The thick end

On Saturday morning the windows of the cars around us were icy. It's a good thing that we have the caravan with us and don't have to freeze.

We start to tidy up a bit, because we want as many of our treasures as possible to go home with us. But that doesn't really make sense as long as we have no idea about the mobile vehicle that we can now pick up in St.-Ètienne.

So we put the folding chairs in the warm October sun and wait for Joe-le-Taxi-Velay. He arrives on time and garnishes the journey with all sorts of interesting facts from the region: the Fête des marrons is being celebrated here, the Cistercian monastery on the right, the bridge is being repaired on the left, the coal mines around St.-Ètienne, the Dortmund of France have been closed for a long time, The city can now call itself the “Unesco City of Design”.

Monsieur Hertz hurriedly hands us a Renault Arkana with an impressive 147 hp, which beeps, toots and flashes in many bright colors as a greeting. Everything is automatic and electronic and is a bit crazy at first.

At the first stop at the next Lidl, just a few kilometers away, I discover the splintered left rear light that all three of us overlooked when handing over. So I took a quick photo of it and then went back to Tence to our belongings.

We stuff everything that goes into the strange car, which unfortunately isn't a delivery van. The rest have to go to the car transporter with the robbers' den. The caravan is completely emptied down to the last teaspoon, the last sock and the last bit of toilet paper, because we have no idea whether we will ever be able to bring our faithful travel companion home from the mountains.

After a very last meal and, I fear, the very last night in our beloved little castle, we start the 1200 km return journey on Sunday morning.

Somewhere in Alsace, at a small stand between onion and cabbage fields, the hero has another idea: we could ask Grandpa Achim if he would lend us his red car with a trailer hitch. After all, we still have a whole week of vacation and could bring the château home. A quick call is enough and it's a done deal.

On Monday it turns out that there hasn't been a Hertz branch in Braunschweig for a long time. No matter, then we'll hand the bullet over to my parents on the 350 km route in Magdeburg. Ms. Hertz inspects the car with German thoroughness, overlooking the burst taillight, but not the black spots on the rims, which Monsieur, with French laissez-faire, didn't care about.

However, Ms. Hertz is of the opinion that we had crashed into something that caused damage. Zappa lies down on the wet pavement in the Anhalt rain, takes off his sweater and proves to her crystal clear that it's just dirt because he can rub it off.
Today's tour on the Oder ends in the early evening and after a delicious merguez pan we soon stumble into bed.

Tuesday morning at 6:00 a.m., long before sunrise, we wake up the neighbor's rooster and, without breakfast and without a shower, jump into Grandpa Achim's red 110-horsepower car. At the next gas station we buy two coffees with milk and then rush through the 1400 km to Tence in one go.

After a 16-hour motorway marathon and rapid windings, we arrive at the caravan around 10 p.m., where the teaspoon, the sock and the scraps of toilet paper have to be put back so that we can at least sleep comfortably.

On Wednesday the cars around us were not icy. We put our belongings back in their places in the caravan. Monsieur Chef is in the workshop today and thinks he can repair the Kangoo in five weeks. I'm afraid I don't understand automotive French well. But fortunately there is Monsieur Franz, who is fluent in German, French and Chinese and can ask again by phone. Well, one of the control devices is broken, which still needs to be researched. But the ADAC only transports defective vehicles, so the car has to go home.

Grandpa Achim calls in the meantime and the Twingo doesn't start. After I have to google where the battery is and explain to him what trick he can use to open the flap, the unbelievable happens!

But Zappa tells you this himself:

The morning sun is shining down on us, everything is packed back and forth, I drag the château onto the hook of the trailer hitch, throw myself under the red speedster and hook up the safety rope from the caravan.

And then it happens: a loud “puuuuuuuups” escapes my innermost being and shortly afterwards a beastly stench wafts out from under the car - heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssssssssssssssssssssssss out it!!!
Then I curse out loud: Merde! Merde! Merde! I crawl out from under the Skoda and stand with my legs apart like John Wayne at the big showdown with a distorted face in front of the astonishing mouse, take a deep breath and speak loudly, clearly and slowly: “I shit my pants - but right!”

Oh dear... the aroma is hellish, bites your nose and eyes and the mouse begs for a clamp. I now trudge to the caravan and take off my baggy underpants.

Problem number 1: there is no other sub-socket - we are currently traveling with very light luggage.
Problem number 2: the mouse whines with a meaningless question.
I hiss at her - I have other things to worry about now!
We're standing in the middle of the sunny spot in front of the workshop, there's nothing left in the caravan and all my alarm bells are ringing with a mighty noise!

Being practical, I quickly grab a garbage bag, tear it open and put my back part in it... good maneuver - unfortunately wrong angle: the brown trash rattles past loud, strong and smelly and sprinkles a good meter deep into the caravan... Merde! Merde! Merde!

Oh dear - a sour aroma spreads throughout the entire château! The mishap is quickly cleaned up with lots and lots of glass cleaner and kitchen towel, the small carpet is put under the high-pressure cleaner at the car wash and shines like new afterwards - look there, look there - it has never been so clean...

As soon as the carpet is cleaned, the ritual repeats itself with ever new, exciting and flowery scents - but this time the astronaut poop goes into the bag, is tied at the top and flies into the next poubelle... Finished, finished!

Finally let's go! A quick goodbye, a wave, the automatic gear to D, huhhh!!! and 110 horses trot off: 1250 km lie ahead of us. But you've barely driven a few serpentines: pull over to the right, into the bushes and pull your pants down in a flash... well - that can be fun...

And further north... always just a little bit, always the same ritual: put on the indicators, turn right, hazard lights, raaaatsch - handbrake. I jump over the drawbar as quickly as a goat, hang my now heavily leathered bottom over the motorway guard rails and create a new Line Maginot - erhhh Merde - in the first 700 km.

Even at night in the parking lot at a cemetery, the dead can't find peace - the door keeps banging and the mouse later tells me about loud, windy to stormy noises that mix with quiet whining.

In the meantime, the baby is a little sore and can only tolerate the gentlest dabbing with slightly moistened kitchen paper... and for everyone who didn't know: you can also unnoticed put a tiny heap of Merde in your bed while you're sleeping - from experience - bon merde!
In the morning the left side of the caravan also needs an urgent exterior cleaning and guess why?

While the mouse buys all the delicious things in the Supermarché one last time in this travel year, Monsieur Merde almost falls into the mold during an urgent business, a small, lovely river at the foot of the Vosges.

Then over the border...

We happily arrive home late at night and our good neighbor later said that she had never seen me so pretty...

As a crowning topping, you can continue to smile:
As it turns out later, a severe case of food and salmonella poisoning has probably spread in my intestines due to spoiled long-life milk in a large café au lait from the tank.

So on Monday morning I drive into the big city to see Uncle Doctor. He, himself sick, doesn't hold consultation hours, the friendly doctor's assistant refers him to the representative and when asked to write down his address and telephone number, the answer comes: you can google it too... Bon merde!

The man is himself - with a Pampers made from kitchen paper in his pants (better safe than sorry!) we head back to the country. If you're going to Google, then please just around the corner... I looked for a practice in the surrounding villages, called... the young woman, very horrified, shakes her head: "11:20 a.m. for us... we'll manage it," but it'll be fine It takes a whole week and mountains of pills before the hero can stand on his still shaky legs again... bon merde!

Zappa concludes by saying that he has lost at least four kilos.
Despite everything, the red speedster brings our caravan safely to the home port and after the car has been delivered back to Grandpa Achim on the Oder and a replacement car has been organized for Zappa, we have to look into a deep ecological footprint after traveling almost 4000km in a week.

But be honest: should we have let the caravan collapse under a ton of French snow?
So what!