Coffee Machine = Veggie Soup

7-8
I probably shouldn't be surprised that the coffee vending machine at school also dispenses tomato soup.
      It is one of the most convenient contraptions: for 50 cents you are given an array of coffee-esque options to choose from, all variations of "cafe instant" and milk, cocoa, machiato, cappucino, capamochacococoffiato... a small plastic cup drops down (it's smaller than the one you're thinking of), you hear a sprinkle of sugar drop down, and then a strained noise is made as it produces your selected beverage, stirrer included.  The sugar level is adjustable, though I have forgotten this feature every time so far.  Like most mini-espressos here, this little shot of caffeine is just enough to render you slightly more alert as you head to class or the practice room.
    I had noticed the button "potage legumes" in the past, and assumed it was some natural herb drink, tea perhaps.  I was proved wrong as my friend appeased his curiosity and watched a little purple cup be filled with steaming-hot tomato soup and a sprinkle of basil; though it is a little salty, it gives Cambells a run for its money.  Vive la France.
        I've discovered, a bit late in relation to my peers, the magical French baguette.  Gluten-free friends, I apologize.
      The bread makes the sandwich.  The exterior has a crispness of many miniscule layers that makes each bite a divine encounter, and the inside is more plush than a tempurpedic pillow.  Add some quality meats and cheeses, and lunch just became the highlight of your day.  I would typically complain at the skimpy ration of filling given, but the bread is so good you quickly forget this minor detail.  By the time you've finished the baguette your jaw has endured a strenuous workout; we decided tight jaw muscles explain why some French are less vocally expressive.

7-14
In one sense I regret having learned French, or rather, 5% French as I estimate it.  Sure, there are many more signs I can understand than if I had no exposure to the language, and with my translator I can recognize good phrases when it produces them and seek alternatives when it provides an awkward literal translation.  This has helped me immensely when buying things at stores or asking for things at the front desk of the dorm.  But with a small solution comes a greater problem.  I am often able to pose a question, but seldom can I understand the response.  I am in a stage where I can confidently, politely, express a need (Survival French) but am struck dumbfounded if the answer to my question goes beyond "oui" or "non" or "voila."  It must be amusing to watch my confident, task-oriented politeness slump into an expression of confusion' to watch my world-conquering assurance dissolve as I break eye contact and search for an inward happy place where what remains of my dignity can reside.  But my assailant never looks amused, nor does he or she simplify their answer or convert to English as I hope they will have the compassion to do after I've waived the white flag.  This at least applies to the middle-aged and older generations.  Younger server at restaurants often immediately respond in English once they have patiently watched me struggle to communicate, but this is almost equally humiliating, because I would almost prefer the small victory of fooling the person into thinking I speak the language, provided the response is one of the select few I can comprehend. But I am not fooling anyone.  I think of Napoleon retreating from the barren stretches of Russia as his Grand Armee dwindles with each passing moment. A prime time to escape to Corsica.
     The program has been busy but not overwhelming; the faculty are wonderful people, accomplished but humane.  Still, I have had little creative energy to put into this journal, and since I have been reading less it is harder to describe things in detail or put words together at all.  But yesterday was Saturday, and after handing in a song and practicing  I went for a long walk, to see the city as a temporary resident instead of as a tourist.  This led me to the Church of St. Germaine, as well as the Seine river where people hang their people off the path over the water and hang out for the evening.