Settle down everyone. This is a 20 minute read. TL: DR – Bulgaria sucks. Romania Doesn’t.
As us true motoring enthusiasts often do, I was bored one weekend and decided to take upon myself the gargantuan task of going on a quick drive to Turkey. It was my birthday coming up soon and I said I’d treat myself with an epic adventure whilst enjoying some of Europe on the way back and given the UK lockdown shenanigans, I’d been desperate to get some freedom on the roads.
This is the total intended route [map route].
Day 1 – AM I GOING TO CARRY THIS OUT?
My trip starts on Tuesday morning where Audi Maidstone has amazingly accommodated me by servicing my R8 completely at the last minute. This is a big service together with a complete vehicle check. It takes a few hours and £900 lighter, I make my way towards Calais where I arrive by 5 pm. I can’t recommend Matt at Service enough and Sam at Sales, both have made the R8 an absolute joy to own and the frequent last minute stops they’ve pulled have always impressed.
First leg is Calais to Munich [map route]. Although France and Belgium have nice clear routes, it’s advisable to stay as close as possible to the speed limit. With speed traps and average speed cameras all over the place in those two countries, Waze is a necessary tool that seems to be way more useful in Europe than the UK with all driver dangers listed accurately. It has figuratively and literally save my life – later down the line in Eastern Europe, all sorts of things were being highlighted. At one point at high speed I got alerted to an object in the road. Over the crest, there in the middle of the fast lane was a metal bucket. Countless pot-holes, hidden police cars and abandoned / broken down vehicles were also preceded with fair warnings. Honestly it was the perfect companion. However, make sure to be prepared for either massive roaming charges, or locally sourced SIM cards as O2 seemed to only have decent deals up to Austria. After five days of roaming calls and GPS, I came back home to a £200 phone bill.
Once in Germany however, I was able to make huge progress. Although most of Germany’s autobahn network is de-restricted, there are interspersed areas of speed control and roadworks. It pays to heed the intermittent speed restrictions as often they are there for a good reason – either tight bends that would cause you to pull a fair few Gs at 150 MPH or uneven road surfaces. Road-works are equally as efficiently dealt with as Germans don’t seem to do the stupid thing we do in the UK where we decide to shut down 15 miles of road, but work on only 500 yards at a time.
I’m now 47 years old and found it interesting reflecting on how my attitude has changed towards gung-ho speeding. Even only 10 years ago I would not have baulked at repeatedly smashing 200 MPH, but on this occasion I felt much more restrained. The difference between 150 MPH and 200 MPH isn’t just the mathematical difference of 50 but way, way more intensity and risk. My thoughts curiously were no longer aimed at visible road dangers, such as barriers, traffic, other road users, road surface etc – but more about the things we can’t see. Suspension, tyres, wheels, nuts and bolts – the amount of faith we put in these cars is extraordinary as we travel at high speed over a road surface that would otherwise liquefy a human being were we not levitated mere inches above.
Fuel is also a consideration in a large capacity N/A car. By putting your foot down, expecting to reduce your arrival time is a false economy. Think Tortoise and Hare, the faster I go, the more fuel stops I need. At one point, I felt like momentarily stretched my legs and got to an indicated 211 MPH down a long, straight stretch. Once I maxed out, I immediately backed off down to 150 MPH again. In the space of those 2 minutes, my range went from 150 miles to 70. I pondered what the mathematical middle ground would be for efficiency and speed but gave up almost instantly and instead just stuck to 150 MPH.
Other road users are also a big danger. Despite the Autobahn being a steadfast normality in German driving culture, most drivers still don’t know how to react when a bright orange meteor is approaching at high speed. Whilst approaching slower cars, I always flash my lights from way ahead. I notice always one of 3 things happen:
- The best of them immediately pull over to let you pass. Some even abandon an overtake.
- Some put their brakes on out of panic. They simply don’t know how to process what to do.
- Some start drifting slowly into the fast lane, fixated on watching you in their mirrors.
Subsequently it’s important to assume that not everyone in Germany is going to be comfortable with you buzzing the tower as doing so is going to give most drivers an instant heart attack.
Arriving at the Hyperion hotel in Munich at about 2.30 am I’m utterly exhausted. Autobahn’s can do that with extended periods of fast speed using up huge amounts of adrenaline and any thrill junkie will know that adrenaline is a finite source of energy that you eventually pay for. Sleep does not come easily though, with the adrenaline pumping through my blood battling with complete and utter fatigue – it is not helped by the fact that Germans still love using sheets of paper as pillows.
DAY 2 – PORTENT OF DOOM
Wednesday morning starts as I intend, with a long leg that I hope to end in Sofia, Bulgaria [map route]. I’m advised by some that Serbia would be a better place to stop than Bulgaria, the impact of which isn’t made entirely clear to me until much later that evening. But I’m getting ahead of myself as I really need to describe the beauty of driving through Bavarian Europe and into Austria. It truly is a region of extraordinary vistas and I happen across what has to be the most beautiful McDonald’s I’ve ever seen. With a stunning, coniferous backdrop and low flying clouds providing occasional, misty rain, I simply did not want to leave. And also what is up with the McDonald’s in that region? Expensive, but totally different menus and oh my lord was it good!
With almost all of western Europe having provided me with trouble free driving, I meet my first incident deep in Slovenia a short trip away from the Croatian border. Driving through a narrow checkpoint, I’m singled out amongst all the traffic and pulled aside into a car park where I’m (very politely) told off by Police for not having a visible vignette on my screen. It’s all very professional with the Mercedes van furnished with what appeared to be a full on control centre in the back, I’m educated on why I need to display a vignette. My first mistake. With a €300 fine (reduced to €150 if I pay there and then) and a €15 cost of the vignette, I’m made to stick this on my windscreen and left to go on my journey.
[EDIT] A few weeks later I received in the post a fine from a private mercenary company chasing me for a speeding fine from Hungary (choosing to ignore) and another fine from the Austrian government fining me for not having displayed my vignette (paid).
As most of us are probably accustomed to, driving through Western Europe is a pretty relaxed affair with countries from France, Belgium, Germany and Austria and Slovenia not requiring any passport exchanges with the borders being unmanned. This is true until you hit the Slovenia / Croatian border where I’m expected to stop and give out a passport for the first time on my journey where a very obvious border patrol exists.
Once through to Croatia however, my nightmare journey started to unravel very very fast. Travelling shortly past Zagreb on the Croatian motorway, I’m settled at a moderate cruise and it’s not long before I can see in the distance an unmarked car approaching me pretty fast with hidden blue lights flashing. As I’m pulled over by the VW Passat, I’m greeted by two policemen who can scarcely put any English together but show me a snapshot of my car on a screen in their boot that shows me doing 157 km/h. The speed limits in Croatia are confusing, with official statements saying either 133 km/h (83 mph) or 155 km/h (96 mph). Either way, I’m told that it’s a €300 fine. Or I can get 50% discount if I pay now. Indicating my desire to close this off here and now, I’m told they only accept cash. Of course they do. When I tell them I’m only carrying about €50, he escorts me, with full lights and sirens, to the nearest village cash-point which is a good 20 mile detour, where he lovingly accepts the €150 fine in exchange for my passport back.
It’s not long before I’m at the Croatian / Serbian border and despite seeing what is possible the longest queue of trucks I’ve ever seen, there’s little obstacle in getting to the kiosk.
First disclosure. I do not have my original V5 document with me. I have full copies. I have purchase receipts. I have email scans. I have every single document that I would need. I just don't have the original V5 with me. Legitimate reason for this, but having driven through Europe a million times, I've never needed it nor have I ever been asked for it and the potential problems of not having one are starting to present themselves. When I tell the Serbian passport control guard this, he is not interested in any conversation and simply directs me to put the car aside for an inspection.?
After a short while I’m greeted by two border guards – one is Serbian and one is Croatian. After a few politely asked questions about my career and life, he provides my passport back and explains how many cars are used as drug mules. I asked if I would use an orange R8 as a drug mule, he said I’d be surprised before proceeding to get his phone out and spend the next 30 minutes sharing all the photos of the drug and smuggling busts he’s been responsible for in the past 6 months alone. Pretty scary stuff as clearly the route is a crime route, I see photos of secret drug compartments, massive hauls of cash (millions), sawn off shotguns, hidden storage areas etc. However, the most interesting thing to me at this stage is, why is this guy showing me what should be extremely sensitive and confidential photos? It highlights the start of lawless Europe. Before I’m let go, he asks me to rip the tarmac on my way out and I politely oblige.
But, my problems have only just begun. Countries become a blur with mile after mile ticking off my odometer and as the sun disappears deep behind me I’m fast approaching the Serbian / Bulgarian border and my heart sinks when I see the queues to get into Bulgaria, queues which appear to not move at all. It’s midnight when I take the first photo of the queue and by the time I move into the control gate, it’s nearly 3 AM – I have been waiting to be seen for nearly 3 hours in a queue that appears to be intentionally slow.
Bulgaria. Dear God, Bulgaria. Why do you exist even?
I’m asked for my documents again at the kiosk. Of course, as a RHD car, I lean all the way over and hand my documents to him. He could simply reach out and grab them, but chooses instead to just stare at me. I take my seat belt off and reach all the way out the window. Again, he simply stares at me with those cold, dead eyes of his. I get out the car, walk all the way around and with a polite greeting I give him the documents. He mumbles something and I simply can’t hear or understand him. ‘I’m sorry?’ I beg. The response is insane. It’s a bark that has so much hatred and venom that I’m taken aback, I’m not a little afraid at this point. ‘RUHSAT!’ which is also, conveniently in Turkish the same word for license. I point to it in his hand and he points me to the side of the road for yet another inspection.
Side story, later on I told another fellow traveller this story. He said I was lucky, he did this same thing last year and leaned over to give the passport. Turns out, not reaching out is a usual dirty trick as when he took his seatbelt off to reach even further, he was arrested for driving without a seatbelt and extorted for a bribe.
I pull over and watch as dozens of cars (none noteworthy, all family cars and hatchbacks) drive through without any issues at all. Another hour later and a bunch of gorillas come out of a shed on the side of the road towards me. I’ve got a polite smile on. ‘GET OUT CAR!’. I’m starting to feel vaguely threatened. I step out. ‘MOVE CHAIR!’ I’m told. And I ask him why, to which he simply walks up to me into my face and stares. I move the seat forward and he starts to pull my carpets out. I tell him to stop and tell him he’s damaging the car. At this point, he turns around shoves his finger into my chest and shouts, in front of everyone in the queue behind me, ‘LISTEN! DON’T PANIC ME I WILL KEEP YOUR CAR!’. I ask him why he’s so angry with me, that this is Europe and there are laws. He tells me he doesn’t give a shit about European laws, this is Bulgaria.
Second disclosure. Not much scares me in life. I'm Turkish which means we have a sense of bravado about us, culturally. On top of that, I'm on top of my martial arts game and have been fighting on mats competitively and non-competitively for about 15 years now. But for the first time in my life, I'm actually frightened. But not in the momentary fight or flight sense, but more of a terrified ohmygodimgonnadie kind of frightened. I'm can sense I'm currently in a lot of danger. I've also read recent reports of someone having been shot at the border and mysteriously disappeared. This made for wonderful reading whilst I was waiting.?
They go through the entire car with a toothcomb. The engine compartment is open. The front bonnet is open. Everything is out and they are taking photos of literally everything, from VIN numbers to tyre pressure stickers. He then tells me to wait in the car, which I politely, obediently do.
An hour later, he comes back with my passports and states I’ve stolen the car. I’m bewildered and struggling to figure out what to do. I start to show all my photos, pointing to some where my children are sat in the car, from 3 years ago, to which he states ‘Ah but the car is 4 years old! Where is real owner!?’. I then take out more receipts. An actual purchase receipt. I even show my Instagram account and my website. At this point I realise what this is. It’s a shakedown. He’s not interested in facts. He wants to maintain an air of authority and is simply trying to intimidate me (succesfully) into some finale – of which I don’t know what. However, he suddenly gives me my passport, shrugs menacingly and says good luck on my journey in Bulgaria. I rapidly take my passport, my drivers documents and my Turkish ID and get the utter fuck out of there.
I’m shaking the entire way from the Bulgarian border all the way to the hotel in Sofia and I’ve been sweating so much the past 3 hours I stink. The roads are a dirt track pretty much the whole way to the capital with zero lighting, no road markings and more worryingly, not a single other car on the road. I’m driving around, alone, in a bright orange car and I’m quite literally shitting myself. I don’t want to speed for obvious reasons, so I’m driving in the middle of nowhere in fucking Bulgaria at 4 AM doing 50 MPH the whole way.
It’s now 5 AM and I’m delighted that the hotel I’ve booked, the Intercontinental, is actually beautiful. I ask to be rapidly checked in, have a quick shower then throw myself into bed for a few hours.
DAY 3 – and breathe – or can i?
It’s 7am and I’m suddenly awoken. You know that feeling when you suddenly wake up in a strange place not knowing what the fuck is going on, well multiply that by a trillion. At this point, I do not know what species of living breathing creature I am. There’s noise. A lot of noise. It’s a live concert? No. Some percussion or beat. And chanting.
Seems Bulgarians aren’t happy with the way the government are handing the corona virus and the best way to deal with it apparently is by staging a protest outside the bedroom of the one guy in the entire country who needs to sleep. Thankfully, the hotel are awesome and rapidly put me into another room where I blissfully fall asleep and awake again at midday.
The final leg of my journey [route map]. I’m so looking forward to entering Turkey. I’m simply in love with that country. I’m planning all my meals and will grab something I’ve been looking forward to in Istanbul first and my mouth is salivating.
The road to the Turkish border is pretty uneventful. There aren’t many motorways on this route however and I’m thankful to have the company of another car that appears to be travelling in the same direction. A locally plated Audi A8 W12, he makes excellent and rapid progress by overtaking frequently throughout the single lane dual carriageway the entire way, cleaving a path for both of us like Moses. Despite the good progress, I’m really uneasy. I’m nervous and utterly drowning in anxiety as I simply do not know what to expect from the Bulgarian / Turkish border. When I arrive, there’s an undeniable, yet fleeting sense of euphoria as I see a giant Turkish flag waving on the border. I gingerly approach the kiosk and, again, present my details to him.
This is now familiar territory. The fear. The anxiety. The unknown. You’ve no idea what the next problem will be. I’m asked by the guard for ownership details. I provide him with everything I have. But he’s not happy. He stares at me and I’ve no idea what he’s expecting me to say. So I patiently wait. He tells me to park my car on the side and says ‘stolen car’. Here we go. He disappears with my passports and I wait in the baking sun, 35 deg beating on me and my car.
Two hours later, two Bulgarian officials emerge with my passport walks up to me and without even looking me in the eye, simply says ‘Impossible – impossible for you’. He does his search of the car, the returns into his office. Another two hours pass and I see him walking about so I approach him. ‘What are we waiting for?’ I ask. He tells me he’s made phone calls and he’s waiting. I ask how long does that take? He smiles and shrugs his shoulders and disappears again.
I’m utterly despondent at this stage. Frankly, I’ve had enough, I just want to go home. My body and mind are utterly drained and I’m fuelled by an insane amount of anger, fear and hatred. I’m careful not to show any emotion – doesn’t matter how strong you are or how powerful you are. Out here, nothing more dangerous than a poor, uneducated man with authority.
So I get out the car and wait. And wait. And wait. Hours pass. Meanwhile, another traveller comes up to me out of his car and asks ‘Can you change this €50 so I can give the border guard a tip?’. Holy shit. I’m shocked. ‘That works????’ I ask. He’s more shocked that I don’t know about this and says that this is how things work here. I tell him, I only have €10 on me. But if you give me that €50 I will give you €200 on the exit. He lovingly agrees, takes my €10 and I watch him go back to the border guard in the kiosk, give his envelope back to him with the cash inside, gets his passport stamped and comes back to me. I’m utterly blown away by this. I witness this countless times.
He said he actually demanded €100 but he agreed to €50, so he has nothing left to give me. Meanwhile, my chief is returning to me for some more pictures of the car. I take him to the side and say look. If there’s a fine, or a penalty, just tell me how much you need – I don’t need a receipt as I’m very late and we’ll settle it. He grins at me and says ‘too late for fine – now you deal with us’.
More time passes. A different official walks up to me with passports. I breathe a sigh of relief and all the weight suddenly lifts from my shoulders. Except I’m mistaken. Very mistaken. He simply points back to Bulgaria and says ‘LEAVE’. No amount of pleading or arguing is going to change anything. He simply tells me to drive back the way I came. Out of sheer desperation and a little delirium, I tell him I’m not going back. I’ve come too far. But I’m forcefully removed as I’m aggressively ushered by 4 officials.
Back from the border, I call contacts at the Consul, who calls the Bulgarian ambassador to England , who calls me to tell me that she will phone them. Except, despite all this authority, nothing gets done. The border guards are a law onto themselves and claim that Europe have given them authority and without the proper official papers of government, I’m not being allowed in. But the best part of this, despite me being able to prove the car is mine, the reason I’m told I can’t progress is because I haven’t had permission from the bank to take the car out the country. Turns out that they’ve done a check on the car and found out there’s some finance on it and subsequently, the bank apparently own the car and I do not! Can’t make this up.
This is how close I was.
I’m an utterly broken man. Physical and mental fatigue are now crippling me. I haven’t had breakfast yet, there’s no toilet (I have to pay to use the public toilet with Bulgarian coins that I do not have and the policeman guarding the toilets won’t let me in). I choose to drive back to Sofia to bed down for the night and figure out what the hell I’m to do.
DAY 4 – The Transfagarasan Highway
I awake not a little frightened. I’m stuck in a country that seems to capitalise on extortion and corruption. I may as well be in Somalia, how can this be Europe? With renewed vigour, despite everyone’s pleas, I’ve chosen to return to England. I’ve had enough. Except this time it’s literally an escape. I’m going to take a different route back and avoid the same problematic Serbian / Bulgarian border I came through on the way in, instead going through Romania and Hungary via the Transf?g?r??an Highway, of which I’m reliably informed are much more civilised. [route map]
I decided to return via Vienna the next day also and take in some sights whilst doing a tour of western Europe instead.
However, my problems weren’t quite over yet. Approaching the Bulgarian / Romanian border, I called my embassy contact just as I was approaching and asked if I would have any problems. I was reliably informed I wouldn’t and in actual fact I was currently under the protection of the Bulgarian government. I hung up and moved into my position in the queue. Of course, it would be ludicrous to expect any smooth progress. I was told there and then I couldn’t pass. This time it was instant. There wasn’t even any discussion, investigation, nothing. I suspect that the border guards were informed in advance of my coming – it was too convenient. I called my contact again and told them that I was being detained yet again and if she’d be willing to talk to the guards. I sat there in my car and terrifyingly watched the guard continuously shake his head in disapproval and rejection. No. No. No. Over and over again. He passed the phone back. Told me to park up ahead for an inspection. On the phone she told me to be patient and see what they said.
He comes back to me and opens the spine of my passport, points to the middle of it, makes the money sign with his fingers and openly asks for a cash bribe. I look at him incredulously. He says he wants €200. Frankly, I’d give him €1000 if I had the cash, but stupidly I forgot to draw money out and I have none on me. I tell him to jump in the car with me we’ll drive to a cashpoint. He shakes his head and closes my passport again. I ask if he likes champagne and I tell him I have a €200 bottle of champagne in the car. He walks over to the boot, picks up the gift wrapped bottle, shakes my hand and says goodbye. Dear lord you can’t make this up.
With Bulgaria well and truly behind me, and as many curses as I could muster at this godforsaken cesspit of a country, I’m starting to breathe a little lighter as I focus on getting to the Transfagarasan Highway in search of some positives in what has been an utterly disastrous collection of experiences.
To make matters even worse, the quarantine rules in Austria suddenly kicked in which meant my presence in Austria isn’t welcome either, so instead I was forced to go back direct to London.
The route from Sofia to the Transfagarasan Highway was low key affair. The journey to the mountains has no main motorways and is instead a collection of join the dots interconnecting one small village to another. Slightly concerning was the volume of traffic – however, pockets of dense, tightly packed cars were mostly nothing other than small convoys of cars where the front batch simply wouldn’t overtake whatever was causing the tail back. No such concerns with the R8 as it continues, even after 3 years of ownership, to blow my brains out over how utterly explosive it can be. In second gear, some of those overtakes are brutally over dramatic as I am clear past most cars and I’m still not topping out 2nd gear yet.
But nothing. And I mean NOTHING in the world will prepare you for the majesty of the Transfagarasan Highway. Not even the sight of frequent mountain bears that are casually munching away at foliage mere feet from your car window.
What is essentially a 70 mile winding road that provides at least an hour of intense driving, the road is a threaded weave of the greatest tarmac the world has ever seen. I’d like to think I’ve done all things that one could classify as motoring meccas. From the drift roads from Tokyo to Mount Fuji, to the racetracks of Monza. From the Evo Triangle to the Nurburgring and the beautiful surroundings of the Adenau around it, I have never experienced the emotions felt in the heart of this Romanian Bob Ross painting. The Alpine Passes have never looked so…..irrelevant.
From the tight roads that hug the Lake Vidraru to the incredible mountain valley hairpin spaghetti roads, even thinking about the drive is giving me goosebumps that simply cannot be satiated. The R8 on the newly shod Michelin Pilot Sport 4 tyres gave a divine show on the damp, wet track that gave the entire route a magical gleam throughout.
The road is ultimately a collection of very short straights connected by dozens and dozens of hairpins and chicanes. The sprint like nature of the roads meant that you rarely went over 60 MPH – but even at that speed, there’s a legitimate thrill of being on the edge with mountain drops of hundreds of feet following you loyally throughout the whole route.
With excellent visibility and light traffic, rapid, energetic progress is rewarded. And curiously, despite the odd bit of traffic, overtaking everything and anything at full throttle was almost ALWAYS greeted by positive reactions from both other road users and pedestrians alike, with people huddled around corners waving and cheering no less than they would at the RAC Rally. Never did I see once a single negative response. In fact, as I often stopped ahead to take photos from what appeared to be ever increasingly dramatic vistas, the cars I’d just overtaken would often honk horns and wave cheerfully at me. Overtaking the same car 2-3 times became quite normal.
By the end of it, my carbon ceramics were smoking and despite a solidly consistent water and oil temp, the heat haze coming from my rear engine cover was unmistakable. The lack of any speed cameras or police cars meant I experienced freedom unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. For anybody who understands the thrill of turning your engine on and still getting excited with a cold start even after years of hearing the same sound, I cannot stress how utterly crucial this pilgrimage is.
And I must stress, the sooner you do this the better. The world is starting to find out about this place with coachloads of asian tourists and cyclists gathering en masse, it’s only a matter of time before it becomes another Stelvio Pass.
It was truly a religious experience and an emotional one with such impact that combined with the emotional deconstruction I’d been subjected to over the past few days, I was close to having a cry there and then such was the overwhelming sensations. I’ll review this statement in the future maybe. But for now, I’d be confident enough to say that having been to hell with my experiences in Bulgaria only the day before, I can confidently say that to then enjoy an afternoon at God’s playground, it was worth it.
Lights dimming, palms sweating, and perhaps the most content I remember myself in decades of solitude, I made my way to Budapest to spend my final night. And as stunning as the Romanian A1 motorway is, with brand new tarmac gracing some of the best highways ever, zero police and zero speed cameras, I was able to make again excellent progress. However, with the motorways being only a couple of years old, service stations and petrol was scarce. For the first time on my trip, I had a few panic moments.
This fuel scarcity lasted all the way through Hungary too. One notable moment of elation was when I eventually found an open petrol station, filled up again, and almost immediately found a motorway (most of East Hungary is just A and B roads with no lighting, no stations, no shops and about a billion level crossings!). But, out of nowhere, another new motorway. But what’s this? A local in an AMG SLS who had no reservations about having a casual cannonball run with me across the entire east side of Hungary to Budapest. It was an amazing end to what was possibly one the top 5 days of my life.
DAY 5 – The Return Home
From Budapest all the way to Calais was practically a blur. Intense fatigue was kept entirely at bay courtesy of the magnificent German Autobahns. My god I love these roads. If I thought the way out was intense, then the return journey was climatic. An exhilarating octane infused, meteoric charge on the A3 from Passau to the Belgian border, I was able to shave a full 90 minutes off my arrival time that was predicted by two different sat nav systems so fast was I travelling. A never ending cycle of extreme speed, headlight flashing and hard braking.
This is what 3,732 miles across Europe looks like. Fuel. Fines. Vignettes. Hotels. Pit stops. Crossings. Tolls. With 18 tanks of fuel. Oh and Eastern Europe has surprisingly good fuel with 100 Ron available almost everywhere.
I eventually get home at 4.30 AM on Day 6. I’m so utterly wrecked I simply cannot sleep. I’ve got tinnitus. My hands are shaking from adrenaline overload. I have sand in my eyes and I need a shower terribly. However, despite my car being a complete and utter state, I have a newfound love and respect for a car that has shown me the best of what automotive experiences can offer.
To summarise: FUCK Bulgaria. PRAISE Romania.
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