Buzesti avenue, Bucharest.
We park after 30 hours riding down the French, Belgian, German and Hungarian highways.
The doors whisper in a rubbery snap. The air, a saturated mix of dioxyde and socks perfume,
twist in the Romanian traffic.

Taxis are waiting. There is nothing to negociate, they are unanimous on prices. 
A "taxi master" pack us in the third car of the line. The currency has changed:
we use the Lei and multiply everything by four. Our destinations seems obvious for the driver.
Everyone speaks another language.

The trip is starting.