I am witnessing the good nature with which the French—and the English, Irish, Italians, Germans and Africans—are coping with a relentlessly cold and wet camping vacation.
“We come here every year and it’s never been like this” a French lady assured me in the laundry room (where at last we were warm and dry). Her husband was there, apparently just for moral support (or for the warm and dry) as his wife unloaded the dryer and folded every item perfectly. He agreed. They are staying in a mobile home. I said I was in a tent, and I came here from Provence, where the sun is shining.
“In a tent? With that big dog?” Madame shook her head. “You are courageous”. But her look said, “or nuts”.
“At least you get to go back to Provence and the sun”, said the husband. “We have to go back to Paris.”
“We had sun in Paris—for a few minutes in April” said Madame.

My French and English and Irish neighbors play cards and board games inside their trailers through the afternoon hours. The group of young French guys who kept us all awake last night, slept in today, their individual dome tents huddled together under a general tarpaulin, like turtles under a blanket. The surrounding turf is muddy and strewn with bottles, cans, shoes, and various items of clothing. At 1:30, when everyone else was finishing lunch, they sent their cleanest and most polite guy out to borrow something to cook on. I contributed my 2-burner butane stove. When they realized they also needed something to cook in, they sent the clean guy out again. My pan wasn’t big enough for them; sausages were on their menu. They ended up with a big frying pan courtesy of the Irish family, who’d cooked a lot and already washed everything.

The saddest display is probably the campsite several rows down the gravel drive from me. The tent is huge, so it must be a big family. They’ve created a private “yard” with a temporary fence of colored plastic sheets. Across this yard is a clothesline hung with underwear in various sizes, and socks and towels—all the same blue-gray, all dripping wet, wetter than when they were hung up to dry. At the corner of the fence, a pair of muddy work gloves are stuck on the tops of two poles, fingers spread and palms forward as if to say “Stop! Enough! We surrender!”

I am shamed. I’ve been whining about being wet and miserable—but I’m here for work, not vacation. These other people only have so much vacation time (well, for the French it’s 4 weeks but nevertheless…) Every day deals them more wind and rain and mud, and every day they go out and find something fun to do anyway.

Sticking it out has its rewards. I can now get enough muscles to cooperate so that I can rise from the air mattress to a standing position and walk out of the tent in dignity. This—instead of stumbling forward in a bent-over position, catching the toe of my Croc and grabbing wildly at the aluminum folding table which then tips over—is progress, mes amis.