Nemo saltat sobrius
Trip Start Jul 19, 2009
147Trip End Oct 25, 2010
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How do these things happen, get so out of hand? It was definitely not planned.
It was a perfect day, sunny, not too hot. I was wondering what to do for lunch. Not much in the fridge, and a piece of stale french bread. I supposed I could run down to the supermarket, but just a bit further on was a little restaurant I'd been wanting to check out, so why not?
'What about the paella tonight,' Peter said doubtfully. No wonder he stays so slim.
A spot of lunch wouldn't spoil the Spanish feast, surely?
The spot turned out to be a mountain. Enormous platters of food were brought on, like a medieval banquet. And it was good.
Too good not to tuck in and still have a very happy dog, enjoying his duck and whatever else fell his way.
Pitchers of fruity red wine, costing next to nothing - life was good.
We staggered from the table, intending to walk round the pretty village of Anlhiac, but considered ourselves lucky we made it to the car.
Still, six hours to digest and work up an appetite for the next meal.
But we were really full, and stayed full. At regular intervals we would check: 'How are you doing?' 'What time is it now?' 'How long to go?'
We didn't want to disappoint Bernadette and Jacques, who'd bought the tickets in advance, but the thought of food made me wince.
Nevertheless, 20.30 hrs, we made our way to the event. After a few drinks outside the salle de fetes, pastis for me - not for the faint hearted (51%), we found our seats at the long tables inside. Paper tablecloths, bright green plastic plates.
We were sat right up against the stage, I had Jacques on my left, a gentleman from Larche on my right. Sangria and crisps lined up every couple of feet or so, small sprigs of flowers to perfect the table setting. The TL-lights made everyone look terrible, so that was fair, I suppose.
Politely introducing myself was apparently enough to keep my glass full for the rest of the evening. The gentleman, I forget his name but I'm welcome to visit anytime, must have been watching it like a hawk. Red, rosť, sangria, god knows what else, found it's way to my glass, like the biblical miracle of the never finishing wine.
'He's trying to get you drunk,' observed Peter dryly.
He was succeeding remarkably well.
The paella was dished out, quite passable if I recall correctly, but I was past caring. Anyhow, just about then, the entertainment began. Clever timing, if to distract the ones who were still concerned about what they were putting into their mouths.
After an enthusiastic but incomprehensible introduction eight lovely young girls, nervously giggling pushed each other onto the stage and danced their hearts out.
The Bachellerie/St. Rabier school of dance. Teenagers. Twelve to seventeen, I'd think.
They were moving to some very sexy and suggestive music, in various costumes, and the difference in ages is then very noticeable. Those that get it, those that still want to wave at their mums, those that can pull it off, and those that just make you smile.
After the girls came the serious stuff. A real singer, supported by four dancers.
He reminded me of Adamo (anyone?) in his crisp white suit, drenched in sweat two minutes after he started.
Rolling his eyes, moaning, he was taking this very serious.
The dancers were wearing bikini-like costumes with golden veils attached to their bums. Panties of a garish pink material with sequins sewn on. Covering all from navel down for the skinny one, the fat one's stretched so far over the plump mound, not enough cloth to go round - shaving was not optional for her.
The singer sang French songs I'd never heard before, and don't want to hear again, but the crowd was lapping it up.
Most of them drunk and silly by now.
Tables and chairs were set aside so the dancing could begin.
I was so fascinated by the whole thing I hadn't realized I needed to go. Desperately, actually. Couldn't wait a second longer.
Bernadette and Jacques were dancing, suddenly Peter wanted to as well.
Because of the loud music I needed sign language to explain I was bursting. He didn't get it and looked offended so I thought I might as well dance my way towards the toilet across the room.
Peter, however, had other plans. He wanted to make an impression on the wine-pouring man and enfolded me in his arms. I jerked away, feeling my bladder protest at the pressure, causing Peter, who didn't want to look a fool, to grab me and press me real tight against him. To my utter embarrassment I felt a warm stream trickle down my legs - I was peeing on the dance floor!
So where's the American groupie when you need him?