On the bridge of Avignon

I know that you have been eagerly waiting for exciting anecdotes about the French flea markets.
Therefore, after a sunny and Mistral-blown day by the Rhône, we head to Villeneuve-lès-Avignon.

The pretty town on the right bank of the Rhône lies in the catchment area and direct neighborhood of Avignon. It has no papal palace and no broken bridge, but it does have a medieval fortress, a monastery, and a weekly brocante.
We have chosen the vide-grenier, which only takes place once a year in the pedestrian zone and is animated by countless, mainly private stalls.

You know our problem: we have to find a parking spot with the caravan. This is not always easy even without market day, but when events like these occur, it becomes nearly impossible.
Therefore, we drive into the city late Saturday evening; the large parking lot in the center is quickly found via GPS, but it is still quite occupied. We will spend the night here.
Zappa skillfully maneuvers our vehicle backwards into a terribly tight parking space at the very end, near the little wall, ensuring an escape route for after tomorrow's flea market.

On Sunday morning, we are once again surprised that the space, which was nearly empty and vehicle-free in the starlight late at night, is now almost full by 7:00 AM. Hardly enough room for the approaching scooter to squeeze in.
So, quickly drink the coffee and off into the bustling crowd!

Already at the first stall, Zappa acquires a sensational, phenomenal, incomparable high-end Yamaha professional amplifier for a full and perfect sound in the home cinema for a song! Only that Madame has forgotten the remote somewhere, and I am forced, shortly after getting up, to activate my synapses with a bit of caffeine to negotiate in a foreign language about the next steps.

For the mega device only works with the suitable télécommande, and probably her nephew stressed that she mustn't forget it, as it belonged to him previously. Madame Dominique fears that she has left the important element on the kitchen table in neighboring Avignon. Or in her car, which is parked in the large parking lot.

Aha, now we know why the lot was completely filled even at dawn. All merchants must remove their cars from the flea market zone and are now parked on the few public spaces around the city. Well, we don't mind; we arrived on time.
Madame and I exchange phone numbers and agree that I will contact her on Monday afternoon to pick up the precious item from her kitchen in Avignon.

Zappa hauls the ton-heavy top product to the caravan, and now the fun can continue.
The entire pedestrian zone has been converted into a Marché aux puces. In the shade of the well-preserved fortress, one can snag all sorts of trinkets, knick-knacks, baubles, junk, kitsch, rubbish, and fancy stuff.
We acquire a plush little lamp for the Mistral, and while Zappa examines one of the countless old cameras thoroughly, the old lady tells me that her granddaughter lives in Slovakia and attends school in France for some time to learn the correct spelling.

Time flies, but we still have a second flea market on the agenda today. And after an incredible pain au chocolat from the local pâtisserie, made with enough finest butter, the flakiest puff pastry, and the most delicious chocolate to last a whole week in calories, we head towards Saint-Andiol.

Thanks to Zappa's skillful parking, the exit from the completely overloaded lot is possible without major problems.
But we have to go through Avignon. Past the papal palace, past the broken bridge, past throngs of visitors with expensive cameras in hand, who flock from countless buses to the attractions even at the end of September.

I personally find the street layout and signage in this city, which is also plagued by heavy through traffic on Sundays, not particularly visitor-friendly.
And so it happens that the GPS leads us astray and into a narrow tunnel. 2.80 stands over the one-lane dark passage. A quick scare, but we are not that high, we will fit through. There is no going back in the narrow and fast-moving city traffic anyway.

However, the big scare follows immediately. The exit behind the short tunnel is an increasingly narrow hairpin curve with a guardrail on the right and a 20cm high concrete barrier on the left.
Zappa looks in the rearview mirror and notices at the last moment that the caravan will not pass by the guardrail without significant scratches. The right side nearly gets shredded, slashed, and torn to pieces!

A quick stomp on the brake, and our vehicle comes to a stop. In the middle of the one-lane exit from the damned tunnel, which also leads in the wrong direction.
But there is no helping it; we can't get out of here unless we want to irreparably and massively damage our beloved little car.
In the meantime, a considerable queue has formed in the short and somewhat dark tunnel behind us. It honks loudly, in full length and beauty, as only in France.

Oh no - oh no - oh no, I must lament again!
We will never make the turn here; we must endure until a helicopter maneuvers us out of this mess; probably, we will starve to death before that unless we are stoned and quartered by evil fellow humans and enter the history of Avignon as the eternal German Bouchon, to which tourists with expensive cameras in hands will then pilgrimage!

Zappa, my hero and eternal nerve keeper, always knowing the solution, with an overview of the situation, first instructs me to get out and take a look at the situation at the guardrail.
The honking has calmed down somewhat; people have leaned back in their vehicles, watching intently how the problem will be solved.

The car directly behind us is ordered to back up as far as possible, which the friendly driver does immediately.
Now Zappa drives straight back to steer the caravan out of the danger zone at the guardrail.
Then the vehicle needs to go forward out of the tight angle; however, the sky-high concrete barrier to the opposite lane makes this nearly impossible.

I stand in front of the Kangoo and would prefer to close my eyes. But that's not possible; I have to keep an eye on the guardrail on the left, the concrete obstacle on the right, and the traffic on the other side.
Meanwhile, the Kangoo engine revs to the highest numbers to haul the car and caravan up the bump. The clutch stinks, the engine roars, I sweat fear from every pore. Zappa forces the vehicle to perform at its highest level.
Then it's done: the two front tires are on the barrier; the right rear wheel hangs in the air. Now I have to let oncoming traffic pass since the vehicle will inevitably drift into the other lane.

Then a Belgian motorhome approaches and initially blocks the oncoming traffic. It is possible that he has experienced hair-raising situations with his travel vehicle and is now freeing the way for us.

After several attempts, grinding noises, and a loud rumble, the Kangoo stands on the concrete wall and, using all remaining horsepower, pulls the caravan a fingertip away from the guardrail without scratches, cuts, or dents over the obstacle, into oncoming traffic, and safely back into the right lane.

The Belgian claps his hands and clears the way on his side.
I get into the car, infinitely relieved, and the now certainly kilometers-long traffic jam behind us can dissolve.
I’m sure you will forgive me for not being able to document the situation with photos.
To make up for it, we have picked illustrations from Google Maps and Streetview.

Upon arriving in Saint-Andiol, we have to conclude that the trip was not worth it. Here, bad-tempered profit traders are already packing up their stuff.
Luckily, we do not have to pick up the remote from Madame Dominique's kitchen somewhere in the traffic-crippled and nightmarish Avignon the next afternoon. She found it in her car, and we managed to collect it at her stall.

However, Zappa lost one of the feet while transporting the apparatus in the parking lot and only realized it in the Alpilles in the afternoon, making him very, very unhappy for the rest of the trip...