Il ne fait pas beau. Il fait shier.

It [the weather] is not beautiful. It is shitty.

I sit in the Sete train station, waiting for the train, eating some strawberry yoghurt. I use a spoon stolen from the apartment; I plan on having the chance to return it. Predictably, the sun came out fifteen minutes ago, just as my time in Sete is ending. I think I'll go stand outside for a few minutes and imagine I made it to the beach.

Sete was not a complete bust, but it wasn't what I had hoped for. I do feel slightly more recharged than I did on Tuesday night, but not all the way. I can't remember who suggested that simply the constant wave of spoken French all around me might be tiring me out as I try, consciously or not, to understand. If that's the case, then Sete was no better, because, wouldn't you know it, they speak French there, too! I did have two nice conversations in French yesterday. The first was a short one while I was waiting for the bus, with an old lady who asked me something about when it would arrive. We talked a little about where I come from, Sete, the weather — the usual smalltalk. I told her in my halting French that I wished to see the Sete sun before I left on Friday, but she said it would be cloudy until Saturday. I also remarked that there were a lot of cars here, and she said that Sete, a town of 40,000 usually, doubles in size in the summer. She prefers the winter — the weather is still great, and it's a lot quieter.

My second conversation was at the boucherie, with the man who sold me two eggs. We talked for a bit longer, not about much. He said that my French was much better than most Americans he meets, including a family that was in last week. I told him that I had hoped to go to the beach under the sun while I was here, and he said that it would be cloudy until Saturday. These Setois, they're all on the same page when it comes to weather. Young man to young man, he spoke highly of the topless girls on the beach when the sun is out. He also asked me about the girls in California; I said that they were as great as people say. Not topless, though. When I ran out of things to say, I thanked him, and returned to the apartment. I boiled some pasta, and mixed it with sprinkled cheese and diced tomato. It was not very good at all, so I supplemented the meal with yoghurt, chips, and a beer, with a chocolate bar for dessert. I didn't have anything to do, so I let my post-meal fatigue put me down to bed. It was only seven o'clock. I got up a few hours later, drank some water, ate some chocolate, read a little, and went back to sleep; repeated the process sometime in the middle of the night. This morning I made a shitty omelet with the rest of the cheese and the rest of the tomato, did the dishes, put everything away, locked up the apartment, and headed for la gare, stopping to use the internet and buy a demi-baguette. At noon, the market downtown was already packing up. Similarly, yesterday the Tabac at La Corniche was closed by one. The Setois must value their afternoons.

Here now in the Montpellier Gare St. La Roche, I sit next to two new American girls, both from Buffalo, and I reconsider my regret from two days ago. We have talked for only a few minutes out of the hour layover, and there's not much else to say. They are on their way to Nice also, though on a different train, en route from Barcelona. They said Barcelona was okay, and just as rainy as Sete, so I don't regret skipping it either.

I now head overnight to Florence, via Nice and Ventimiglia. Suddenly I'll be unable to speak the language anymore, and I bet I will be thankful for my weak French when I return to Paris.