Anyway, so, we were near Bourg de Visa in the Tarn et Garonne region, around an hour North of Toulouse. Its very typical rural France, hot but not crazy hot, and famous for fields and fields of sunflowers. We flew there and had a hire car, so me, my wife and kids (11, 14) were mobile. We went to markets, drank wine, swam in the pool, wandered among the tourne a soleil....and I emailed Boris, my bank and insurance and breakdown recovery companies, from the 3G available in the 3 square feet at one corner of the pool.
The discussion, via Google translate, with Bert back up, was complicated. Boris seemed genuine, selling as although he liked the idea of being a Porsche driver, but admitted that he didnt have the skills and was a bit out of his depth. At first he said that he would not take offers, but I then managed to agree a possible 1000 euro reduction. Good, we might be on then. But next he refused to accept a foreign bank transfer, as he had so many interested French parties, why take my complicated rosbif money. That's the deal off I thought. Time to relax. But the next day, having spoken to his bank, he agreed. Hooray, we are on again.
As it was starting to look serious, I then emailed him a plea, regarding my situation, for him to be honest, specifically about terrible secrets the car may be harbouring such as bad noises, lots of smoke etc. In response to this he acknowledged that on one occasion, having left the car running in the heat, he experienced large amounts of oil smoke on first acceleration.
On hearing this, I had decided to let this one go. It was too risky, the rest of the plan was rickety at best - and at this stage I still hadnt resolved what I would do if it broke down, no UK break down insurance company would cover a non UK car. But I couldnt sleep. So, as a slightly daft last gasp I offered him the price minus 3000 euro, describing the basic work I would need to get the car into reliable health, timing belt etc., and considering the smoke. (In reality, the scenario he described would feasibly encourage a little smoke in a 40 year old car on a hot day, all the same I feared for the piston rings). But, what the heck.
Boris was surprisingly mild mannered in his response to this bullish move, saying he was en fete, and would get back to me in a few days. Profitez vous bien de votre fete Boris, says I, I'll just sit here in anguish. But it must have been a tres bon fete, as he duly contacted me, said I was wise in my estimation, and agreed to the deal. Oh bloody hell.
Right, time to speak to my bank, and plan my 3 train route to Aix.
Which leads to the next dilemma: The bank said that the payment could take 24 hours to clear. I didnt really want to go and first see the car and travel all the way back and then return to pick it up, nor did I want to spend 2 days with Boris, so as not to impact our family holiday. So, I resolved to send the payment in advance, in the expectation that it would clear the same day. There was of course some risk in this decision, but these types of pursuits sometimes require you to just trust your fellow human being and the Porsche Gods' will.
So I authorised the transfer to Boris on the phone to my bank, from the grounds of Parc Walibi funfair, answering security questions and giving details phonetically with intermittent screaming from a roller coaster in the background, on a dying blackberry. That was pretty surreal. But now I was committed.
I was still being holiday Dad, and so had to make my arrangements in stolen moments. The last one was breakdown cover - because I probably would break down. The evening before travel this still wasnt resolved, but I understood from poolside research that ADAC would cover me, and I planned to call them from the train. The next day early doors, my marvellous and understanding wife dropped me at the local train station, and I was off. I spoke to the awesomely German people at ADAC, who would of course cover me, and that my application would take... around a week... Cock.
I am a psychiatrist, and as I approached Marseille, now many hours away from my wonderful family, the holiday home and pool, having sent thousands of Euros to a complete stranger, at this point that I wondered, quite seriously, whether this was what it was like to have a manic episode. What the hell was I doing? But, as I took my connection to Aix en Provence, I noticed that the funds had left my account. And so, onwards was now the only way. I messaged Boris to say that I was approaching. Tres bien, he says, I'll meet you at the station. 10 minutes prior to arrival, he messaged to say that he was waiting in the station car park. So far so good.
And so I arrived at Aix, and found my way to the small car park. All the hussle and bussle of the departed train settled down, and it was just me and the cicadas.
There was nobody there.
Boris sounds more Russian then French doesn’t he?