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.

Reading about the history of Chrysler in Europe is not a light task to undertake. It is a labyrinthian tale of global business and obscure brands, disappointing cars and divisions on a seemingly meteoric rise cut down in their primes. It will give you a headache. There will be a pop quiz. No, you cannot check your notes.
The House that Walter Built never achieved the success of Ford Europe or GM’s various holdings, but they sure tried, dammit, as Chrysler snapped up France’s Simca, Britain’s Rootes Group, and Spain’s Barreiros. Try asking someone what a Rootes Group is today, and they’ll probably believe it’s a union of disgruntled plumbers. The Hapsburgs had the House of Bourbon and Ferdinand II of Aragon. Chrysler Europe held aloft Hillman, Sunbeam, Talbot and the Spanish-built Dodge Dart—a fine parade of brands, none of which exist anymore. The Hapsburgs controlled Europe through carefully-arranged marriages: Chrysler eventually got sick of the whole ordeal and unloaded everything to Peugeot—but not before foisting the Horizon onto us Yanks as the infamous Dodge Omni and Plymouth Horizon twins.
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?

After a few days walking from my hotel to the Coliseum, I’ve noticed the that the car changes positions every afternoon, but always in front of the shop. Clearly the vehicle of a madman who enjoys working on rare Aprilia singles and, when he has the time, keeps his faithful Simca “Omnirizon” in shape. (Say…did they ever hear about the turbo option? No? Then who says European cars are better?)
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