EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALSeptember
3, 1999
Die, The Vercors
At the Mercy of the Sky-Roof
After the downpour, just minutes after, the little people emerge excitedly from their
aluminum and sheet metal. I say little because they seem smaller than most, perhaps
because they live in small quarters. They’re often wrinkled, but spry and handy and
conscientious, bicycling for bread, dog walking, hand washing. They step down onto the
step stool – one foot from the sopping grass, one foot from the first carpeted step
inside the door of the trailer. She re-opens the metal blinds on the back window, peering
up at her second roof, the sky. He steps out and inspects the antenna. Their little dog
sniffs at the damp ozone and decides it’s better stay indoors.
Madam peaks around the corner and sizes up our tent and fly – steaming off in the
sunlight, pooled at the centre and along the edges. "Is it wet?" she asks me.
"Just a little," I soothe. I wouldn’t want to upset her, to make a
spectacle of myself with the wet tent, the wet mats, the Thermarests, now with slow leaks,
and no chairs or table. It’s embarrassing, their embarrassment. It’s important
to remain ecstatic so they don’t worry about us. It’s already terribly odd that
we spend our evenings sitting in Alfi, long after dark, plugged in with the 25 metre
extension chord running from the window to the electricity box, headlamps illuminating our
blue screens and keyboards. When I go to brush my teeth I blind the other late-nighters
with my spelunking gear.
As fast as things got wet, things dry out, incessantly forgiving of the elements, ready
to pack up in minutes flat and pack efficiently into Alfi’s trunk. At the edge of the
campground there is the tiniest of trailers. I catch a glimpse of a housecoat and slippers
backing in precariously with large bowls and leafy vegetables. The door is for an elf
– there must be nothing else in there but a bed. She’s back and forth to the
washing station with the ingredients for Provençal stew, washing leaks and kale and
carrots and potatoes. Who is she feeding? She’s as tiny as her tiny trailer, which is
so permanent in its parking spot the clover and lupines gather around without hesitation.
The woman who collects on behalf of the municipal campground tells me that when we
return next year we can retrieve our electric fan from her. She’ll hold it for us in
her little office and make good use of it until then. I’m trying to give it to her,
trying to unload more weight and cumber now that the weather’s turned, but she takes
80 francs off the pittance camping fee anyway. When I return to Rich and Alfi, already
packed and started and ready to roll out of here, the news pleases him. "Eighty
francs! That’s more than we paid for it in Seville, after we traded in the space
heater!" Eighty francs. That’s two nights of camping, or a plat du jour,
or a load of groceries, or a call home, or an hour in Paris.
