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?