The festival we went to in the field is apparently an annual event, and this year's theme was the sea. The town is in the middle of Provence, as landlocked as Indianapolis, but they had a stand selling souvenirs from Moirmoran-les-Bains, which is the way towns in France are labeled if they're on the beach. There were many creative and inventive pieces of art, and a huge pile of sand in which the children played. Ria ended up buried in sand with two other children.
The whole experience was very Waldorfy, with women in flowing skirts, barefoot children, recycled garbage art, live music, and picnic lunches out of baskets. In this context, it's all the more jarring to see all the parents smoke like chimneys, hovering over strollers with cigarettes dangling out of their mouths as they coo over babies, flattening fly-away hair with a cigarette in hand, a purse gaping open with a pacifier next to a pack of cigarettes inside. If I sound judgmental, it's because I am.
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