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.