FIELD NOTE 2.63 - Organization is next to godliness.

My papers have begun to grow unruly. For the past six weeks I've kept all my handouts in a convenient 8-pocket organizer I brought with me from home but the weight of all those papers and the size difference between my American organizer and international paper has started to annoy me.

So this week I finally had enough and I went out to E. Leclerc to pick up something that would allow me to finally separate the papers for each class so that I wouldn't have to bring the unneeded ones with me every day as dead weight in my bag.
The solution ended up being six simple folders. While there was a wide array of colors available, I chose to buy all six in the same peaceful blue.
So today I spent a few minutes taking all my handouts out from my old organizer and placing them all in their own blue folders. When that was done and all the folders laid out on my desk, it seemed that I had accomplished a huge task.
Sometimes the simple things make all the difference.

FIELD NOTE 2.62 - Like a gypsy.

I have seen the gypsies walking around Nantes. They linger in the streets, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, but always asking for money. Some of the French give them angry looks as they past, some of the French yell, and the rest just ignore them completely.

En 2009, environ 8 000 Roms ont été reconduits en Roumanie avec, en poche, un billet d'avion et 300 euros. (Le Monde 16 February 2010)

I, too, came here with 300 euros in my pocket. And like a gypsy I have wandered this city's streets begging not for money, but knowledge. Some of the French have given me angry looks as they passed, some of the French have yelled, and the rest just ignored me completely. Just like a gypsy.

FIELD NOTE 2.61 - Saturday.

Saturday means market day. It also means having to ask myself the question "Do I really need this?" at every vendor's stall. Apparently today the answer to that question was "yes" to an eggroll and to two solid scarves.
I've decided to stop buying most of my produce at Marché Gloriette. The prices are wonderful and the experience even more so, but the products themselves tend to be ripe and ready to eat, something not in keeping with my buy-now-and-eat-for-the-rest-of-the-week mentality. So now the marché has turned into more of a weekly walk where I browse the stalls for new deals and see how the arrangements of stalls has changed from the past week.
Today Darryl and I walked through quickly. Instead of going back to our dorm, we decided to make a quick run to H&M on a street we'd never walked before.
This street led to another and soon we had a general direction. After a few wrong turns we discovered a vegetarian restaurant, a movie theatre, an awesome shoe store (which will require future visits), and a Frenchman singing an English song with a wonderful accent.
I sometimes forget that life can be like this: the simple act of discovery can fuel excitement. So why then do I insist on living inside a predetermined box and never venturing out? Here there are no boxes for me other than that suitcase into which my life will have to return in a few months. But until then no boxes...

FIELD NOTE 2.60 - I forget things.

Some days it feels like I've been here forever. It seems like the streets have all been written in my memory and that I've been coming to the same brasserie for coffee for years. But this isn't so - I don't know the streets, or at least not their names, and today was the first time I'd stepped foot into this particular brasserie whose name I still don't know.

I ordered a café au lait and settled into the blue leather seat. I read my grammar book for more than three hours, learning little rules and phrases that I'm sure I won't remember to use tomorrow.
It was nice while it lasted.

FIELD NOTE 2.59 - French lessons.

Six hours in a bar, six hours of practicing French and English. Yesterday I met Ge at Fées Maisons for my weekly French speaking lessons. She says by the end of my time here that she will make me comfortable with the idea of speaking French and she says that I speak a lot better than I give myself credit for, neither of these I am certain of.

I do surprise myself sometimes, recalling words I can't even remember learning. So maybe she's right and I just don't give myself enough credit.
Either way, I'm still not sure how fluent I'll be in the end. I still choose all the wrong words and seem to have some immediate disconnect with every French person I meet. Playing the part of the stupid student is getting a little old.
But in Fées Maisons all that is suspended. Today I ordered a café viennois and just sat alone for about ten minutes before Ge arrived. I was no tourist and there were no words to get wrong. Just me, my book, and my coffee. This is what I'm missing and what I need.

FIELD NOTE 2.58 - Horoscope.

BALANCE (24 sept - 23 oct) La période est favorable pour vous : le ciel vous aide à savoir ce qu'il faut faire de votre vie. Avec Saturne en poche, vous allez y voir plus clair, à court comme à long terme. Trancher vous évite les nombreuses réflexions fatigantes, ça vous repose.

This week I've been consumed with the realization that time is fleeting. Once this vacation ends, there are only seven weeks of class left. Once this study abroad program in France ends, there is only one more year left of VCU. Once that year ends, there is...what?
A beginning, perhaps.
This week I've tried to create order out of disorder. Tired of living in a constant state of doubt where the future is concerned, I've begun a spreadsheet of possible graduate school programs. Of these there is one that strikes me as particularly interesting. I've thought about attending it for about a year now but have only now begun giving it serious thought. So maybe then this is the sky opening and letting me know what I want to do with my life. Or maybe I just give too much faith to horoscopes.
Either way, it is an answer to what comes after VCU. Now all that remains is to be accepted into the program.

FIELD NOTE 2.57 - Package from home.

The box was bigger than I expected and carrying it from La Poste back to my dorm in the rain proved to be quite difficult an endeavor. But I managed.
The day before I had found a yellow slip of paper in my mailbox that said I had received a package. It was expected. What wasn't expected was my reaction - there was no rush, no sudden impulse to take the slip and run to pick up my package. Just a smile as I made my way from the mailbox to my room.
I've reached the point where I am no longer sure how I feel about anything. I've all but given up trying to analyze my feelings. So I'm not sure why the box made me so incredibly happy sitting there on my bed. I'm not sure why opening it made me sad. I'm not sure why, when the box was broken down and out in the trash, I wanted to remake my bed to get rid of the impressions where it had been.
I'm not sure about any of that.
What I am sure of is this: I received a box and now it is gone and now I am one day closer to going home and back to a life where there is no need for boxes and yellow slips of paper. And this makes me want to cry.

FIELD NOTE 2.56 - Le marché des bouquinistes.

Hidden behind FNAC every Tuesday afternoon book vendors gather with their collapsible tables and bins of books to present their wares. The books range from commonplace to extremely rare, from centuries old to newly printed.

I wandered this today, sorting through the covers for words and names I knew. I ended up buying a book by Michel Tremblay called La nuit des princes charmants - "The Night of Charming Princes." At 4 euro, the book was one of the more expensive on the table of this particular vendor but I decided to go ahead and buy the book because it called to me. And who am I to resist the call of a book?
The book was soon in my bag and I was leaving the little cluster of vendors to make my way back home. Now I have a book to read that will probably keep me occupied for the rest of the time I am here. Or at least until I discover le mensonge et la vérité dans l'urgence du désir that the book promises to reveal.

FIELD NOTE 2.55 - Bus rides are sometimes the answer.

For two days I've been locked inside my dorm room working on papers and proposals. Two days of stagnation. No, that's not true - the time alone wasn't without its merits and the work had to be done. But today I decided to get out and go somewhere with Sharon, a friend from class.
That somewhere turned out to be Lidl, a German grocery chain that has expanded into France. Getting to the store from Sharon's apartment required a short walk and a longer bus ride. Both of these were made more enjoyable by the conversation and the nice morning weather.
Upon entering the store I realized that I had visited a Lidl before that first weekend in Nantes when I was forced to stay in a hostel and bought food from a local grocery store. I hadn't recognized the name or the sign, but I did remember the yellow signs bearing prices hanging over everything.
On our way back to Sharon's apartment to drop our bags off before heading to IKEA the subject somehow turned to our own histories. I talked of many things: King William, college, plans for grad school, plans for the future, plans that I'd given up to have all those.
The story wasn't a long one, but it was still mine. And hearing it there on that bus as it was pouring from my mouth, it was like hearing it for the first time. So caught up in all the day-to-day, I sometimes forget that life is so much bigger than that. I forget how far I've come and just how much I've done. And I wondered if perhaps I'm sometimes a little too hard on myself and don't always give myself enough credit.
There are great moments of clarity in life. This was not one of them. But all the same, as I stepped off that bus, it seemed that I'd never seen the sun shine brighter.

FIELD NOTE 2.54 - Solitude.

Today marked the first day of a week-long vacation. They call it winter vacation but it feels and smells like spring to me. The window is open and the smell of rain drifts in even now.
Having brokered a trade for a month's study in Paris this summer for my travels around Europe during the semester, I will be spending the week in Nantes.
There is enough to do to keep me busy should I wish it - proposals to be written, grad school programs to be searched for, sights to be seen. All this and yet today I couldn't seem to find the energy to even leave my room. I spent the day between writing, reading, and listening to music. I didn't think much of it at the time.
I still don't. It was a day and I managed to go through the motions. I got up, took a shower, got dressed, made the bed. I don't remember the rest. But I enjoyed every moment of today. It was a day spent in solitude.
Tomorrow will be here fast enough and I will once again venture out into the world. But today, today was mine.

FIELD NOTE 2.53 - Cereal.

Sometime around noon I decided I was hungry and decided to finally brave the box of milk and have a bowl of cereal.
The milk ended up tasting exactly like the skim milk I'm used to drinking at home. The cereal tasted like it always does - honey and corn.

Eating it, however, was probably the most peaceful ten minutes of my day as I just sat at my desk with the window open, listening and watching the life of Nantes go on without me. It was enough.

FIELD NOTE 2.52 - Couquettes.

Yesterday there were 30.
Today there were 15.
Now there are 7.

FIELD NOTE 2.51 - Budget.

Call it a whim or the urge of the new adult but today I decided to sit down and make a budget for myself. It was strange, this process. Never before have I lived in a world where the numbers in my bank account had any real meaning. They were just that: numbers. Abstract.
Now they mean rent and food and eggrolls on Saturday mornings. But it must last.
I don't know why but I've grown up with this deep seated fear of failure inside me - fear that I'll make all the wrong choices, buy all the wrong things and the ends won't meet. Content to live in the shadow of my parents, I've let them pay for most of the things in my life and thus have avoided this fear.
But now there are no parents here and the ends still have to meet.

FIELD NOTE 2.50 - Forgotten marks.

Shortly after arriving and settling into my room I drew out a calendar of my days in Nantes. Every morning I mark off the day before.
When I first made it, the calendar was an effort to cast off my homesickness and a way to countdown to the end. Now I'm not really sure what it is. Reminder, countdown, habit - all these words seem right.
This morning I woke up and went about my morning routine. Opening my calendar I discovered the past three days had no lines through them. I have no idea what these means in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps this means I've moved past my homesickness or that the numbers have lost their meaning.
Whichever it may be, this morning I corrected the oversight, marking through three instead of one. A habit is a habit, after all.

FIELD NOTE 2.49 - Hesitancy.

I've never been one to make friends quickly and I'm not what you would call a social butterfly. No, I am something else entirely. I find my place in the corners of parties, glass in hand and arms crossed. Silent.
This is my way.
It hasn't gone unnoticed. Thursday during an impromptu choclat viennois at Le Molière with Melody and Sharon we were joined by others. Immediately the conversation switched from English to French and almost as quickly, I fell into silence. It wasn't until much later that my reticence was brought up again and noted. And really, what defense is there?
I don't really like to talk around people I don't know. I prefer to listen to others speak. I don't want to speak badly. All true, all hollow.
I like to think I'm beginning to change this though. I'm getting out a little more, going a little further out of my comfort zones. I have a feeling that it will take some time for me to get past these fears, these tendencies. I'm not even sure if I'll manage to fully break through during my short stay in France. This could take years. But I've begun.
I've begun the slow process of unraveling myself and taking inventory of the knots. Here is one and I will call it hesitancy.

FIELD NOTE 2.48 - Waiting.

It never fails to amaze me that I somehow always manage to just miss the tram. Apparently the schedule is online, but I somehow feel like that would be against the rules in my world of no clocks.
This afternoon while waiting for the tram that would take me to E. Leclerc to pick up my weekly groceries I noticed a woman. I don't know what it was about the way she was standing there with her bag in and and in her gray coat, but I found myself taking her picture and wondering about life and waiting.
In Richmond my life was nothing but waiting - waiting for the next day, the next thing, the next step. Waiting without end. And yet here in France I find myself waiting for things daily - the tram, the coffee to be made, the water to boil - but even so life doesn't seemed so filled with waiting.
I've heard that half of life is spent waiting, but now I can't remember half of that...

FIELD NOTE 2.47 - Everything seems changed.

This Saturday Marché Gloriette was different - stalls weren't in the same places they have occupied for the past two weeks and the walkways were more crowded than normal. And there I was in the middle of it all, feeling more uncomfortable with each brush of a passing person. There are no pardons here as people shuffle past one another.
Eventually I make the startling realization that I haven't moved in a few minutes. I will my feet to start moving again and follow the general flow. This led to a section of the marché that I've never really explored before.
The layout of the market is normally divided in two: the vendors selling foods occupy a large L-shaped area while the vendors selling shoes, clothes, and various other objects occupy a rectangle that occupies the rest of the space. A few of these latter type are known to occupy little nooks in the food section, hoping perhaps the location will increase the sale of their wares.
Typically I stay in the food section, telling myself that it's best to not even fall prey to the temptation of low priced clothing and accessories. But today the crowd led into the clothes, so that's where I went, past stall after stall of low-priced shirts and jeans. I soon found myself holding bags containing 2 long-sleeve shirts and 2 scarves. The grand total: 8 euro.
Sure, the shirts can't go through the dryer and will probably fall apart in no time and the scarves might unravel, but that's part of the experience of Marché Gloriette.
And to think, I would never have experienced this had it not all changed.
A creature of habit, I've come to depend upon my patterns. Sometimes I wonder if the patterns and schedules are more alive than I actually am. So there's another realization, another thing to change.

FIELD NOTE 2.46 - Prisons.

Every day on my walk from the tram stop to the classroom I pass by a wall with a message on in in spraypaint. And every day I pass it, I find myself wanting to take a picture of it but don't for fear of taking my camera out and looking like a tourist.
The sentence is simple: Ovrez une école vous fermerez une prison. Open a school, close a prison.
Today as I walked to the tram stop after my French history class, I decided it was time for me to break free from my self-imposed prison and finally take a picture of the wall that's captured my attention so often. After the picture was taken and I pressed the power button on my camera I noticed a girl standing not far from me, also with camera in hand.
In not taking that picture I've forced myself to live in a prison of my own making for the past five weeks. And for what - so I could appear to be less of a tourist in front of people who will not remember me after I have left four months from now?
I wonder how much of my life I live in a prison of my own making. Probably more than I would ever care to admit...

FIELD NOTE 2.45 - Words I cannot verbalize.

The word was amour but all I could manage to say was mort. The prof assured me that the two are not the same.
Aren't they?
I've always had a hard time expressing my feelings. Especially those dealing with love. "I love you" always seems to feel so awkward on the tip of my tongue. I don't know why this is.
Someone told me once that I am unaffectionate. Perhaps this was true, perhaps this is true. Why then do I suddenly find myself tacking on the words "I love and miss you" to almost every letter I write? Stranger still, the words seem to fit and don't feel the least bit strange flowing from my fingertips.
I never realized until very recently just how many people I love and in just how many different ways I love - from the I-miss-your-laughter love to the I-miss-our-two-hour-long-phonecalls-about-nothing love.
I just need you to know me, just know who I am. I cannot speak love, but I can write it.

FIELD NOTE 2.44 - Laundry day.

Today I finally gathered up my courage and braved the dorm's laundry machines, loading in my clothes and praying that all the buttons I changed wouldn't result in any damage to my clothes. Two hours later I found myself carrying my newly washed and semi-dry clothes back up to my room.
The clothes seemed heavier on the way back than they had before and the entire time I was climbing the stairs to my floor I kept picturing myself one of those ants in National Geographic - the kind photographed carrying a leaf heavier than its own body weight. My weight was no leaf. And I am no ant. Why then did the image bother me so much?
I sometimes fear I'm a shallow person more interested in the superficial and the material than the durable and important truths of life. Now I'm not really sure what matters. My shirts and pants are all variations on a theme. Same things, different colors. And it doesn't even seem to matter.
I think I carry too much weight sometimes. The weight of worry is a heavy burden. I've come to the point where the voice in my head that worries about appearances and the superficial has been silence, or else ignored. Something tells me this is a good thing even as I struggle to get past the dirty truth.
I am no ant, no eater of leaves.

FIELD NOTE 2.43 - Adult.

Adult.
The word still seems strange and until very recently was never something I ever really equated with myself. I always linked the word "adult" with "independent."
These past three years at college I've always felt myself caught somewhere between being a child and being an adult. The only child, I told myself that living like this was okay because it would make the break easier when it finally came - the truth is that living like this had always been my choice and would probably end up making the break even harder.
But this was life and it was mine.
In the past few weeks I've come to actually feel like I am an adult. Having to constantly make sure the amount in my bank account is correct and that I will have enough money to pay for rent and food until the next payment comes through has made me more conscious of all those little things I used to take for granted.
Is this a change? If not change, then progress.
I'm not sure what this really means for me. I still worry what life will be like when I come back from this experience - will I fall back into the old me or will I stay myself?
Today after class, I went with Melody and Sharon to a café called Le Molière that we found after fifteen minutes of random searching and ordered a chocolat chaud. Some things, at least, never change.

FIELD NOTE 2.42 - Humor helps.

I walked into oral French today, the roots of my hair still damp from the shower and the goal of speaking more fresh on my mind. It turned out to be even easier than I thought it would be.
All but ten minutes of class ended up being taken over by going over an aural proficiency exam we took on Tuesday. The prof had nothing planned for those last few minutes and as she was beginning to search for a speaking exercise in her bag, a voice asked her what she thought of the Olympic games.
The voice was mine. No, surely that wasn't right. But it was.
Soon the topic changed from the Olympics to the differing attitudes of the cultures in the class towards different forms of technology. And all the while my voice took an active role in the conversation, tripping frequently in the struggle for proper grammar and proper wording. And when there was no grammar, no correct words there was humor enough to keep me going.

FIELD NOTE 2.41 - The shower.

We all have a special place that we go to unwind or seek clarity. For me this place is normally the shower. I turn the water on, close my eyes, and envision the negativity of the day washed down the drain. It's only then that I can think - think without the constraints of reality or the fear that I may be wrong.
I think of many things in the shower. Things I have to do that day, things I will have to do in the future, or things I've already finished.

This morning after eating my breakfast yogurt and brushing my teeth, I stepped into my tiny dorm shower and began the process of readying myself to face the day. Somewhere between the shampoo and the exfoliating facial wash I began to think about everything. My reticence in class. The fact that I'm still scared to actually speak. The fear that I will walk away from this still being unable to form an intelligible sentence.
This went on until I couldn't stand it anymore and my facial wash started to wash into my eyes. Enough of this, time to change.
I'm tired of holding on to all this negativity, so I let it all go down the drain.
In a few minutes it will be time to go catch the tram. Just like every other Thursday. Only today when I'm in class today I'm going to start trying harder.

Nothing changes unless we decide to change it, and I'm ready for a change.

FIELD NOTE 2.40 - The daily question.

The question is always the same. The answer isn't.

As the tram pulled out of 50 Otages to carry me back to my dorm, I asked myself the same question I ask myself every day: "Could I live here?"
Sometimes yes, sometimes no.
Today was definitely a yes day.

FIELD NOTE 2.39 - Coffeebreak.

It's my weekly treat to myself: a cappuccino from the university vending machine during my in-class break. Normally I avoid vending machine coffee at all costs, but here it isn't so bad. Plus the fact that the machines are normally surrounded by French students all waiting for the machines to announce their beverages are ready makes me a little more comfortable.
It's a ritual now: I walk into the hall through the glass door, see the crowd and, resisting the urge to turn on my heel and walk back to the class, push forward, insert my 50 centimes, and press "cappuccino."
A brown cup falls into the holder and I wait for the vending machine's little chime. All the while I try to listen to the conversations going on around me, snippets of classes and people and things I don't know. When the chime sounds, I will collect my brown cup and make my way back to the classroom.
It's a ritual now.

FIELD NOTE 2.38 - All my somethings.

It's Wednesday again, which means a day with only one three-hour class: langue française écrite. I've come to love Wednesdays for this reason alone. Of all the classes I'm taking, écrite is the only class I feel remotely confident in. I always leave this class feeling that I've learned something - sure it might be something as little as being able to as the word for flowerbed (parterre) or knowing that I don't have to say "pas" with negations involving certain verbs (oser/savoir/cesser/pouvoir) - but it's something. And these days I tend to hold tightly to the things I've learned, proof of my growth.

FIELD NOTE 2.37 - I have never loved like this.

Until this semester I did not truly appreciate the power of writing. I used to write every day without really thinking about it - school essays, emails, text messages. Now I am here and each word seems heavy as it leaves me.

Writing here I also find that I am now able to say things that I never would have been able to say in Richmond. Words like love and lost. I have never written like this before, I have never loved like this.
Sometimes when I write I feel as if I spread outward, flowing down the hallways and into the infinite. Somewhere my words are still growing, still continuing.
I finally feel that yes growing inside me.

FIELD NOTE 2.36 - When in doubt, wander.

The grades on my assignments today in French writing weren't that great and today was the first graded assignment in French oral - I didn't understand it the first listen and the third was only marginally better. So by the time I was done with class for the day at 12h30, I was completely doubting my ability to ever speak, write, or listen to French and wanted to do nothing more than go back to my room and hide until class tomorrow.
Then I remembered I had agreed to go with my friend Darryl to E. Leclerc to pick up some things.
As we wandered the aisles, picking up things we didn't really need and then putting them back as common sense kicked in, I gradually felt the tension leave my body until I couldn't really remember what I was so stressed about to begin with.
This is the way of stress: it exists in the moment and then when it passes, nothing exists but the memory of it.
Riding the tram back to my dorm I decided that I was tired of waiting for change. Time to seek it out on my own. Tomorrow I am going out and buy the French grammar book the teacher recommended and I am setting up weekly coffees with Ge to practice speaking French.
Nothing like a bit of wandering to put the world in perspective again.

FIELD NOTE 2.35 - Surprises, 8AM.

Today was the day I had to trade in my dirty sheets for new ones in the basement of Bâtiment C.
The room was the same as I remembered it: same radio playing, same three bins to deposit dirty linens in, same piles of new linens, same stoic-faced woman sitting at the table waiting to mark tallies when students came and left. She was knitting today - that, at least, was new.
She and I have an unspoken peace. When I see her in the hallways or in the parking lot, we always exchange greetings. I smile, she doesn't.
I approached the bins with some hesitancy this morning. Taie. Plat. Housse. Three words for three bins. Last month I had asked the woman's help in figuring out which sheet went where.
Today I was on the verge of asking her again just to be sure but decided at the last moment to try to figure it out myself. Pillowcase. Flat sheet. Fitted sheet.
It was easier than I thought and after I had finished, I looked at the woman. She stood up and went over to get my new sheets for me. Then something I've never seen before: a smile. She told me that I was learning quickly since I had remembered and seemed genuinely pleased by this. I told her I tried.
As I walked back to my room with my fresh sheets I wondered if she was right and that maybe I am learning more than I think. But I didn't have time to dwell on this as I grabbed my bag and headed off to catch the tram.

FIELD NOTE 2.34 - Worries.

I sometimes worry I'm not learning enough French.
I sometimes worry I'm speaking too much English.
I sometimes worry my difference is obvious.
I sometimes worry this difference will disappear.
I sometimes worry I made the wrong decision coming here.
I sometimes worry I won't be able to leave.
I sometimes worry I have a bad accent.
I sometimes worry I will never be able to spell "souvent."
I sometimes worry I'm late because I have no watch.
I sometimes worry I'm losing touch with people.
I sometimes worry that in a few months all this won't matter.
I sometimes worry about the future.
I sometimes worry...no. Today I'm not going to worry.

FIELD NOTE 2.33 – My nature.

I didn’t have much energy today so rather than walking the distance from my culture classroom to the library I decided to walk the much shorter distance from the culture classroom to my economy/society classroom regardless of the fact that there’s an hour’s break between the two classes. The classrooms were colder today than I ever remember them being so I didn’t bother taking off my scarf or even unbuttoning my coat.
I used the time to reread the homework and the handouts from the previous class, which took a whole fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes before the class was scheduled to start the professor walked into the class to tape up the map of Europe she continually points to during her lectures. Being the only person in the classroom at this time, I was forced to talk with her while she taped.
Thankfully we mostly stuck to those casual gestures of conversation – Ça va? Oui, ça va – et vous? Oui. Ton weekend? Bien, et le votre? Bien.
For the most part I am happy with conversations like these. The questions whose responses are automatic reveal nothing of the self and make it that much easier to forget the person once their face and name have faded from my memory.
When it seemed the conversation was done, I went back to starting vacantly around the room and trying to bury myself deeper into the warmth of my coat.
The prof began talking to me again, still busy applying tape to the top of her poster. She told me that I should really try to talk more to work on my speaking skills even though she could tell I was reserved and it might go against my nature.
My nature. Just what is my nature?
In the classroom my nature seems to be silence. Not because I don’t have ideas or options about what is being discussed. No, I just don’t really see the point in always sharing them – I mean, does my opinion on the purpose of the European Union really mean anything in the grand scheme of things? Probably not. I am more content to just sit and listen. Absorb.
I said the only words I could think of: J’essayerai. I will try.
The answer seemed to be enough and she soon left the room. I began to breathe normally again and let my eyes wander until I noticed a sticker on the back of a chair. Since I normally come into class just before it begins, the sticker has always been covered up by someone’s coat or bag. Today it just stared at me, it’s one eye a beacon.
Ten minutes later people began to wander into the classroom and the sticker was soon covered up. During class I made a few brief efforts to talk. And when I was silent my mind continually went back to the words: my nature.

FIELD NOTE 2.32 – One month.

Today is 15 February, which means I have been in France for one calendar month.

FIELD NOTE 2.31 - Coming clean.

I decided I'd had enough of the dust.

I've been living my life in a line: shoes off at the door, walk barefoot down the center of the room to my desk and bed. Everywhere else there seemed to be dust and in a few places on the floor dust bunnies were evident. Rather than doing anything about this, I just fell into the pattern of this line, content with life this way.
This morning I woke up and got ready to open the blind and let in the day. As I set my feet on the floor, I felt the texture of dirt under my soles and decided that it was time to do something about the mess. After a quick shower I made my way down to the floor's kitchen and grabbed the broom and dust pan from the closet.
When my floor was finally clean and all the dust collected in the dust pan, I was amazed at just how much was in the pan. For four weeks I've been ignoring my floor and for four weeks the dirt and dust has been steadily building upon it. It seems realizations like this become more common as I get older: I never realize the extent of something until I try to change it.
So too with myself.

FIELD NOTE 2.30 - Journey.

There's so much I could be doing right now (homework, fellowship applications, researching grad schools) and yet I find myself just sitting here in front of my laptop reading poems by Mary Oliver.
Being here, being detached from all I know, I feel that I am finally beginning to understand the world differently. Even the messages I take from my favorite authors is changing.
The words are all the same. The reader is not.
Today I reread "The Journey" - a poem about beginnings and venturing forth into the world. The ending has always been beautiful but even so, it has always bothered me.

But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do -
determined to save
the only life you could save.

I realize now that I have never really listened to my own voice. So consumed by the need to make it through the day, through the classes, through the degrees so that I could...what?
I've never really known what I wanted to do with my "one wild and precious life." I wasn't one of those lucky few born with a purpose or natural talent that carries them through life. I tried to pretend once that I was one of these people, telling myself I wanted to be a doctor, dentist, writer, hoping that if I took all the right courses and told myself "this is what I want" enough times, it would become truth.
But life's never that simple, is it?
Here is my truth: I am twenty-one years old and a junior in college with three majors and absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life.
A year ago I would never have been able to write these words, thinking that in doing so I would finally have to admit this truth to myself. Three years ago, these words would have seemed impossible. Now they are just reality.
Stranger still, I am completely fine with this. I don't have a clue what I will do with my life or even if I'll even make enough money to feed and house myself, but I still feel like I'm where I'm supposed to be.
I think now I will go forward into the world trying to save the only life I can. My own.

FIELD NOTE 2.29 - Beginning.

I had been invited out to a bar earlier in the week by a classmate. Not having any money in my French bank account, I had declined. But now that the money was there it seemed that there was no longer any reason why I shouldn't get out of my room on a Saturday night to experience the Nantais nightlife.
I found myself riding the tram down to Commerce at 21h43 with Melody and Darryl on our way to meet Sharon at Buck Mulligans. Two wrong turns, fifteen minutes, and six numb hands later we made our way down rue du Château where the bar is located, actually walking past it before realizing our error.
All that was quickly forgotten in the warm and inviting bar. As we waited for our beers and a seat to open up we all traded stories of our day and plans for the upcoming vacation week. Finally all the people at a table in the corner all stood up in an unspoken cue of parting and we four edged our way towards them so we could quickly snatch the table. Unfortunately, another woman had the same plans. Quickly reaching a compromise, we decided to share the table and were soon introduced to Geneviève and her boyfriend Benjamin.
For the next five hours we chatted mostly in English about how great a city Nantes is, our studies, and the difficulty of making friends with the French. Ge admitted to me that she doesn't really have a lot of friends in Nantes at all and would really like to see us again and have us over at their apartment.
When the weight of the cherry beer finally settled inside me and staying alert became difficult, we decided to call it a night and left the bar. But not before exchanging information and making plans to meet up with Ge and Ben next Saturday at another local bar.
And as I waited for the tram to take us from 50 Otages to my dorm, I recognized tonight for what it was: a beginning.

FIELD NOTE 2.28 - Trust is a foreign country.

Marché Gloriette was packed this morning even though the weather was cold enough to make my body numb through all my layers of clothing. Almost every vendor's wares were being bought by customers standing shoulder to shoulder while behind them still more waited for their turn.
Having quickly bought my weekly pastries, eggroll, and a kilo of clementines, I contented myself with just watching the whole process unfold. After a few minutes of observing people waiting for their turns to have their produce weighed and pay, I realized what I was seeing: trust. Customers could very easily have slipped their bags of produce into their shopping bags and walked off without anyone being any the wiser.
I felt guilty for having thought this when it seemed to be the furthest thing from the vendors' minds as they rushed to keep up with the never-ending stream of customers shoving bags and money in their hands. And then I wonder: Is it just me?
In addition to the trust I was witnessing here at the marché, I myself have been told "je te fais confiance" twice since my arrival in Nantes - once from a doctor when I was unable to pay him for his midnight visit and once by a professor when she offered to loan me rent money if ISEP didn't put my stipend into my account on time.
And then there's me - slow to love and even slower slower to trust. I come from a country of locked doors and bootstrap myths. Later in my dorm room as I put my purchases away, I realized the truth of this: trust is just as foreign to me as Nantes.

FIELD NOTE 2.27 - Living without.

Last night I made the wonderful discovery that my study abroad funds have finally been distributed to my French bank account, which means I will finally be able to pay for my (now late) housing and real food. Surprisingly the discovery didn't have quite the reaction I was expecting.
I wasn't giddy. I wasn't rushing to make a list of everything I should buy. I was just sitting there, looking at the numbers on the screen.
This made me think of an email I received last week from my mother saying she couldn't imagine having to live with so few clothes and so little money. Until that point I hadn't really been thinking that my life was really missing anything that big - in my eyes I had enough clothes to last me until my return and just enough money to make sure I never went hungry.
It was a meager existence, but it was enough.
Sure, there are always days when I wish I had bothered to pack my favorite gray sweater or another pair of shoes, but those thoughts are fleeting. What I have are 15 t-shirts, 5 sweaters, 5 pairs of pants, 3 scarves, 3 jackets, 2 pairs of shoes, 2 belts, and enough underwear and socks to last me between laundry loads. I live off fruit, bread, cheese, and water.
Living this way for almost a month has made me realize just how little I truly need to survive and just how much I really have back in Virginia. Before France it seemed so important to have all these things. And all for what? Was having them supposed to make me happier or a better person?
Coming here and cutting myself off from all that, I now realize the only things I really need are those that can get me from week to week. All the rest is superficial.

FIELD NOTE 2.26 - J'ai oublié.

I forgot how horrible it is to have to sit through classes while sick. Today marked the second time in four weeks I've had to sit through my Friday classes sick. Last time I was still riding the morphine injection to help with my kidney stone pain; today was spent constantly having to alternate between taking notes and blowing my nose. And of course, being sick, today also happened to be the day I was constantly called upon in phonetics to repeat lines and stanzas.
Midway through class an American girl who also happened to be sick whispered, "J'ai un cadeau pour toi." Great, I thought, now I'm hallucinating.
It turned out I had heard her correctly and she slipped me a get well card she had quickly made. A simple gesture, but touching nonetheless.

FIELD NOTE 2.25 - Don't be jealous of my boogie.

It's a simple ritual: as I walk out of my dorm, the earbuds go in; as I walk into my classroom, the earbuds come out. During the ten to twenty minutes it takes to get from the dorm to the university I travel in my own little world, carried away by whatever song I happen to be listening to at the time.
Today I happened to be listening to the opening notes of RuPaul's "Jealous of my Boogie" as I boarded the tram and sat down beside beside a man's foot. Thankfully after a few seconds he removed his foot from the seat just in time to answer his cell phone.
I turn up the volume until it looks like he's singing the lyrics into his cell phone.
I guess I have turned it up a little too loud from the look he gives me as he hangs up and replaces the phone in his jacket pocket. The tram announces "Faculté" in its typical tinny voice. Instead of feeling guilty and turning the music down, I give into the words: turn it up, let 'em scrutinize...turn it up, let me scandalize...don't be jealous of my boogie.
I leave the tram with a little extra boogie in my step, feeling this a victory of sorts.

FIELD NOTE 2.24 - Lazy Fridays.

Friday mornings are my favorites. I don't have class until 13h30, which means I can sleep in, take my time getting ready, and fully prepare myself for the day ahead. A breath I need to take.

FIELD NOTE 2.23 - I am not alone.

There are two other Americans in the C1 level of the IRFFLE Program and I consider myself friends with both of them. And even knowing that there are other Americans in the program, I continually find myself forgetting that there are actually other Americans in Nantes. I met four of them today at an ISEP exchange meeting.
It wasn't a huge event, but even so it made Nantes seem a little smaller, a little more like home.

FIELD NOTE 2.22 - Filling in the blanks.

I still have no idea what we're really doing in oral French.
The homework was to analyze three tables, add all the information together, and from that derive an answer. Once again I've done it incorrectly, looking at the wrong numbers and drawing all the wrong conclusions.
Surprisingly I am not upset by this.
No, what I feel is more akin to acceptance. I do not know how to analyze these tables, add up the data, and give you a conclusion. Somehow this doesn't seem like such a huge deal in the grand scheme of things. Worrying about it seems as useless as trying to solve world hunger with gum.
I am chosen on to give an answer about one of the graphs - not really surprising since only seven of us bothered braving the snow and coming to class. I say something about age disparities and try to add in that the younger a person is, the more likely they are to experiment and try more things. Only these words won't come. It's not that they're difficult, just not there. I improvise. Suddenly my hands are moving and I'm searching for synonyms and definitions. The teacher says "ouai" and goes on to another student.
I survived. One broken-but-mostly-understandable sentence. And the best part is, I didn't stop. I just kept going.
This could easily become a mantra at the end of each day: I survived. One broken-but-mostly-understandable sentence. And the best part is, I didn't stop. I just kept going. But living with this mantra would render the words trite. So I'll just have to remember to appreciate them without the mantra.

I survived...
One broken-but-mostly-understandable sentence...
And the best part is, I didn't stop...
I just kept going...

FIELD NOTE 2.21 - Snow.

At 8h17 this morning I woke up to a French girl screaming outside of my window followed by a peal of laughter. More shocked at hearing the scream than annoyed, I gathered up the energy to roll up my blind only to discover the ground and cars were all covered with a fine sheet of white.
Snow.
I've been hearing about snow in Richmond for the past two weeks as it has come to my inbox and exploded on my FB and Twitter feeds. And with each new announcement I have grown steadily more and more depressed at actually missing the one winter when it snows at home. So waking to it this morning actually made me smile, even if the accumulation here was less than half an inch.
That smile quickly slipped from my face two hours later as I tried to make my way from my dorm to the tram stop in my no-tread Chucks. In the middle of my careful path down the sidewalk I witness the French snow removal system: one man with a leaf blower blowing the snow to the side while two men behind him look idly on and cast a mixture of salt and sand behind the first man. Thankfully for me, the man with the leaf blower let his machine idle as I approached. Unfortunately this did not save me from being covered in a fine sheen of snow crystals. I did the French thing: said "bonjour" and kept going.
The path from the tram stop at Faculté to the building where my oral French class is proved to be even more of a hassle than getting to the tram itself, for between the two lies a three minute walk.
Normally I enjoy this walk because it lets me fall into step alongside French students and forget eavesdrop a little before classes start, little snippets of clothes, dates, and classwork. Today that walk was covered in snow packed so tightly by students having stepped over it for the past few hours that it was now basically ice. I was forced to once again carefully make my way and pray that I wouldn't misstep - only this time I had to do all this in the presence of other students.
I'm not going to lie, I almost slipped and fell about fifteen times and at one point I may or may not have been making sure I was in tread with a sturdy-looking Frenchman just in case I happened to lose my footing so I could grab onto him and prevent myself from completely embarrasing myself.
The entire time I was doing all this a blush began to stain my cheeks. I like to think that if anyone happened to notice they would think it only a response to the cold. That blush changed from one of embarrassment to one of delight when I dared to look back and noticed several French students almost losing their footing. Suddenly all those times I had almost fallen seemed worth it just to be able to see others with the same predicament.
And then all thoughts of snow and Richmond lost my mind as I realized something: I was not alone.

FIELD NOTE 2.20 - Unexpected coffee is the best.

My daily goal, which is unashamedly uninspired by the Tal Bachman version of "Wear Sunscreen," is to do one thing every day that scares me. Since I have a penchant for isolating myself, doing something that scares me doesn't have to be some grand adventure. No, normally I just hop on a tram without a specific destination in mind.
Today I boarded the tram still talking with a girl from my French writing class who last week had invited me to join her at Marché Gloriette. We talked in broken French for the entirety of the tram ride about Skype and socially-imposed notions of masculinity and femininity. When it came time for her to get off the train I decided St. Mihiel was as good a stop as any and decided to get off with her and walk with her as far as her apartment, never expecting there to be an invitation to an impromptu coffee.
Two cups of coffee later, I made my way back outside and walked as far as Place du Cirque before boarding a tram and heading back to my dorm to get some homework done.
For three weeks the only coffee I have drank has come from vending machines in hostels and school hallways. I had almost forgotten how good it feels to drink coffee with a friend. (Note to self: Make sure this happens more often.)

FIELD NOTE 2.19 - I'm not scared, just changing.

Tomorrow there is a party scheduled for ISEP students that will unfortunately force me to miss my French writing class, the only class I actually feel like I know what I'm doing. Being me, I made sure that all the homework and classwork that I would be missing was done so that I could hand it in today after the class, a fact that seemed to genuinely surprise the professor.
One of the class exercises for tomorrow involves the concordance of time where we are given sentences with two actions and we are supposed to add in the time conjunctions that link the two together. Alors que, aussitôt longtemps que, depuis que, pendant, à, dès, avant que, après...the list goes on and on. There are so many that I cannot memorize them all in a single night and after looking at them for a while they all start to lose their edges and blur together.
I told the prof as much as soon as she started looking over the paper. She told me that she could tell I liked grammar. Curious, I asked her how she knew that.
You're always early to class. You listen attentively and always smile. You draw pretty trees when you concentrate on something you don't understand.
With just three sentences she had me pinned down completely. I do like grammar. Like math, it is a rigid code and if you know how to use the code, then you can say pretty much anything. Or at least this is how it seems in a classroom. Language in the real world is an entirely different entity.
When I said the same thing to the professor in (not-so-broken) French something happened between describing the difference between the classroom and real life.
A brief pause.
And during this pause my mind took over. Suddenly my hand was gesturing and my and my mouth was pursed and had admitted a slight puff of air, two gestures I have seen countless times over the past three weeks and never really thought twice about. Now, after they had been performed by me, they made my entire body suddenly feel like a foreign country.
The feeling passed and I began to finish my thought.
Sitting here six hours later, I can no longer feel that foreign sensation. The only thing left of it is the memory and even that doesn't scare me anymore.

FIELD NOTE 2.18 - I can't live without my pens.

The pen stopped writing in the middle of a word. I knew it was coming - I can always tell with these pens. The ink runs thickest right before the end and my words had been fluid for two days. The end was imminent.
Still even knowing this didn't stop the momentary panic of wondering whether or not I had a spare in my bag. Thankfully there were three.
The pens were actually the first thing to go in my bag as I packed for France. Fifteen in all - fifteen I prayed would be enough to make it through five months of class.
Now there are fourteen.

FIELD NOTE 2.17 – Now I become myself.

I’m beginning to love it here. I realized this as I stood shivering for the tram to come and take me from the fac to my dorm at 14h00 this afternoon. My classes are overwhelming me, I haven’t managed to make a single French friend, and I have absolutely idea no idea where my life is headed. And yet even with all of that, I still managed to feel peaceful standing there with my hands shoved as deep in my pockets as they would go.

I was told yesterday that I would never learn French in a classroom, that I would need to get out and practice. This is true. But I’m beginning to suspect the real reason that I’m here right now isn’t actually to learn French.

That’s just an added perk.

No, I’m beginning to feel that my being here is more personal than anything else. Every day is a ritual of class followed immediately by returning to my room to look up terms and verbs I didn’t know in class (and is normally quite lengthy). Living like this has meant I’ve had to spend quite some time alone, something that used to bother me a lot.

But here I’ve come to like being alone every day. It’s given me time to actually get to know myself, as silly as that sounds. Normally I hustle through each day, making lists of what needs to be done, what needs to be bought, what needs to be thought of. So many lists that my life seems to become a list in itself. Life isn’t like that here. Sure, I have my lists but they don’t seem nearly as imperative to complete as they did in Richmond.

I feel like I’m beginning to breathe again. I’m also beginning to see there are things about myself that I’ve completely overlooked and that I’m smarter, more amazing and (dare I say it?) more beautiful that I ever realized.

Knowing this, everything else seems secondary. The French, the friends will come in time. I am completely happy for the moment living completely alone, an exile in myself. Maybe this is what I need at this point in my life.

I finally understand the words of May Sarton’s “Now I Become Myself” when she wrote:

Now I become myself. It's taken
Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people's faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
"Hurry, you will be dead before--"
(What? Before you reach the morning?
Or the end of the poem is clear?
Or love safe in the walled city?)

Is this what is happening?

That sounds a lot like destiny, a term that has always worried me. I don't want to be fated to anything, I want to choose. I think that's what it is more than anything - I am choosing to finally be myself, I am becoming myself.

FIELD NOTE 2.16 - Little things.

I have two classes in la salle afrique each week and there have been three weeks of classes. That means I have sat through six classes in this room and yet only today did I realize that I had never even looked at the window. Too consumed by the pressing need to convert the words on the board to paper, I completely overlooked a single detail that made me take an appreciative pause.
Perhaps completely insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but ivy grows just outside of the classroom. On one side of the window the ivy is slowly climbing up the glass, its little roots holding fast in the upward climb against gravity, while on the other side of the window the ivy has obviously been ripped away, its absence notable only by the stains left behind on the wall.
The class discussion goes on around me - something about economy and grocery stores - and I try to figure out why that stain on the wall seems so important to me. I wonder if I've recently excised some part of myself in my transition process to life in France, but I can't feel any hollow ache.
There is a feeling, a very nameless feeling growing inside me. Impossible to put into words, but the best way I can think of to describe it is to tell you that I feel as if I've expanded past my shape and definition into...what exactly? The infinite? The unknown?
One question breeds another until my head is filled with them, each buzzing as I turn my mind back to economy. The one that lasts the longest is the hardest to dispel: Which am I, the ivy growing or the ivy cut away?

FIELD NOTE 2.15 - Words don't always mean the same thing, don't get offended.

The sentence translated to something roughly like: "Europe didn't want to form a union so shortly after WWII. Part of this stemmed from a fear of American hegemony..."
Five desks down to the right a hand immediately shot up, an American's. She told the professor that she normally doesn't support American policy but she wondered if there was any way that the teacher could speak more kindly of America because "hegemony" was just too strong a word for what the paper was really talking about. She said she would like the words to be changed.
After weeks of constantly having to shape my English sentences to fit the few French words I know, the girl's request angered me. That she felt the need to expand for five minutes in trivial pathos appeals just solidified the fact. Why should the French have to change their language when an American is in the room?
I came to France to learn the French culture and language, never expecting them to change one single nuance or sugarcoat realities for me. No, I do not have the all the words and I can speak only marginally better than a three year old, but that's all part of the experience.
So, professor keep your words as they are and I'll translate them without seeing them as an attack on either myself or my nation.

FIELD NOTE 2.14 - Rice is something that will take practice.

I've been avoiding the kitchen. Every day when I come home from school the scents from the kitchen waft down the stairwell, most of them appetizing. But the echos of voices always manage to scare me off.
Today I decided I'd had enough with my self-imposed exile. Armed with only one pot and a plate-turned-pot-lid I walked into the kitchen. After trying to cook for five minutes on a broken burner and a few awkward phrases with a girl washing dishes, I finally added water and rice and waited to see what would happen.
The result was a mass of half-overcooked, half-undercooked rice. I topped this with some sweet and sour sauce I managed to find yesterday at E. Leclerc and the rice instantly became more appealing. I'm not going to lie, it wasn't very good. But it was mine and I had made it and I enjoyed it nonetheless.

FIELD NOTE 2.13 - Six glasses is a lot. Eight is too many.

Last night marked my first house party in France.
I know this sounds horrible, but I don't really like parties all that much. I tend to isolate myself in a corner, arms crossed. I much prefer to meet people one-on-one for a cup of coffee. It probably has something to do with the crowds and the unknown.
Needless to say, I spent the last few hours before the party in my room trying to come up with a valid reason why I couldn't go with Melody to the party. Stomach bug, lost contact, venus in retrograde - all seemed like acceptable reasons. But then I remembered my little promise to myself to make a genuine effort to open myself up.
So I found myself at 21h04 wandering around Place du Cirque looking for rue Saint Laurent, which turned out to be little more than an alley. After a few minutes and buzzing two wrong apartments we were walking into a party.
Everything ended up being okay. I was introduced to about fifteen people, only a handful of which whose names I can actually remember. Thankfully the wine broke down some of my barriers so that my broken French didn't seem so bad and I just kept pushing on. I did learn a few keywords in French: le bif (slang for red wine), le tire bouchon (corkscrew), and oser (to dare to do something). I also learned that, while six glasses of wine is a lot, eight is definitely too many.
So now I've amended my promise to myself: Try to be more open and watch how many times your glass is refilled.

FIELD NOTE 2.12 - The French know bread better than anyone else.

I'll admit it: I am hooked on French bread and pastries. I can't seem to walk past a boulangerie these days without at least walking in and making some small purchase. There's an art here to baking that I think we've lost in America.
A baker at Paul, a boulangerie I sometimes go to for croissants and pains au chocolat explained to me once that it took him years to bake everything right, now it's just habit. I told him that his habit is an art to me. He smiled and gave me a wink.
At Marché Gloriette the first stand I automatically walked to was, of course, filled with breads and pastries and I couldn't resist the pull of the beignets. I ended up buying six and chatted with the woman for a few minutes (in English) about her products and train tickets. And as I walked away from her I realized it's interesting how much I just learned from opening myself up.
So why is it that I keep myself so closed off at home? (Note to self: There's another thing that needs changing.)

FIELD NOTE 2.11 - Change comes and cracks everything open.

I don't think it's a huge secret that I've been homesick the last few weeks. So homesick that I've actually learned to say it in French: Je souffre du mal du pays. The weekends are normally the hardest since for the past three weeks I've spent them mostly indoors doing homework and in constant contact with people back home. So this week I swore to myself that I would break that habit before I ended up spending all my time in my room.
Thursday a girl name Sharon invited me to tag along with her and a friend to an open-air market on Saturday morning. Seeing this as the perfect opportunity for me to get out of my room, I nearly jumped at the offer. We made plans to meet up Saturday morning at 10h00 and walk together to the market.

The first thing I noticed after making my way past la Place de Commerce was the sea of white tents and the crowds of people headed there: Marché Gloriette.
Sharon and her friend Thea walked with me through row after row of vendors selling products ranging from fresh fruits and seafood to leather purses and designer jeans. The smiling faces of the vendors, the harsh faces of the customers looking for the best deals, and the smells and sounds of it all - it was almost too much to take in...it was perfect.
The stalls were all full-to-overflowing and boasted the best looking products that I've seen since my arrival. The market itself also boasts a fair amount of competition and it's for this reason that we came so early. Customers are all on the look out for the lowest prices, but once the vendor sells out, they will be forced to move on to a higher priced vendor for the same merchandise. Our timing was perfect and Sharon was able to side-step the 2,50 euro red peppers in favor of 1,50 euro ones and I was able to find wonderfully ripe apples for 1,00 euro/kg instead of having to pay 1,80 euro or 2,30 euro. Each purchase was a joy and a triumph. Before I knew it I was asking questions I hadn't even known I knew the vocabulary for.
This is what I expected from France, this is what I was missing. And there I was in the middle of it all.
I only made three purchases: six beignets, four apples, and what was perhaps the best chicken eggroll of my entire life. I left le Marché Gloriette with plans to return next weekend, telling myself perhaps if I sample something new every week, then by the end of my stay in Nantes I will have truly tasted all that Nantes has to offer.

After returning from Gloriette I decided I wasn't ready to go back into my little dorm world so I ventured out again. This time to E. Leclerc to buy something to cover my pot so I can finally cook rice. While I was there I thought I might as well spend some time exploring the store and seeing what I could replenish for the week.
An hour and a half later I exited the store riding the euphoria from clever purchases and having found the Asian food sections - there's going to be a large bowl of drunken noodles in my future - but there was also a strange feeling in me as well.
I named the feeling on the train: I had just gone somewhere completely on my own. Normally I like going shopping or out to coffee with friends rather than alone. I tell myself that it's just easier when in fact it's probably just a comfort mechanism. But today I managed to do something all by myself without a trace of fear. So maybe I am changing a little more, expanding past my boundaries and beyond. Into a better person, perhaps?

FIELD NOTE 2.10 - Chucks are meant to be dirty.

Today on the tram on my way to my phonetics class I sat down across from a man. Soon after the tram left Rector Schmitt I caught the man looking quickly at my shoes, huff a little bit, and then look away. Confused, I looked down.

These shoes are nothing special. Chucks, three years old, purchased on a whim or out of necessity - I can't remember. Faded black canvas, dirty shoe strings, and no tread left on the soles all reveal how much I've worn them. Now thanks to the rain their was a little mud on the toes from the little path I take to leave my dorm.
And then I looked at his shoes: Chucks, the same as mine. Only his were clean, pristine.
Next to his, my shoes looked dreadful. A quick glance around revealed every other French person on that tram was wearing very clean shoes, children included. I was the only one with dirty shoes. No wonder he had scoffed. The tinny voice announced "Facultés" - my stop.
As I stood up I realized something: I like my Chucks the way they are. My Chucks have accompanied me through all three years of my college career and have made it over countless puddles, sidewalks, and metro stops. And that counts for considerably more than a fresh-from-the-box pair of Chucks ever could.

FIELD NOTE 2.9 - The daydreaming has begun.

The voice of amélie-les-crayons is filling the room as she sings about her citrus tree and I float off on a citrus-scented daydream.

J'partirai avec mon citronnier sous l'bras et j'aurai plus qu'l'amitié qui m'rest'ra c'que j'aurai l'air bête mais ce s'ra bien fait pour moi...
In my daydream I have a tiny lemon tree in my backyard and I am watering it with a blue watering pail. As I water the tree, it begins to grow. First come the new leaves followed slowly by the delicate white blossoms, most of which will never come to be fruit but will fall from the tree to perfume the ground. Slowly come the fruits, which ripen and fall into my hands.
...c'est pour ça que je suis allée c'matin planter le citronnier dans notre jardin c'est là qu'il m'a dit "Y'aura du soleil ici."

I come back to myself as the song ends and the professor begins talking about how amélie-les-crayons has dropped letters from her song in accordance with the rules of the French language and how we should attempt to imitate her. I begin to scribble notes into my notebook, missing my lemon-scented world.

FIELD NOTE 2.8 - Drawing helps me think.

The professor of my French writing class commented again that she notices me drawing all the time. I told her that it helps me think. She said she understands.
A boy beside me noticed today and asked if I wanted to be an artist after I finished school in France. Like I could ever be that talented. I didn't tell him this, of course. Not because I didn't want to, but because I didn't know the words.

FIELD NOTE 2.7 - Clarity

When it comes, it comes with a torrential ache.
Today I was told my a fellow student from VCU that the university had finally announced its plans to put an end to the French major. The fact that this was said to me while studying in France made the announcement seem even more preposterous.
I had heard the rumors soon after arriving in France as well as the efforts students and faculty alike have been going to in order to make sure that French continues to be offered at VCU. Geographically removed as I am, it all seems to me like it's happening in another world, another time. And today, the coup de grâce.
So if this is true, what does it mean for me? The idea of a French degree from a potentially non-existent department makes me feel cheated.
I don't even know why I'm a French major. If I'm being completely honest with myself, I haven't ever really known. I took FREN 101 as a spur of the moment decision and now, two years later, I'm in France.
I don't know that many words and there's a lot I can't say or understand, but a world without French doesn't seem like a world I want to live in. And I don't have to. Maybe I'm studying French because I was meant to, maybe I'm supposed to actually do something with it.
Standing there on that tram thinking this I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time: clarity.

FIELD NOTE 2.6 - Papers I've been given.

Almost every day when I walk to class or make my way through Commerce I am handed something. A pamphlet of coupons, a flyer advertising a party or a cheap cell phone plan, or a long list of reasons why capitalism needs to be absolved in favor of socialism.
I always take the papers without thought, sometimes reading them, sometimes not. But those papers are just one of the things I've come to love about Nantes.
Not for what they have written on them. No, I love them because they make me forget that I'm foreign. It almost seems to me what when those papers are pushed in my hands that I am just another person living in Nantes who deserves to know what's going on and where to find the best deals.
And that's a great feeling.

FIELD NOTE 2.5 - I'm an optimist?

It's not often I'm called an optimist. More often than not people note that I am quick to point out the drawbacks of any situation. The word they use to describe this is typically "pessimist" although I prefer to think of it not as pessimism but rather a manifestation of my being a Libra.
So it came as quite a shock to me today when someone told me they wish they could be as optimistic as I was. To be honest, I wasn't quite sure how to respond.
Maybe I am being more of an optimist these days. Maybe the daily mantra of "Today is going to be a good day" is finally working. Maybe, maybe, maybe, ad infinitum...
I'll just take the compliment and say I'm an optimist. For today, at least.

FIELD NOTE 2.4 - Fire drills are a pain in every language.

I'll be honest, I thought it was a cell phone ringing. A cell phone with a very annoying ringtone.
It turns out that the annoying sound in question was actually the French fire alarm (which I doubt would even be loud enough to wake me, a light sleeper, if it went off at night so if there's a fire in my dorm, please call to make sure I got out).
So my class filed out, a train of international students surrounded by French students. To make matters worse it began raining shortly after we all assembled outside the doors and we all had to stand there for 5 minutes shivering.
So here is the first installment of my photo-a-day project: a 5 lb. lighter me shivering in the rain during a fire drill.