It’s Elvis night at the pub in Eymet. The whole resident English community is there. The occasional Dutch, French or tourist also. We are sitting on our plastic chairs as night is falling on this medieval little town in the South-West of France. People know each other. A transvestite friend also got dressed up for this occasion, arriving with her followers. A Buddhist monk casually passes by wishing us a joyful night.
When the lead singer changes into a golden glitter jacket the atmosphere is at its high. Glasses break and a bottle of wine spills over the completely white dress of a very tall lady (or is she a man, I can’t figure it out). My English conversation partner advises her to just dip her whole white dress in wine and change its color to purple.
I’m by far the youngest on the terrace if you don’t count the children running by. They must be from families staying at the municipal camping site nearby.
My dad is faking to play the guitar. Everybody is happy. “Best song ever!” someone says. “When I was young, I thought Elvis was incredibly hot” I get told. Now my dad is playing the drums. Meanwhile our transvestite friend fans me with her spanish fan. It’s dark but the old stones of the pitoresque center of town keep the heat for the night. Three ladies are dancing in the street and a man with long hair and pink pants drinks a beer while leaning against a van on the square. Nostalgia is in the air but can’t bring down the excitement of a hot summer night’s party.
It’s just another summer night in Eymet.
Mier 