It starts to rain just as I get the bike out of the gate. I saw myself as the poor little cartoon man with a raincloud always above his head. The umbrella is waffling inwards and outwards and I notice I've been following behind a man on a (stolen?) pink children's bike.
This morning there was one American nickel in my bag of centimes. I flipped, and I caught it---that never happens---it was a heads. Heads Chamonix.
As I was leaving there was a man ringing at the porte. I thought I ought not wake anybody up, but I didn't know how to answer it. I waited. My host dad came downstairs but the man had already gone.
The second I opened my mouth my face screwed up and I started to cry.
I decided on fig yogurt from the Monoprix. It was raining harder so I continued on foot. An older man looked me straight in the eyes and gave me a crooked grin as I walked up to the Café Buvette. I sat with my back turned and hugged the wall. In a split second I took a café instead of the vin chaud I'd come there for. It rains harder. Il est quelle heure? Une heure moins cinq. On y va? On va où?
Après ma classe, je'ai cru faire la natation tout le long du chemin à la maison. "Tu as de la poésie." That's just another way to say I'm not practical.
