Sunday Night 19 August

Now the air is clear and cool—not an August-nightfall-heat-relief cool, but a September-is-near-now-things-will-begin cool. My quartier is full of newly arrived people; gone is the English mother I heard through the hedge, thoughtfully lecturing her child on his comportment, pausing often to say “do you understand that?”, the child saying “yes, Mummy”. Gone are the two boisterous English families in their elaborate trailers with fold-out front porches made of plasticized fabric; Gone are the angry young men whose arguments turned into fighting late in the night.
Tonight, there are layers of happy noises suspended like sprays of stars over the camp. In the far reaches, sounds of pre-teens shouting, whooping and laughing contagiously. One girlish voice bursts out regularly in delighted high-pitched giggle that makes you smile and wonder what’s going on. A dad coaches, sounding benign and encouraging. A woman sings out “AhooooOOO!” as if to a baby bouncing in air. Sounds surround the dome of my tent, seeming close and intimate. From one direction—the melodic lilt of conversation, a cheerful roundness of the voices—they’re Irish, telling stories. Behind me, friends are playing a parlor game, singing bits of lyric, imitating percussion instruments, chuckling politely—they’re English. Across the grassy lane catty-corner to me, a group of French kids in their teens are crowded into one big tent, playing and teasing, drinking themselves sillier. Their clown cracks them up with impressions, funny accents, shocking remarks. Next to them are two young French families—the teens themselves in ten years—alternating adult conversation and toddler-talk in the enthusiastically capable style of young parents.
It’s the end of summer, the dead space between two charged seasons, and for a fleeting moment we all feel right just where we are.