Travel Writing

We pull up at the campsite in Narbonne with three suitcases, one tent, a myriad of camping equipment and four exhausted people. I remember feeling every bone in my body click as I stepped from the heavily loaded in car into the even heavier air. The het was almost intolerable but we were here now, determined to act like Southern Europeans for ten days before we got back home to tea, rain and proper toilets.
We all stumble into the accueil where my parents stare at me expectantly until I squeeze out some nearly incomprehensible French. A smell of disinfectant and air-conditioning fills the air, clean yet musty.
"Mais oui monsieur, suivez moi!"
The Asian receptionist, who, I later learnt, speaks six languages, guides us to our pitch. Then comes the bit everyone dreads. Putting up the tent, constructing our holiday home, building the shelter. However it's said, after a sixteen hour slog in the car, it's no more inviting. I help unload the car and get scolded by my parents for bringing more books than clothes and then inconspicuously slip off to look for a shop. I do this under the guise of "scouting out the local area". A reconnaissance".

I've come here to practise my French and learn more about local customs. After the thé au lait incident (a story for another time) I am nervous but I can do anything, I survived the péages! The campsite is a veritable soundtrack of Europe, French over here, German there, Dutch down there, English under here. My eyes skip over the tents and caravans, size envy soon setting in as I spy things to add to my Dad's 'Things To Buy For Camping' list. Chlorine fills the air as I wander past the large swimming pool. This is soon replaced by the inviting smells of the boulangerie. I follow my nose to a small building practically oozing French cuisine. Breads, cakes, rolls, baguettes, pastries and so much more line the shelves. I make a mental note to return later with more money and many bags. A small radio sits on the counter, under which is a fridge bursting with drinks. The radio vomits French into the air, fighting with the shouts from the kitchen out back.
A small woman walks into the shop from the kitchen, her size and stature inversely proportional to the power of her lungs. "NON, NON, NON, NON , NON...ÊTES VOUS BÊTES?" As she sees me she smiles and mutters to herself in French that I don't understand. I quickly buy my lemonades and leave. The tent was nearly habitable by the time I returned.