Sol Entry 6

An Excess of Dinant. 08/20-21/2021

Leaving Dinant was difficult, not because I had grown attached to the town, but because of the usual–we had way too much stuff, and it was awful having to wheel it through the tight turns and uphills of narrow Dinant. After the usual morning downpour, we stopped at the train station to see if we could find a train, any train really, to catch. Our plan was to ask, “where is the train that goes the farthest from here?” and board that one without a moment’s hesitation.
Unfortunately we found no personnel at the station, and after getting help from the tourist office, we decided that taking a train wasn’t a possibility that day, leaving us with two choices–stay in Dinant one more night to try and take a train tomorrow, or keep riding. Famished, we sat down on a dock to debate our options over a feast of mushy fruit, Nutella, and crackers spread with brie and jelly. As we munched, we realized that we were only 25 kms from the border with France. We immediately decided to bolt. 
Half an hour later, we were making our way down the loopy riverside of the Meux, making a dash for the French village of Givet. 

We didn't know we'd crossed the border until we saw the sign. Not a single policeman, guard, soldier, nothing. Incredible. I'd never crossed a border that way before, and it was thrilling. We'd made it to France!

We arrived late to the camping, so there was no one to check in with. We decided it was probably ok to set up camp anyway, and pay the next morning. The camp felt less like a campsite and more like a neighborhood of RVs. There were trailers that had obviously been parked there for months, if not permanently, with overgrown grass poking out from beneath, and garden decorations placed (or scattered) across the lawn or hung upon wooden fences. Many of the residents seemed to know each other like neighbors, and there were even a few barbeques. There wasn’t much space for tents, apart from one shared with a camper in a speedo who had his stereo playing at full volume, so we instead chose to camp on a gravel rectangle for RVs. We assembled our tents, all the while closely eyed by one of the residents from across the street, who came out from his camper and just stood there, watching us. When he didn’t return our greetings, we wondered if perhaps it was defensiveness, perhaps because it seemed like we’d made ourselves at home in the neighborhood without checking in, which was somehow taken as lacking respect. And it seemed we had guessed right, for when we explained our situation to another resident, went out to hunt our dinner, and returned with the catch of the evening (delicious chicken burgers, salad, and fries from a fast-food place), I think the friendlier resident told the skeptical one, and this time he shouted greeting from his camper, as if telling us, “no hard feelings.” Regardless, I didn’t like it. We don’t need anyone's permission to stay at a campsite. Whether they like it or not, we have every right, and we don’t need anyone’s stamp of approval.
But the chicken burgers were good. And we were finally in France!