The village repas yesterday turned into two full-blown meals, one at lunchtime and a repeat in the evening with very much the same food and a small proportion of elderly drunken farmers. Both were virtually expat-free and both included a sprinkling of children. The one in the evening was better patronised and had a dozen or more visiting dignitaries from other communes. I found myself sitting alongside a 92 year-old, the widow of a maire from many decades ago. A disco had been set up and a neurotic laser spotlight system crawled over the room and those in it, winning against the fluorescent lighting. All seemed perfectly normal, even when the music started up but then one of the visitors picked up his yellow paper napkin and began waving it above his head in time to the music. Within a minute, they were all at it, po-faced. I felt very foreign.