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Holiday memories: The Limousin

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Dumbbil cows come from

For the rest there is forest and desolation. The asphalt is well maintained and the curves are perverse. Around four o'clock we found a heavily subsidized, brand new Camping Municipale. It was built to promote tourism and employment. The camping boss did her job while retaining benefits. And we were the first tourists on vacation that she saw. She was genuinely happy.


After the tents set up we took a shower

We took a nap and went into the village. There was a kind of cafe restaurant there. The manageress must have been beautiful at the end of 1945. Now her floral frock was spiked, her hairstyle bleached to death, and she had a stub that seemed to have grown to her lower lip. She seemed made up with a paint roller and felt-tip pen. Natives arrived. Older men. They sat down at the bar and ordered with a brave regularity.

With another fresh butt on the lower lip, Blondie came to ask if we wanted to eat. She disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. The tigers at the bar now served themselves at a surprisingly fast pace. After a while the hostess came to serve the food with a new cigarette in her mouth.

She proved that not every Frenchwoman is a born cook.

But perhaps the local beef should have been a bit scorched and the inhabitants of the Limousin just like unclean fries. The house wine was fine. We were already in the second bottle. An argument arose at the bar. The drinkers forgot to keep track of the drink score. The restaurant keepers called her customers 'guys for nothing' and thieves. The partly toothless guys from nothing called their hostess 'lazy old cow'. The tone in the conversation suggested that it was a repeat of previous discussions. Our new-baked Catering Battleship anchored in front of the door and did not let its customers free that they had paid what they thought should be paid. She then took a two cigarette break and approached our table afterwards.

'Ça sont tous des cons. J'en ai marre! Et je vous prie de partir aussi! '

In other words: all men are assholes and I will kick you out too. Well, after such a day of sending, we didn't want to make it too late anyway. And apparently expelled customers did not have to pay. Late in the evening our hostess came to apologize. She talked about the men in her life. There had been quite a few. "Tous des cons!" All bastards.

She had been a movie star

"Une vraie moviestar!" A real movie star. We shared her memories and our whiskey and dry sausage. A disconsolately trudging column of wrong men passed. And moments of success and happiness. But the number of wrong men was higher. Her last ex had started walking with a XNUMX-year-old. And she was now imprisoned in this village. With those bastards of an old man.

We said goodbye as friends for life.

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