Just when you think “I got this, been there done that, what could possibly go wrong?” the hard Bulgarian/Türkiye border happens. Picture a sea of cars, no make that it’s actually more like New Year’s Eve Sydney Harbor after the last grand finale sky bomb explodes, and you’re still choking on the sulphur, charcoal, and potash. Suddenly it seems like the entire world needs to be somewhere else. In a hurry. It starts like the beginning of a Disney World line that seems unusually short until, cleverly hidden, you turn a corner and a sea of cars is revealed.
Of course choosing the winner lane to queue in is just like choosing which lane to pay your highway toll in, it’s the real magic here and we haven’t a clue what the plethora of I’m guessing sternly worded warning signs say.
At first, most of the cars surrounding us were German or Türkish so Marce hopped out and determined that twenty lanes over might be better for us non-EU passport holders. It was beautiful the way Marce pantomimed “We are stupid Americans who are in the wrong lane again!” playing the helpless American card. They were rather helpful though. Still, we had to repeat the charade over and over again. So little progress was being made that it hardly mattered.
We were not alone amongst the sea of idling cars begging to change lanes in the Bulgarian heat. It seemed like most of us were not in the correct lane. Forewarned but still determined to be chill in this aforementioned sea of idling vehicles, we both felt our resolve fade with the lack of progress, even with the air conditioning on at an expensive eight dollar a gallon diesel idle, in the sweltering heat of a Bulgarian summer.
It took all afternoon. We went through a half dozen vehicle searches before ending up at a small cement block building where a clerk, unhappy in her work, was busy telling us that we may not enter Türkiye with a British RV whose registration does not match our American passports. “This is not possible,” she harrumphed. In a flash, she grabbed all of our papers and rushed toward the door behind her. Marce stuck her head in the window and shouted after her, “It’s completely legal!” A few minutes later she skulked back in, sat down, and determined to get rid of us, stamped our papers and shoved them back out the window. A nod is the same as a wink to a blind horse.
Marce heard about a seaside parkup on the diesel telegraph in Silivri where we hoped to R&R on the shores of the Sea of Marmara, but we still had a hike to get there. Maybe we’ll reconnoiter tomorrow, if the massive open air market next to us doesn’t get too loud tonight.
After a night of what I can only imagine to be Türkish Top 40 blaring out of a battery powered radio inches from Escape Velocity we decided to head for the Bosporus through Istanbul and take possession of our reserved spot at the Adria-owned campground.
