Monday, the 13th.

Can someone explain to me how to spend a completely normal, boring vacation? I would be grateful for any advice!

But let's start from the beginning:

Our journey through the Baronnies Provençal leads us to Tulette on Monday morning by chance. A small weekly market is set up and I would like to replenish our vegetable supply.

A parking space is never quickly found in small towns on market days, but we are lucky. So we stroll past the stands and buy all kinds of greens, a delicious melon from Cavaillon, and a juicy grapefruit from somewhere.

Traditionally, we then have a café au lait and I slowly begin to relax and arrive on vacation after two weeks of traveling.

After about two hours, we return to our camper and the calmness disappears instantly!

At first glance, we think someone has broken into the Twingo and robbed us, smashing the rear window. But upon closer inspection, the full extent is revealed: the bumper is completely mangled on the left side, red and yellow fragments from the left lights are mixed with the glass shards of the rear window scattered everywhere on the black, hot asphalt, sparkling like scattered raindrops in the midday sun. The bare, battered metal peeks out from under the cracked C-pillar. With what force must the Provençal bull have raced through the streets?

We are stunned in shock, the sight is indescribable, it is unbelievable! No trace of the perpetrator of the unbelievable!

In the house right next to our parking space, there is banging, and in my desperation, I go to the construction site. Monsieur Chantier is immediately ready to support me. He heard the monstrous crash and went to check, but Monsieur Karambolage had already driven away. At that moment, Zappa discovers the note with the name and phone number of the culprit, and Monsieur Chantier immediately calls there. However, he only reaches the answering machine and threatens to involve the police if Monsieur Karambolage does not call back.

After a few minutes of waiting, he calls again, with the same result. So we decide to inform the police, but here we are told that the colleagues do not respond to accidents without personal injuries in France.

Alors, now Monsieur Chantier is on his lunch break, after all, it's just rung noon. He goes to eat, but will be back at 2:00 PM and will also bring Monsieur Karambolage at the same time.

Monsieur Chantier is a tall, strong, and cheerful man. He radiates a lot of optimism and advises us to go and eat something and have a beer, tout va bien!

I can't eat anything and start filling out the French accident report that he left me. In the meantime, Zappa enthusiastically smashes the remaining shards of the rear window, causing them to fly through the alley. It's horrible, terrible, incredible!

My call to ADAC is even more discouraging, if the damage exceeds the value of the vehicle, the Twingo will not be brought back home but scrapped in France!

No, it's still so young! It still has its whole camper life ahead of it! It doesn't deserve this!

Does this mean the journey is ending here and now? Are we going home with a rental car from ADAC and all the relaxation ends up in the scrapyard?

At 2:30 PM, Monsieur Chantier and Monsieur Karambolage arrive at the scene. Mr. Chantier scolds the accident causer thunderously, accusing him of ruining our vacation as Germans and of racing backwards up the road at a crazy speed without looking and causing the accident.

Monsieur is a small, shy man, very nervous and now even more uncertain. He dutifully fills out the accident report, apologizes a thousand times, quickly sweeps up the glass shards with Zappa, and soon disappears.

The heavily deformed bumper and the dented wheel well require an immediate on-site repair, otherwise, there is no further driving. But who has an entire toolbox with a crowbar in the Twingo?

The steel hook of the tow rope has to do the job!

Clamped into the wide slit of the crumpled bumper and pulled with combined strength on the rope, some of the wrinkles straighten out and the left rear wheel can spin freely again.

Now we also say goodbye to Monsieur Chantier. No, we don't want to go to a Renault garage, this repair will take at least a week. We remember our last stay in Spain, even if the big man thinks it will be faster here in France, this is not espagne after all!

My insurance also advises against a local garage, as I would then have to deal with the French insurance according to local law, at least that's what my contact person says.

If the repair is done in Germany, a specially appointed German insurance company for France takes care of the claims settlement.

The Twingo is running, we get bulbs for the turn signals and brake lights, Zappa vacuums up all the sharp glass shards from our bed with the SuperU vacuum cleaner and cuts his hands and feet in the process. Mr. Bricolage has a green-blue tarp for us, which is wedged into the open rear hatch and now we hope that the rain tomorrow will not be as bad as predicted.