It was supposed to be the end of summer but it turned out to be the hottest autumn to be remembered. The last days of August I join my friends in Geneva to go to France, a bunch of other Eastern-Europeans, Polish, Checks, Hungarians, all of them seasonal farm-workers and restless vagabonds. Some of them had just managed to save-up their picking wages to buy mature and experienced second-hand camping vans: The Hotel Transporter and the Transit Paradise. With more folks on board they run the merrier. But they don't run fast. No highways, no haste, only small distances on little roads and many halts. The Swiss turn back and stare: they never see such rickety things driving through their towns.