At the Fountain before the Gate

It's half past five in the morning in Alsace.
Water splashes on the Mistral roof, thick droplets drum and bang on our mobile abode, waking me from sweet dreams of streets where wine and honey flow. It's raining. Again.

It’s Sunday, and the view out of the window reveals figures bundled in Goretex, dragging rolling suitcases and wheeled carts behind them, huge backpacks bent over to protect against the wetness. No, it’s not an invasion of aliens today, trying to free us from crazy despots and seize world domination.

The streets of the town are closed for the annual flea market, and no Alsatian can be deterred by a few silly drops. Even at the earliest morning hour, hordes are out and about, hoping for the big bargain or a small bit of luck.
So it’s time for us to down our coffee and join the hunters and gatherers.

But for days now, the weather frogs have been creating a gloomy atmosphere, so it’s no surprise that many of the booked stalls remain unoccupied. It seems that especially the private vendors have pulled the covers back over their heads in the face of the impending typhoon, letting the thick clouds pass them by.
We still stroll through the wet streets, admire the colorful half-timbered structures in the dreamy little villages, and discover small treasures.

During our onward journey, it becomes evident that despite the heavy rainfall, our water supplies are running low. A rest area on the highway offers a good opportunity to refill the tanks. So we stop among the thick trucks close to the source. The hero is already on his way with the containers, while I still need to get organized but soon follow him right after to fill up the cool water in the caravan.

At a round fountain, several taps are arranged, and water is already bubbling from one into one of the canisters. I take the second canister and place it under the faucet.
And I look for the button that needs to be pressed to let the spring flow.

Neither to the right nor to the left, neither underneath nor above, neither in the tap nor anywhere else around this technical marvel do I discover a mechanism that makes the water flow.
Surprised, I look at Monsieur, who is visibly amused. As he circles the fountain compellingly, raising his magical hands alternately to the sky or wondrously placing them on the construct, clear and cool water splashes from two of the four sanitary facilities. Precious liquid fills our storage containers.

I try to do as he does. To no avail. I raise my hands, I circle with my fingers, I wave with my arms, I rock with my feet, I jump up and down, I knock against the stainless steel walls, I sway my hips, I shake my head to the point of headbanging. I get caught up in a wild dance around the fountain.

Now two Polish truck drivers notice me, rummaging through their luggage for guitars and starting some lively rhythms.
From several Romanian vans, a delegation of strawberry harvesters emerges, performing a folkloric circle dance around the small water reservoir.
The Spanish truck driver fetches the castanets, and the Portuguese starts singing Fado with a ringing bass.
From the colorful hippie van, congas are unloaded, and the rhythmic beat doesn’t pass by the Latvian drivers either.

The whole rest area is celebrating a joyous festival, the trucks are unloaded, and we make the night into day until all supplies are consumed. Tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, fresh fruit, cheese, and salami, wine, and orange juice. Baguettes for baking lie next to steaks and grilling slices on hot truck engines, and a Hungarian goulash spreads irresistible aromas.
Only the water from the tap won’t flow for me, but who cares now?

Yes, it could have been like that! But of course, the only truth in the story is that I can’t coax a single drop from the spring.
The hero is amused by my desperate attempts and shamelessly fills all our canisters.
It soon becomes too silly for me and offended, I stomp through the resuming rain towards the dry car. Let him see how he manages without me!

Later, he then reveals the secret to me: on the construction outside, beneath the water basin, there is a hidden button that just needs to be pressed. But I can’t see it because I am full of admiration for the hero and his magic, marveling at how he lets the floods flow into our storage containers while secretly, with his knee, outside of my line of sight, he activates the trigger.

If you ever find yourself at a party at a French highway rest area: the water button is down there!

The weather god has truly not been favorable to us on this journey. Time and again, rain showers soak us, thunderclouds ruin walks, downpours flood hiking trails, and flash floods prevent paddling tours.

Thus, we feel even cozier in the homely caravan. But unfortunately, the vehicle crumbles after only a year of extensive use in all corners. The refrigerator cladding is dissolving into nothingness, the rail for the slatted frame of the bed breaks in the leading-middle, the power supply for the water pump has a loose contact and only works after several jumps in the caravan. Here, however, the floor is extremely soft in some places, which means that hopping must be done very carefully.

And in French municipalities, the donkey backs keep getting larger—higher—wider. Countless speed-reducing obstacles thwart speeding in the villages but increasingly assume dimensions that make careless crossings, especially with a caravan in tow, impossible. Various scratch marks in the concrete bear witness to the frequent contact of the body or tow hitch of faster vehicles with the alpine cliff.

Oh no—oh no—oh no! What will become of the cozy mobile home now? Was this really and truly the very last tour with an oven, shower, and slatted frame? Is this the definitive end for cozy and hygge on outings even in cold weather? Will we never again be able to look out of the incomparable panoramic window at uncomfortable temperatures and rain showers, waiting happily for better weather? And should we have accepted Madame Filou’s purchase offer in Gy?
Oh no—oh no—oh no!