their horrible red-ink grades, confident that if I can just get through this bad part then knowledge will come. And if not knowledge, at least a few new words and phrases.

FIELD NOTE 6.20 - Where did the excitement all go?

I wondered this as I made my way to the Sorbonne for my morning class and put on my best French face to say "don't mess with me, don't talk to me."

FIELD NOTE 6.19 - Edith Piaf.

Today in queer theory we were to watch a movie entitled "Paris was a Woman" which began with a song by Edith Piaf and shortly after her R's started rolling one girl in the class commented that she didn't much like the woman singing.
I guess my gasp caught the attention of a few of the other students, but I still couldn't let this statement go uncorrected. Even if you don't respect or like the voice of the woman who sang "La vie en rose" et "Non, je ne regrette rien" one must still concede to her greatness for both her work and legacy.
And so I told this girl that "the woman singing" was none other than Edith Piaf and, should she wish to not automatically gain a place in the ire of any respectable French person, she should not repeat that culturally-unaware statement.
I am not by any means suggesting that I have somehow magically passed into a place where I am aware of every cultural reference and nuance, but if there is one thing I have learned in my time here it is that some things, even if believed, do not to be need said. Such was the case today.
It was a lesson. And now I find the words "Non, je ne regrette rien" stuck in my head...

FIELD NOTE 6.18 - Phonetics.

Oh joy, a phonetics course! Or, as I like to refer to it, the everything-I-say-is-wrong-in-some-way course. It was this way in Nantes and, if today was anything to go by, it will be the same way here in Paris. I can only hope that sometime between then and now I will have at least bettered my speaking and pronunciation skills to the point where at least some of the things I learned in Nantes will finally stick - tongue positions, rolling R's and praying like hell that the E's that I drop from words are actually able to be dropped.

FIELD NOTE 6.17 - Monday morning surprise.

Monday means a return to reality after the weekend in every country. Here in France especially since most places outside the touristy districts of Paris tend to follow the French tradition of closing on Sunday.
Sometimes it also marks the beginning of new craziness and such was the case today. After my Sorbonne professor, who I am now certain looks and sounds exactly like the French version of Maggie Smith, walked in and told us that she had some important news for us.
The news ended up being that we were to begin a 2-week phonetics course starting today that also happened to start only 30 minutes after her class. In all honestly, I had been forewarned about this course and should have remembered that it would begin today, however, in the rush to finish readings and do exercises last week I guess it just slipped my mind.
And so at 11h00 I ended up rushing alongside every other student and then taking the metro the entire 8 stops and 3-minute walk to the building where the phonetics courses are held.

FIELD NOTE 6.16 - Worth it.

In Nantes I asked myself nearly every day whether or not I thought the whole experience was worth the cost, so it's only natural that the same thing should happen to me here.
I came here expecting great changes in such a short time and I fear all I've found is disillusionment. This will not be a class I expected, I can't possibly get along with students so different from myself, I can't expect my roommate to clean his own hair out of the drain after his shower.
I don't know why I'm always setting myself up like this: expecting the great and only finding disappointment.
But I tell myself that there's still time, another illusion I cling to. But there's still 23 days left to prove myself wrong - and I do so hope that happens.

FIELD NOTE 6.15 - Louvre.

It is an unquestioned fact that the first Sunday of every month means free admission for the day at all national museums in France and Paris is a city filled with them. My roommates and I decided that we should begin our museum explorations at the Louvre.
So at noon we piled into the RER and made our way to the stop that would lead us to the metro leading directly to the museum and, after a few wrong turns and wrong escalators, we were finally making our way past the vacant ticket counters and into the first gallery: Greek statuary.
A man with a Louvre nametag briefly stopped me to say good morning and ask if I was just beginning my tour. He asked in French and I responded with a "Ouai." He said that he wished it was a good tour and I said thanks, a little bit confused.
And so we passed more than 3 hours wandering around the exhibits and looking at the artwork and sculptures as tourists scrambled around us to take pictures of every piece from every exhibit at every angle. It seemed as if it was all a rush to get it all in photos lest the museum should somehow rearrange itself in the blink of an eye. Meanwhile I went around and took photos of the things I found interesting: Atalanta missing a finger, Diana's dog without an ear, a bust of an unremembered person.
This is what the museum is to me - a few pieces to resonate with for their imperfections or missing stories. They mean more to me than a glared photo of the Mona Lisa behind glass ever could.

FIELD NOTE 6.14 - Sane and pain.

Today my queer theory class was invited to brunch at, Coquelicot, a restaurant in Montmartre owned by friends of the prof. The aim of the brunch was to serve as a way for us all to better get to know one another.
What happened wasn't exactly that.
When the class finally fully assembled in front of the Pigalle metro exit the differences between personality types became dreadfully apparent as my 3 roommates and I stood back quietly and listened to everyone else trying to talk over one another about their exploits the night before. At one point the prof, taking a break from listening to their cacophonous stories, turned to my roommates and me and said that he had been right in rooming us together since we were obviously the more quiet ones.
Then we were off to brunch and made to fill in the upstairs tables at Coquelicot where there was space enough for us to sit amid their clientele. This means of course that we broke ourselves off according to who we know and so my roommates and I quickly grabbed a table with only enough space for ourselves.
And so what passed was a wonderful brunch of a huge cup of café au lait and slices of brioche topped with confiture and Provençal honey but made slightly less enjoyable by having to listen to endless senseless chatter from the table behind us. Something that made me feel slightly more comfortable though was the fact that the French had the same strained look on their faces that I did from this conversation.
After the brunch was finished and we walked to the metro stop to part ways one of the students requested a picture of all of us and then told us all to gather in front of the carousel near the metro entrance. When this same girl kept saying how she wasn't sure how to approach someone and ask for a picture or even what to say, I decided that the only way that I would possibly be able to leave was to go up and ask someone for myself. So with a slight hair flip I walked past her and walked up to the first man I saw and asked for a picture of French before turning around and saying, "There, get ready so we can go!" - not the cheeriest ending to our brunch and I'm sure that now I've divided myself from the rest even more but I'm past the point of caring.

FIELD NOTE 6.13 - Crowded metros.

Crowded metros are no fun when rush hour sets in and people are packed shoulder to shoulder in a sweaty mass.
I have now learned the word for this: coincé.

FIELD NOTE 6.12 - Wandering.

There are no queer theory classes on Fridays so I decided to go out with my roommates and wander the city for the afternoon with neither direction nor itinerary. We returned more than 7 hours later with sore feet and backs, but we all agreed that it was the best day that I could have possibly been.

FIELD NOTE 6.11 - Accents.

I think one of the best things about being here in classes full of international students is that I've been given the opportunity to hear French spoken with such a wide range of accents. Each different country brings with it different sounds and different phonetic problems, which, once learned, make international understanding possible. Another fun part of this is that I can now tell which country someone comes from usually when the speak to me in French - although I still have some work to do with distinguishing the regional French accents.
A large part of my ability to do this has no doubt been due to living in a French setting and having adjusted to the "vrai" French accent. Surprisingly the American French accent is the one that grates on my nerves the most - probably due to the fact that it has, as one of my friends says, "no real accent, it's just French spoken with neither inflection nor tone" - and this is definitely true of most of the Americans I've known who speak French.
This is not to suggest that my French is different from this. I feel that my French is most definitely in this category with the exception of the few monosyllabic phrases that require nothing more from me than a shameless imitation of what I hear the French say - at least in these I can say that I sound French. But today I received a compliment from the girl who has been sitting beside me for the past few days after we all had to read out loud. She asked how long I'd been in France and when I told her 6 months she said that she was impressed because I didn't sound anything like the other Americans when I speak French. To her I had broken that accent and fallen somewhere close to actually sounding French.
That pretty much made my day.

FIELD NOTE 6.10 - Elisabeth.

I have come to hold a high esteem for one of the CEA office workers. Though she has known us all less than a week, she refers to us all as her babies and when she speaks her voice rings with the truth and depth of her sentiments. Being one to hold my emotions fast inside myself, I sometimes find her affection somewhat frightening. But I find the fact that in a month I will no longer be near this affection even more frightening.
Tonight CEA hosted a Parisian walk and picnic in a Marais park which Elisabeth had both organized and led. During the walk we talked about little things. I told her that we would have to get coffee after classes but before I left. I tell myself that perhaps we will stay in touch, but I've said those words so many times over the years and always with the same result.
But still...

FIELD NOTE 6.9 - Archives.

One street over from CEA is the French National Archives. People can wander in the courtyard here and sit on a bench if they so please. Today I sat there and ate a little biscuit filled with mozzarella and basil and just talked with my roommates Pegah and Susan.
We decided we are definitely the outsiders of the class, ostracized by something we either cannot see or just don't know. But I also realized there that I undoubtedly like it, this separation.
Before France the idea of being set outside the group terrified me, but now it seems liberating. I guess this is growth or perhaps merely the only thing I can tell myself in light of this reality. Either way, it's an incredible feeling.

FIELD NOTE 6.8 - Just keep walking.

I know the way to and from the Sorbonne now. I know which RER stops to take and how to get out of the station. Once out of the station, I know 8 possible ways to get to the building where my French class is held - I would find this funny were it not for the likelihood of a student strike completely closing off 1 or more of these routes.
The trip is long from apartment to classroom but I tell myself that I will spend the entire month without listening to my iPod in public should it serve to anyone looking as a further mark of my difference where my appearance and accent have already marked me as "other".
It's actually easier than I thought it would be and I find the trips passing quickly in a blur of French newspapers and mostly-empty early-morning streets. Moments like these I'm tempted to just keep walking, to just keep exploring. Once the city fully wakens and the tourists come out from their complimentary breakfasts to fill all the sidewalks and make the city hollow, I no longer feel the same. There is a hollowness then that settles in the city, that settles in me.

FIELD NOTE 6.7 - Outsider.

I guess some time between Saturday and today a mega-clique formed in my queer theory class and I seemed to have missed it. I've spent these past 2 days sitting in my seat surrounded by the other students and feeling most definitely on the outside.
I am not alone in this. My roommates seem to have also been caught up in this marginalization process and we just sit in silence as talk goes on around us of the previous night's party and tonight's plans for more.
The strangest thing is that I'm curiously ambivalent about all of this and don't care a lick that I have been cut off from everyone else. I tell myself that the program is only a month and that little can develop in that time when in fact the truth is that I would have probably cut myself off from the rest of them anyway.
We seem so different, I and them, and these differences are magnified again and again by our differences in ages and experiences. They scream about the French, they scream about their drinking, they scream their English in the streets - it seems so immature, like something I would never even do in a previous life. Did I skip this step?
And so I sit in my seat and listen, feeling for all the world like an outsider in this room full of Americans.

FIELD NOTE 6.6 - Progress.

I think I am finally breaking through here. This morning I was spoken to in French by 3 people: 2 in the métro and 1 in the park. It feels like a small victory each time it happens, like my Americanisms are all starting to fall away and like I'm finally beginning to be accepted here. It's a heady feeling.

FIELD NOTE 6.5 - "Mon beau cheri."

Every morning will entail a walk through Parc Montsouris to get to the RER station that will take me to the Sorbonne.
Today as I was walking through the entrance to the park I found it filled with runners and other people traveling to the metro stop. I noticed one man in particular dressed in spandex and stretching beside a park bench.
A few minutes later he was jogging beside me and singing in what can only be called off-the-charts-off-key before stopping suddenly and saying, "Bonjour, mon beau cheri." Then he was running again and back to his off-key squealing. And I couldn't help but laugh.

FIELD NOTE 6.4 - An American course.

I'll admit that my American-based queer theory course on Paris frightens me. After having studied within the French system for a semester and having grown accustomed to it, the idea of throwing myself back into the American system is a bit scary.
So today in class I was silent, listening and absorbing. I'm not sure what to think of this since silence has been my tendency in both systems for a while now. But the material is interesting and has the potential to help me figure out where I want to take my life. Only now there is this fear that I've bitten off a little too much than I can chew with 2 courses here.
Oh well, a month of too little sleep isn't that bad. I can always catch up afterward!

FIELD NOTE 6.3 - Discount, please.

Our prof demanded that we purchase a supplementary text for the grammar portion of our course and so after class I found myself walking to the nearest librarie that I was familiar with in the company of 3 girls from class from Italy, China, and Belize. It was amazing how easily conversation flowed between us and even more amazing was the realization that I've truly come to love being able to speak across cultures by using a language not my own with people who face the same difficulties as me. We are all foreign here.
At the bookstore when we had our books, I decided to brave the potential wrath of the woman at the checkout and asked if there was a discount for students. She seemed surprised that I would ask but told me if I had a student ID card then she would give me one and I produced my Sorbonne ID. So my 8,60 euro textbook ended up being 8,17 euro and I left the store feeling like quite the bargain shopper.

FIELD NOTE 6.2 - Avancé.

Today at 8h30 we were to receive the results of our Sorbonne language placement test. We ended up all being herded into a class where they unceremoniously read names out and then asked those people to leave to collect their books and follow their prof to their appointed classroom.
My name was in the 3rd group called, niveau avancé. I dutifully followed the mass of students leaving, collected my textbook, and walked behind the prof to 6 rue du Fourarre. When the class actually started I was surprised to find myself knowing more than I thought I did and speaking more easily than I remember doing in Nantes.
At the end of the course I noticed a little pamphlet for enrolling for a semester with the Sorbonne. I grabbed it, telling myself I can never be too sure what the future holds.

FIELD NOTE 6.1 - June.

It's June and I've had to write that 2 times today. Strange to think that it's my last month in France - stranger still to think that these past 5 months have already gone by. I would ask where the time went, but I am making a steadfast effort not to fall prey to the clichés. It's the clichés that cause the problems.