The man was a retired farmer from the Ardèche. He met Adrian in a McDonald's parking lot, holding a cardboard sign that read "Kadjar – comme neuf" (like new). The car was immaculate. Beige leather, full service history from a Renault dealer in Valence, and not a single rust spot. But Dubois had rules.
First, no negotiation. “Le prix est le prix,” he said, puffing on a Gauloises. Second, the sale required a certificat de situation (a document proving the car wasn’t a write-off) printed less than 15 days ago. Adrian had read about this online. Without it, you couldn’t register the car in Romania.
They drove to a small tabac with an internet terminal. Dubois printed the certificate. Clean. No véhicule accidenté history. Then came the certificat de non-gage — proof that the car wasn't being used as collateral for a loan. Adrian’s heart pounded. If this came back red, he’d be buying a legal nightmare. achizitie automobil franta
It came back green.
The plan was simple. Fly to Lyon with a one-way ticket, meet a private seller named Monsieur Dubois, buy a seven-year-old Renault Kadjar, and drive it back 2,000 kilometers across Europe. The man was a retired farmer from the Ardèche
They shook hands. Adrian transferred the euros. Dubois signed the certificat de cession (the sales declaration) in triplicate. The farmer then reached into his glovebox and pulled out a bottle of chilled Côtes du Rhône and two plastic cups. “Tradiție,” he winked. “La vente d'une voiture en France.”
Adrian drank the wine at 11 AM, then started the engine. The drive home was a tour of European paperwork: through the Mont Blanc Tunnel (toll: €52), across the Swiss border (no customs issues because the car was EU-origin), and finally into Hungary, where the police stopped him for a random check. Beige leather, full service history from a Renault
He handed over the French carte grise (registration) with Dubois’s name scratched out and "vendu le..." written on the back. The Hungarian officer studied it, shrugged, and waved him through.