Driving in Europe.
And the VW That Survived Bosnia and Croatia.

Picture this: you're in a rented VW SUV, inching down a pitch black staircase into an underground parking lot in Sarajevo while a Bosnian man screams and waves you forward. Your family is silent. Your bumper is not going to make it. And somewhere in the back of your mind you're thinking, "I've been driving for decades; cars, trucks, vans, standard and automatic — and this is how it ends. In a staircase."

Welcome to driving in Europe through my shades. Four stories. Two countries. One rental car that earned every scratch.

What's coming: parallel parking into oncoming traffic, a staircase that doubled as a parking ramp, and the Bosnian hill that almost ate our SUV.

A Note About European Roads (From a Canadian Who Learned the Hard Way)

Before we get into the stories, let me set the stage for any fellow Canadians — or really anyone used to North American roads.

European city streets are not standard widths. They are not straight lines. They were, I'm fairly certain, originally designed for horse-drawn carriages and then someone paved over them and said "good enough, let the cars figure it out." The charm of the old neighbourhoods is undeniable. The charm disappears completely when you're in a German SUV and a five-tonne delivery truck is rounding a corner directly at you.

With that established — let's begin.

Story One: The Hill Escape (Sarajevo, Bosnia)

We were staying in an apartment right downtown in Sarajevo — beautiful Austro-Hungarian buildings everywhere, cobblestone streets, the kind of place that makes you fall in love with Europe. We needed to drive to one last site before leaving the city. The GPS said to go up.

So up we went.

The street immediately narrowed into something that was clearly a neighbourhood lane pretending to be a road. Cars were parked half on the sidewalk, half on the street. Oncoming traffic was heading straight at us because — and this is important — there was only room for one car at a time but traffic was flowing in both directions anyway. This was still manageable. Tight, but manageable.

Then the delivery truck appeared.

Not a little van. A proper five-tonne truck, rounding the corner on a steep uphill section, taking up the entire street and then some. The math was simple: the truck existed, the road was too narrow, and I was in it.

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I popped the VW up onto a sidewalk that was not regulation height, not level, and not designed for a vehicle of any kind. I put it in first gear and prayed that I wouldn't immediately roll backwards into the car behind me while trying to avoid the truck that was still coming.

Anger. Fright. And eventually — somehow — we squeezed through. The teenagers said nothing. Irena said nothing. I said nothing. We just drove.

One down. Three to go.

Story Two: The Staircase Parking Garage (Sarajevo, Bosnia)

European "parking lots" are sometimes neither parking nor lots. Sometimes they're staircases or deep caves.

This happened roughly fifteen minutes after the hill escape, which tells you everything about driving in Sarajevo.

We needed to park near the Gazi Husrev-beg Mosque. We found a parking lot underneath one of those gorgeous old buildings. I use the word "lot" generously. It was a staircase. An actual staircase leading from street level down into a dim underground space, with two narrow concrete strips — one for each set of wheels — running down the steps. Pretty clever engineering, honestly. Less clever when you're the one driving down it.

An older gentleman met us at the top, waving and yelling for us to come down. There were no lights except for the daylight behind us and a faint glow from the level below. I rolled down the window, poked my head out the side, saw the strips, and inched forward. Sharp angle down. Scraped the underside of the front bumper. Found a spot. Parked. Exhaled.

We visited the mosque and walked the old town. Beautiful. Then we came back.

Getting out was the problem.

Here's what I hadn't accounted for: the VW had what I'll call a limiter. The onboard computer would not let you rev past a certain point — it just cut the power. Helpful on the highway. Catastrophic on a steep staircase where you need momentum to get a two-tonne SUV up a ramp without destroying the front end.

I lined up at an angle — because going head-on would demolish the bumper — got one wheel on one strip, then the other, and started up. The engine stalled out. Not "lost power gradually" stalled. Just quit. Brake, restart, try again. Same thing. The Bosnian attendant up top was yelling and waving again. Helpful energy, questionable advice.

I backed down into the garage. Tried again. Same result. The gas pedal would just... give up right when I needed it most.

Third attempt: I decided I needed a running start. Backed up as far as I could, angled the car, got the tires on the strips, and floored it. Wheels spinning. Smoke. The smell of burning rubber filling the staircase. The limiter kicked in. No go.

Final attempt: I thought, "Forget the bumper." I took a near head-on run at the stairs. The front grill hit the edge of the steps — bang — but I had enough speed before the limiter could react. Smoke, squealing tires, scraping metal, and we launched up and out of that staircase like we were being shot from a cannon.

Story Three: The Parallel Parking Conundrum (Split, Croatia)

We'd made it out of Bosnia and into Croatia in one piece — the VW slightly more scratched than when we'd picked it up, but running fine. We were heading into Split to tour the historic sites.

I don't mind parking farther from the action. You walk, you see more, you burn calories, and you make room for more food. Effective combination. But Split was packed. No parking anywhere near where we wanted to go. So we started heading back, accepting a longer walk.

Driving down a four-lane road — two lanes my way, two oncoming — I noticed cars parked all along both sides, all facing the same direction. Then I spotted it: a gap on my left side, on a gentle right curve. Not too far from our destination. Perfect.

I crossed the centre line, lined up to parallel park on the left shoulder like everyone else had. No cars near me. Easy. Reverse gear. Start backing in.

And then oncoming traffic — which had been a comfortable distance away moments ago — started barrelling toward me at what felt like an ever-increasing pace.

Now, in a normal parallel parking situation, you're on a level playing field. Here, I had to get the VW up and over an oversized curb and drop down onto a dirt shoulder without bottoming out, while oncoming cars charged at me like I'd personally offended them. Everyone else had done it, so surely I could too.

First attempt: got the vehicle in, but I'm not going to lie — it was not a ten-point parking job. Tight. Crooked. The kind of parking where you hope nobody's watching.

I waited for a gap in traffic, pulled back out. The oncoming cars immediately resumed their assault. Second attempt: released the clutch smoothly, backed in with purpose. Better. But not good enough for my pride.

Third time's the charm. The old adage exists for a reason. I nailed it. If this had been my driver training exam, the instructor would have given me an automatic pass. I sat there for a moment, quietly proud, while my family pretended they hadn't been holding their breath for the last five minutes.

Story Four: The Waltz in Rijeka (Croatia)

The last car adventure happened in the hills above Rijeka.

A quick note about Croatian highways: on the toll roads, you cruise at warp speed until a traffic jam holds you up for an hour. Off the toll roads, it's scenic, winding, and long. Eventually you have to exit the highway to reach your actual destination, and that's where things get interesting.

Our GPS was leading us to an address up in the hills in an older part of the area. The roads — which I'm fairly sure Roman soldiers marched on a couple thousand years ago — were paved over but clearly designed by someone who hated straight lines. Roller coaster is the only accurate description. Up, down, hairpin left, sharp right. The VW handled it fine.

Then came the section.

The GPS pointed us down a sharp right-leaning road. Houses on both sides blocked any view of what was coming. Greenery closed in from above. One lane. Technically two-way traffic, but "one lane" in the most literal sense.

I'd already learned that people on these roads drive fast and do not care that there's only room for one car. So I mustered my courage, committed, and started down.

A car came flying up from the other direction, slammed on the brakes — but didn't fully stop. He kept pushing toward me, edging to one side. I took my cue and went as far as possible to the other side.

And then we danced.

Not to music — to engine revs. A little forward, a little back. He nudges left, I nudge right. Mirrors nearly kissing.

Somehow, we got through.

Later, at our destination, I described the encounter. Our host laughed. "Oh yeah, that's normal," they said. Everyone leaves for work at the same time heading one direction. Nobody drives in. The opposite happens at night. So I'd been lucky — if it had been busier, the waltz could have turned into something more like stepping on toes. Or more accurately, stepping on tires.

The Honest Take

Would I drive in Europe again? Absolutely. The freedom of a car on a Balkans road trip is unbeatable — the scenery between cities, the ability to stop wherever you want, the spontaneous detours. You can't get that on a tour bus.

But you will earn every kilometre. The streets are narrow, the locals drive like they're late for something important (they probably are), and your rental car will come back with stories written into its paint job.

Highlights

• The Sarajevo staircase garage — I still can't believe that's a real parking system.
• The Split parallel park — third time's the charm, under fire.
• The Rijeka waltz — the most elegant near-collision of my life.
• The VW itself — German engineering meets Bosnian infrastructure, and survives.
• The delivery truck on the hill — the moment I understood European driving.