Despite this familiarity with the terroir, or land, many hesitated to sign up for the stilt race, repeating phrases like “look ridiculous” and “fall flat on my face” so frequently that I started to think maybe I should have given both some consideration myself. This cowardly spirit forced Titi and Bruno to take matters into their own hands. When the portly gentleman came around to drum up the competitive stilt-walking spirit, they blocked frantic grabs for the pen with their bodies and signed up every single person at the table.

Passions ran high, or maybe it was alcohol, as Justine established a clear lead, someone else’s child cheated, I trod diligently but woefully behind, and Bruno proved himself competitive to the point of self-extinction. He was so determined not to fall off his stilts that he would keep clutching them as he fell, rigid as a board, until his face slammed into the ground and broke the fall for the rest of his body. By the time the adult stilt race ended, he had so many bruises on his face it looked as if he had entered a boxing contest; and he was complaining heatedly to the organizers about having left such hazards as bits of gravel and race course markers lying around, since anyone could see these could take out an eye.

I, of course, got eliminated in the first round. That brat, Justine. “Can we have a stilt race at our wedding if we have it in France?” I asked Jean-Charles when I sat down on the edge of the dance floor with him. “That would be cool!”

“Hmm.” He obviously didn’t want to say no and discourage me but had to admit: “We’d have to make a lot of stilts.”

Justine won, of course, and the embarrassed organizers handed her the adult prize—a bottle of fine champagne. She accepted the bottle with good grace and regifted it to Bruno, who needed it. Then everyone went back to dancing.