At the height of its power, the House of Hapsburg controlled almost all of modern-day Europe. Their bounds stretched from the early emperors of the Holy Roman Empire to 20th-century Austria, an 800-year reign stretching from Spain to Bohemia, Hungary to France. But decades of inbreeding, convoluted marriages, twisted relationships and intermarriages brought the dynasty down into a shadow of its former self. Rather like Chrysler’s strange, twisted existence in Europe—minus the sweeping domination, of course. We tend to hold European cars as a secret Valhalla of motoring excellence, as paragons of efficiency, reliability and motoring joie de vivre. And in turn, we give GM and Ford guff for not bringing their European (and Australian) cars over here, a trend that is only currently being reversed thanks to the thousands of voices that cried out in terror on message boards (and were suddenly silenced). But how many can tell you that your uncle’s turd-olive ’85 Omni that’s the butt of all the jokes at your family reunion was Europe’s 1979 Car of the Year? And would it be a surprise that you’d laugh at them? Yeah, not such a laughably rusty shitbox now, is it? The Simca Horizon (and subsequent Dodge/Plymouth variants) was never the sales success that could keep Simca afloat, and, as a result, it has all but disappeared from the roads today. Transformed into steel filings and Finnish toilet-seat hinges, it takes a real madman to still maintain one. This particular Horizon was parked in front of a motorcycle shop on the Via Cavour, one of Rome’s busiest streets. Real estate is limited in this part of town—and Europe in general—so it’s somewhat less surprising to find an Aprilia rolling chassis stashed on the street next to this Horizon, because there’s too many cars and bikes inside. After all, where else would you leave it?
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