Tight shorts, sweaty armpits, stuffed deer-head and eatable panties...breaking the ice in the countryside

"It's funny how we've had a busier social life here in 3 weeks than in the last 6 months in Dulwich" Sue said as we were walking back up the hill after a jog in the forest last July.
She was right (as always-I know she will read those lines): we had been invited for cake at some friends' house, we had entertained relatives and guests, dug up and fried our potatoes, grilled sausages on the barbecue and looked at the stars many a time throughout the summer. But that was not the real deal.
The threshold in becoming part of our village was to be invited to someone's house for the first time, someone we barely knew. And that was what we'd just done, without really knowing it, as we walked back to the house in our sweaty running gear.
One hour earlier, we were still jogging when we reached the bottom of the hill and I spotted my extremely helpful neighbour Paul in his garden. He was working on his very nice looking vegetable plot  when I called his name. It was the perfect excuse to stop huffing and puffing in my bright yellow T-Shirt. (I'm convinced that when I wear that T-shirt, hunters will see me from afar and won't mistake me for a deer or else, but now that I think about it, maybe I should reconsider because they could take it as  a dare or a challenge to their marksmanship or just a provocation. And it is a provocation, at least to good taste...).
Paul came over and we talked about vegetables, and gardening and before long, he offered us a drink. It would have been rude to refuse, even if by then, sweat was gently running down my back and my ribcage and Sue's cheeks had turned bright red. He beckoned us to follow him inside. I made a few tentative jokes to excuse our appearance and entered his house, where he lead us straight into the lounge.

Paul is a hunter and therefore displays various very dead animals on the walls of his living room. He is also a husband and, as such, told his wife to get some drinks because we wanted a beer. I refrained from saying that 'we' didn't ask for anything, but that instead 'we' were invited in, but somehow I thought that tight-lycra-running-shorts and a bright yellow smelly T-shirt don't really cut it on the diplomatic battlefield of married life.
Paul is also a father and introduced us to his son and his girlfriend, both working for the Army in Paris,  who were spending a few days riding their motorbike in sunny Dordogne. They were wearing footballers shorts and flip-flops and seemed half as embarrassed as we were to be dragged into a social setting with complete strangers in beach outfits. The conversation rambled over a few casual topics, including the stuffed deer-head above the TV and the wild-board head on the wall behind us and we bid our farewell.
Through and through this was a success. It was a first invitation and those can't be refused in a small village like ours. Also,  Sue and I had learned that we could crush our fashion sense and even our egos when the occasion called upon us.

Weeks passed and we progressed beyond our expectations on our journey to social integration. The best tools, obviously, are children. Amongst the many reasons that could justify procreation, meeting people should rank pretty high.
On the first school day in September, we took the boys to their new schools. All nervous and worried they each bravely pushed the gate of their new universe when we, parents, stood there on the street, looking at them in the distance, as they tried to act cool and wondered who would be their first friend. The same went with us. We already knew the couple who runs a lovely local restaurant. They were taking their kids to their first school-day of the year too. They immediately introduced us to a bunch of parents and we started shaking hands and saying hello, while others had already moved on to the less formal 'bise', the classic kiss on both cheeks. We were invited to tag along to the local cafe and were baptized 'newbies' in less than 5 minutes. Conversation was extremely pleasant, especially as everybody admitted that they had enough of having their kids at home and couldn't wait for them to start school again. How sincere and unpretentious, what a change!
On the second morning, some of the parents went to the cafe again, we tagged along and were invited to one of the dads' birthday party the following tuesday. Good wine and excellent 'moules-frites' helped talking with 5 or 6 very nice couples and we suddenly felt part of the group. Very simple and easy.
Since then, I have volunteered with some of the dads and mums to help with the cycling and swimming classes and even find myself elected as one of the parents-rep on the school board.

Nevertheless, there are some boundaries not to cross, and in a small village, it seems you can make enemies as quickly as you can make friends.
The election as parent-rep to the school-board was a bit of a Cuban political contest. Our list finished first with 95% of the votes registered. The fact people only had one list to vote for helped a bit.
But we still had to open all the little envelopes provided by the school and count the number of votes. In the process, we were to eliminate any empty envelope and count aside any list where one name at least had been crossed out. Parents knew that crossing one name would make their whole vote void but village feuds, schoolyard fights, car park stand-offs and fence rivalry got the best of a small minority. Some of the bulletins had one name crossed out, nearly a direct threat. Others bore the signs of a quasi-global vendetta where all the name -except for the new guys-  where blackened in rage.
And then there was The One, the ballot disfigured by two lines, one on a friend's name and one on mine. Judging by the number of times her name had been crossed out, my friend seemed to have accumulated a lot of grudge throughout her 15 years tenure as parent-rep, but I, whose children just joined the school and lived in a village 4km away? I guess I'm collateral damage in a local war, hanging out with the wrong crowd, in the wrong place, at the wrong time (9 to 9.20 am at the cafe, mostly on monday and tuesday)...
So, there I have it, my first distant and secret enemy, someone I may have offended by not giving her 'la bise' one morning, or someone I forced to slow down behind me when I do my sharp left turn in the forest, who knows, so many perennial insults, innocent but deep vexations, hard to say. I take it all as a sign of further integration in rural France... I have my first enemy.

So, here we are, making our way through social codes and friendly gatherings in the Dordogne, amazed at how nice it has been to meet thess people. Yet, some lines have to be drawn, and ours, so far, is eatable panties.
One could think that the rolling hills of Perigord are just harboring conversations about wine and the many ways to cook duck. Not true, the recipes being concocted behind closed doors are a tad more spicy. One morning at the cafe I was asked what our plans where for the week-end. Feeling provocative I replied 'why do you have something in mind that involves wearing anything but masks and a number on our back? and proceeded to explain that we where actually heading to Bordeaux for my dad's birthday. The answer was a bit of a surprise :'Well you could just go on sunday, because on saturday night we're having a sex-toy party, and you could come'.
I knew immediately that the offer was a kind gesture to strengthen our burgeoning friendship (in a strange way, I agree) but couldn't help wondering how I would have felt discussing vibrator speeds with people I didn't really know. I got a quick recap of their evening afterwards and was told that the saleslady presented various articles including eatable panties, massage oils to the 20 couple invited, before displaying more straight-to-the point articles. I also incidentally learned that Bergerac has 2 swingers clubs. The idyllic French landscape has many hidden sides.
Looking back, I can't help wondering if by turning down that invitation I haven't made a social faux-pas. Maybe I even have angered someone enough so that they'd cross my name on the parent-rep list ...