Taking it in, Writing it down

I wake in the early morning—no need for an alarm because the slats of sunlight lining my face bring that ineffable call to life unique to the first light of day. I plant my bare feet on the rough wooden floor, slip out of my white linen nest, and throw on a dress, cardigan, and wellies. I pile my long hair under a messenger cap and tip it in salute to the painted naked woman framed above my bed.
I push open my window and breathe in fresh countryside air; today it smells like lavender and rain. I try to avoid the squeaky floorboards so as not to wake my sleeping exchange family across the hall. I swing my legs over the windowsill, jump, and land with a squishy thud in the flowerbed next to the front door of my exchange family’s quaint mill-turned-cottage, situated in an especially obscure corner of the Loire valley.
Poor Perle, the family’s beloved three-legged cat, receives a fright every morning when I make my daring one-story leap but she always forgives me after her daily tummy rub. I leave Perle to bask in the post-storm sunlight and grab my water bottle and a couple of raspberries from the bush before setting out on my morning walk.
I try not to take the same route twice; today I make a left at the gate and follow the usual cobblestone path until I find a road that seems unfamiliar. I choose a shadowy gravel trail lined with trees and wander along until I lose track of time. It is so nice to have nothing to do; the family won’t be up for a few hours yet because it’s Saturday so no one will even notice my absence, except Perle.
I start to feel a bit chilly in the shade so I zigzag along hills and pastures until I find myself at the edge of an enormous sunflower field. France’s sunflower fields are striking in their vastness, beauty, and most plainly, in their yellowness. Yellow is my favourite colour so I decide to explore the sunflower field.
Several minutes and a few cuts and scrapes later, I am utterly lost. Never mind, I have all day to find my way back to the cottage. I wipe my brow, swat at the flies, and trudge onwards, all the while humming “La Vie en Rose” and feeling as free and joyous as I am ever likely to feel.
The last few notes of “La Vie en Rose” waft through my Toronto apartment and I am jogged back to reality by the click of the needle as it reverts to its original position and the record stops spinning. I am dizzy and disoriented; how did I end up here? How is it that I feel more lost here than I did in that sunflower field?