Category: Daily Life

Day in the Life: Nantes, France

A post written on and about March 12, 2022. Posted today, March 13, because I’m always late.

The Nantes winter is far from the worst I’ve ever experienced in my life, but it can be dreary. Days on end of clouds, rain, and wind have even my friend from Portland longing for the sun.

Today, however, I think we finally crossed that invisible line between winter and spring. There have been signs, like the flowers sprouting or the numerous slugs sliding up the walls of our garden, but today stepping outside was like entering a different world.

Sun shone, birds sang, people ran on the walking path, and the water glittered. It was a beautiful day and I was ready to make the most of it.

In the morning, I woke up to a text from my friends that reminded me about our plans to make the pancakes we were craving last night. We were to meet at the IES center and find a way to pick the lock of the stovetop or bust.

After a long struggle with consciousness, I finally made it up and out of bed, got ready, and left my house (Sleep: 1, Bella: 0). Even in my lateness I slowed my steps a little walking past the river, taking in the way it glowed blue in the bright sun. I waited for the tram then headed downtown.

Kebab: A delicacy

At a whim, I stopped at a kabab place to pick up something more to go with my pancakes. Never before have I seen the restaurant so busy, nor have I had such admiration for that kabab chef. He twirled around with spitting fries and meats, holding bottles of sauces like guns ready to duel. Fast, precise, and graceful. In that moment I wanted to write a poem about my appreciation for the kabab man and his creations, but instead I paid for my lunch and went on my way.

Flowers blooming in the Jardin de Plants

When I arrived at IES, I was met with sunny music, the smell of butter, and a smoky haze hanging in the kitchen. A cookie sheet on the stovetop serving as the makeshift pan for our pancakes explained the haze. I offered my help in wafting the smoke out of the kitchen so that we wouldn’t set off the building’s alarms, but in truth my friends were the real pancake chefs. The alarms never did go off though, so I’d say I did my job well enough (Smoke: 0, Bella: 1).

Once our food was eaten, we met with another friend and stopped by a vintage market that we anticipated would be a lot bigger and less expensive than in reality. Even if it wasn’t what we expected, it was nice to see a new part of the city and grab coffee from the truck parked outside the store.

Next we made our way to a park. The sun was still high when we entered the Jardin de Plants, one of the prettiest places in the city. It still amazes me sometimes to see the amount of wildlife there, intermingling with anyone out to enjoy the day. To our right, as we walked along a path, stood a blue heron in the middle of a duck pond, surrounded by plenty more strange and average looking birds alike. A birdwatcher’s paradise.

The cool kids

The rest of our afternoon was made up of inventing any game that can be played with a ball and a skateboard. At a point, some kids saw us playing one of our creations and asked to join. We threw the ball around our circle and held poses, getting looks of confusion that melted to understanding and amusement, until the ball was brown with dirt.

Now I sit typing in my kitchen. Our cat, Reeses, wheezes in his sleep across from me on his tree and the water fountain trickles its little song. My family members are going out for various dinner and birthday parties tonight, and my mind is running through the few things I know how to make for dinner. Later, I’ll meet my friend and her friend who came to visit at a bar a few minutes away, where we’ll have some more conversation and drinks. I feel pleasantly tired and a little hungry, but fully content.

Today, I am grateful for blueberries, sunshine, dirt, baseball hats, and simple pleasures.

On Wednesdays, We Go to the Market

Another early release of a post that will soon be up on Hope’s Off-Campus Study Blog!

This week: My first French farmers market

This month my friend and I made a pact: each day we would visit a new place in Nantes. Whether that be a store or café, a study spot or garden, we wanted to push ourselves to keep exploring our city during the second half of our time here.

On Wednesday, the new place we visited was a farmers market. The market is held every weekday morning in an indoor/outdoor vending area near Viarme (for those familiar with Nantes). It is larger on weekends and certain weekdays, when there are more vendors who come to sell their goods. 

A spread of spreads
Fresh Ravioli
Sea urchin

Personally, I’ve never been a farmers market fanatic. Though I always love the concept of them, and enjoy them once I’m there, something about going still feels as mundane to me as grocery shopping. However, the small group of friends I planned on meeting there gave me all the motivation I needed to put aside my preconceptions. 

Upon stepping through the doors into the cool, airy interior of the building, I was immediately greeted with the highest tower of sea urchin and crab I have ever seen. I quickly took a picture to send to my mom, who always asks for uni when we go out to Mizu in Holland. This was just the start of the numerous treasures to be found in the market. Tables were piled high with bright fruits, vegetables, seafood, cheeses, and meats, all waiting for my attention.

Candied fruits, including clementines which I bought

As we continued walking, I began to embrace my curiosity for the gems we would find in each new stall. To our left a stack of slick anchovies. To our right freshly cut ravioli, small and pink as flower petals. Just ahead dried fruits, sugared to their core. These things weren’t complex culinary masterpieces, but they were the pure, simple details, and I wanted to taste them all. 

Finishing off our excursion on the banks of the Erdre

What I did end up tasting first were the fruits. A stall we found in the middle of the market had dried mangoes, prunes, dates, sugared pineapples and ginger, even candied clementines, kumquats and flower blossoms. I picked out two clementines to try. To my surprise, the first bite was all skin! The clementines had been sugared whole, so instead of bitter and tough, the skin was sweet and slightly chewy. The inside was completely soft, and even more sweet than the outside. Though they were tasty, I definitely could not handle more than a few bites at a time due to all the sugar.

My friends and I ended up buying a variety of nordic tartine, artichoke dip, goat cheeses, garlic shrimp, sweet dates, cinnamon apples, and, of course, a baguette to share for lunch. We lounged in the sun on the banks of the river, tearing bits of bread off with our hands and savoring our discoveries. I don’t know who was more grateful that I decided to step out of my habits that day, my mind or my stomach.

Draw, Like One Of Your French Girls

An early release of an article to be posted on the blog I write for Hope’s Off Campus Study website! Link to the site and other articles here

My first day at l’Ecole de Beaux-Arts de Nantes, I got lost. After three levels of gray cement floors, catwalks, and metal railings, the only things that reassured me I was still in the right place were the eccentrically-dressed students and a mass at the entrance that slightly resembled a globe made out of tissue paper and a yoga ball. I was definitely in a Fine Arts building.

Unfinished projects in the hallways of the Beaux-Arts school

Finally, I pushed through a heavy white door into a gray room as balmy as a summer day. At the center sat an elderly man in nothing but a robe. Around him roughly ten men and women, the youngest at least 40 years my senior, unfolded easels and wagged around sheets of paper the size of cookie sheets. 

As the student next to me began arranging his sticks of chalk onto a tray beside us, meticulous as a surgeon preparing for operation, I suddenly felt as naked as the man in the robe. My humble sketchbook and mechanical pencil, the only tools that I had thought to bring, sat meekly before me. I was entirely unprepared. In a stroke of inspiration (desperation) I snatched a discarded scrap of charcoal off the coal-powdered floor. Thankfully the professor took notice of my lack of preparation and out of kindness (pity) donated a few sheets of paper to my easel. Thus began my first live-model sketching class at the Beaux-Arts school of Nantes.

Finally getting the hang of drawing legs!
…feet still pose a challenge

When I tell people about my drawing class, one of the first questions they ask is, “Is it awkward?” The answer? At first. After all, it’s not everyday that I spend 30 minutes painstakingly analyzing a naked stranger. Only Tuesdays. 

That first day, I saw a human. I saw wrinkles and lumps and caves. Most of my worry the first day didn’t even concern my sketching abilities, but rather if I would offend him by drawing an insecurity. Would I expose a wrinkle? Bring attention to his nose, his stomach? Soon, however, the person faded. What started as a human body, something judged and critiqued and compared, became shapes and light. A line, curved at the start. A square. An edge. A half moon. His body was the art, and became neutral and abstract as such. There was no good or bad, too big or too small. Just shapes and light.

By the time the professor stopped us all to turn our easels and view the works of our classmates, I felt calm. I did what I could with what I had. There is no right or wrong in art, I assured myself. And it was true. Walking among the other students, I was in awe. Each board presented the softness of a gray arm, streaks of muscle through leg, shadows cut into a stomach. I felt like yelling. Why aren’t these in a museum! But I don’t think they would have understood me.

Backs are the most interesting to shade, many muscles create lots of shadowing and lines

I ended that first day exhausted. I trudged out of the studio into the night, fingertips dusted black with charcoal. But this exhaustion wasn’t the ‘go cry in the nearest bathroom’ type. I searched myself. My shoulders ached as I tramped across the bridge. My stomach was empty with reverence and hunger. It wasn’t until I took note of the strain in my eyes, still searching for residual shapes and shadows to scratch on a page, that I identified it. I felt eager. I felt enthusiastic. I felt proud. 

Mostly, though, I noticed what I did not feel. Not once throughout the entire night did I feel self-consciousness. Maybe the time limits kept me present, or maybe there was just no room for such judgements in a space of creativity. Only shapes and lines, shadows and art. I couldn’t wait to go back again.

Food: An appreciation post

Almost every night since my arrival, I’ve had family dinner. This has been quite the change from Phelps dining or a meal hurriedly whipped-up around 5:30 pm before rushing out for my evening activities, as is normal for me at Hope. 

The kitchen table, set up for my host sister’s birthday lunch of bread, cheese, meats, pickled vegetables, and spreads

Family dinner typically consists of lots of delicious smells hanging around the kitchen, sitting down around 7:30 to 8:00 pm, eating and debriefing our days until about 9 or 9:30, when we end with a dessert of fruit, cheese, or sometimes some chocolate. Each home cooked meal has been different since I’ve arrived. One night beef bourguignon, the next teriyaki beef, rice and vegetables, and the next salmon with bread and cheese. But one thing does remain consistent: Every plate is clean by the end of the meal. Not only because the food is delicious, but because of the culture of eating in France. The French tend to be very cognizant of food waste. There is a saying we were taught at the start of our stay here, that after a meal the plate should be clean enough to put immediately back in the cabinets. Of course this is not literal, but it is something I’ve noticed among my host family and others I’ve dined with. 

Asian beef, vegetables, and rice with a sweet teriyaki sauce

This has been one of the mealtime changes I’ve had to adjust to the most. In the States, I’m used to taking a large helping of a meal, eating until I am full, and ending with some food still left on my plate. At first here, I felt pressured to eat almost excessively, but I soon learned that the key is to listen to your body and take only what you’re hungry for. If there is a new dish, where I am unsure of the flavor, I’ll take a small taste before serving myself more to be sure I like it. By cutting down my portion sizes to only what I’ll actually eat, I’ve been able to keep up with the culture, and can proudly say my plates have been as clean as the rest.

Dessert has been another adjustment. At home, it is well known that I have an affinity for sweets. I would typically think of fruit as more of a breakfast food, a snack, or a supplementary part of a meal. Though I’ve missed indulging in some of my usual post-meal desserts, I’ve also realized how much of my appetite they did take up. Here I typically fill up on the main course (hello clean plate club), and then end with the milder and lighter taste of fruit, though I do keep a small stash of cookies in my room for when I’ve craving chocolate.

Couscous and chicken in a vegetable sauce

Many of the other IES students have told me about their similar experiences. Dinner in France does typically tend to be eaten later, and usually is a family event. It’s a time for everyone to be social, relax, and talk about the day. This approach to meals extends to lunch too. Though I frequently buy a sandwich from a ‘sandwicherie’ or eat a panini at the University cafeteria, my host sister leaves school for daily lunch at home. Over the weekends, even lunch is a sit down event, again consisting of a main meal and small dessert. Even when I do eat with friends, there is typically ample time to dine and a general focus on the social aspect of the meal. 

Personally, meal times have become a great way for me to exercise my French through speaking and listening. Hearing my younger host sister fire off stories about her school day, my host father making jokes at the expense of my sister, or my host mom asking me about my day in colloquial French is the best kind of language lesson.