Cameron Hewitt

It's been quite a while since I shared a "Jams Are Fun" story — and my Greek car rental was a doozy.

Longtime followers know that "Jams Are Fun" was my Great-Great Aunt Mildred's travel motto, and the title of her travel book. After traveling the world independently — at a time when such a thing was unthinkable for a single, retired schoolteacher — the events Mildred remembered most vividly were the times trips went sideways. (I shared much more about Aunt Mildred, and my own "Jams Are Fun" stories, in my travel memoir The Temporary European.)

Here's the latest stressful travel situation that I was able to quickly defuse by chuckling and reminding myself... Jams are fun.

When planning a trip, travelers have to choose between doing business with the big, multinational companies and the little local outfits. In general, I love to support homegrown entrepreneurs. But on this trip to Greece, I got a reality check that this approach comes with both pros... and cons.

When booking my rental car for a long road trip around the Peloponnese, my goal was to find a way to drop it off upon boarding the ferry to Hydra. That way, I could take the express boat straight back to Athens, rather than having to return to my car and drive all the way around.

None of the big international car-rental firms had a drop-off option at the port. But a few Greek ones did. (And if you've ever looked at Greek car rental companies, you know there are countless small operators.) I sorted through my options carefully, scrutinized the reviews, and landed on one that seemed a good choice. By email, I explained to them my plan: Pick up at Athens airport; drop off at a remote boat dock in the middle of nowhere. Are you *sure* this is doable?

"Yes, of course!"

I went with the small outfit with a spirit of adventure, knowing it was an experiment with both upsides and downsides. And, while I made it through my trip safe and sound, there were more of the latter than the former.

When I booked — and again when I confirmed the day before pickup — I noted that I really wanted a car with a dashboard screen I could use with my iPhone GPS, even if I had to pay more to upgrade to a newer or bigger car. (On an 800-mile road trip on twisty, remote Greek mountain roads, this was a safety issue.)

"I noted it. See you tomorrow."

When tomorrow came, I followed their directions to the shuttle pickup lot just outside of baggage claim. I didn't see the shuttle waiting, so I called. No answer. I called again. No answer. On the third try, the guy who answered sounded like he'd just been awoken from a nap, or was frantically busy, or somehow both at once: "Ummmmm, sorry. I will be there in 10 minutes."

This being Greece, I figured it'd be more like 30. He arrived in about 25, then drove me 10 minutes to a grubby lot on a grimy street in a dusty industrial zone several highway exits from the airport. When I reminded him of my GPS request, a moment of panic flickered behind his eyes. Clearly this request had not, in fact, been noted. "No problem," he said.

Of the half-dozen cars on the lot, after about an hour of trail-and-error, it became clear none of them would work with my GPS. (At one point, he insisted that the car was capable of this, and called a colleague, who bluntly informed me that I was using "the wrong cable" — the same cable I've used in this way with 10 or 15 other rental cars over the years. Apparently the news of universal USB cables has not reached this particular car-rental company.)

Eventually, we settled on the worst-bad option: a Peugeot 208... or, as I came to learn it's known among car aficionados, a Peugeot POS. The car was filthy inside and out, as it had just been returned from the service station. "Wait, service station...?" This set off some alarms: "And you're sure there's nothing wrong with this car?"

"No, just new tires," he said, as he used dirty water and a filthy rag to wipe the service station's hand-scrawled notes from the windshield. "It's perfect."

"Perfect" did not include the gas tank, which officially was one-eighth full, but the "low fuel" light was already on when I started it up. He gave me directions to the nearest BP — with a carwash — and sent me on my way. Filling the tank on my way out of town was no hardship; trying to return the car with precisely one-eighth of a tank of gas, ten days later, would require some precise arithmetic.

Fueled up and on the road, I zipped west on Greece's slick and impressive superhighway — a toll road (where I stopped about every 10 minutes to pay a €2 toll, rather than every two hours to pay a €30 toll) with a speed limit of 130 km/h — that's 80 mph Stateside! I was making great time, and I had to, with four hours of driving until my destination.

About two hours into my journey, I was zipping along (still well under the speed limit) when I heard a strange knocking sound. I hoped it was just some rumble strips on the highway... but it kept happening. Uh oh. Did one of these "new" tires have a flat?

I experimented a bit, slowing down, switching lanes. No, it wasn't the tires. The knocking was coming from the engine.

I pulled over at the next rest area, checked the rental contract, and called the office.

I tried to explain the situation to the guy who answered. He couldn't hear a word I was saying because his colleague was talking at top-volume right next to him. I could not see their office, but I could visualize it, as I've been in many other such spaces in Greece: A huge, boxy, waste-of-space interior with nothing but right angles and hard surfaces to produce the worst acoustic environment imaginable... a flawless echo chamber. This, combined with a colleague with an incredibly loud voice, made me pity the person I was talking to even more than I pitied myself, standing by my knocky car next to an expressway as trucks rumbled past. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you," I said calmly. "Someone is screaming in the background."

Eventually I was able to make them understand what was going on. They called another guy and we played an actual game of telephone as I explained the situation, which was transmitted to the other guy, who provided an answer back.

Long story short, they "reassured" me that The Knocking was, I guess, normal?

"Oh, you have the Peugot POS? The white one? With the new tires? And the GPS that works only with 'the right cable'? Well then, it's nothing to worry about. You just can't drive it above 110 or so."

"Are you sure?" I asked again. "I'm two hours away from you, and I'm going two hours farther. I'll be at the opposite end of the country, on lots of mountain roads. I don't want to get stuck there."

"Is the check engine light on?" they said.

"No."

"Well, then, it's fine. Don't worry unless the check engine light comes on. Just keep it below about 110. No problem!"

"But," I said.

"Listen: If you are driving, and you have a problem, you just call us, and we will come help you. OK?"

"Yes, but... that's what I just did. That is literally what's happening *right now.* I'm having a problem, and I'm calling you, and you're *not* helping."

"Just keep it below 110. OK? No problem!"

At this point, I had two choices: Drive two hours back to Athens, get a different car (certainly another POS model), then drive four hours back to my destination — doubling what was already my longest road day of the trip. Or cross my fingers and keep it under 110.

So that's what I did. And, despite a few brief bouts of knocking, eventually the car settled in. Fortunately, the vast majority of my itinerary would be on much, much slower roads; that was the last time I'd even have the option of going over 110... and the last time I heard The Knocking.

Cursing my own decision to "go with the little guy" on this rental, I made it through the trip without incident.... but held my breath the whole time that The Knocking would return. By the end of the trip, I was more than ready to drop off my Peugeot POS and never speak of it again.

That morning came, and — as instructed — I called the rental agency to let them know I was on my way to the boat dock listed on the contract as the drop-off point.

Once again, the guy who answered the phone sounded like I'd just woken him from a deep sleep. He was both surprised and mildly perturbed to be made aware of my existence.

"OK," I said. "I'm on my way to the boat dock. I'll be there in 90 minutes."

"Ummm..."

"So... see you there. Right?"

"Look, can you drive the car instead to our office in Ermioni, a half-hour away? Then I can drive you to the boat dock."

This fundamental misunderstanding of "customer service" had gotten on my last nerve. "Sorry, pal. I have a boat to catch. You know... at the *boat dock* where I paid to drop off this car. If I swing by to pick you up, I'll miss my boat. So that's where I'm going. You want your car back... you know where to find it."

At the middle-of-nowhere café at the boat dock, I gathered my things, waited a good long time for the pickup guy to show up, and soon saw my boat pulling into the harbor. I called the rental office three times with no answer. On the fourth call, they picked up and said, "Oh yes! I was just about to call you. Just leave the car on the square and give the keys to the café owner."

And with that, I was on the boat... and my "experiment" was complete. Rest assured, this particular rental company will not be recommended in the next edition of our Greece guidebook.

And that's that. But I must admit, sometimes, late at night, I find myself wondering if that white Peugeot POS with the new tires and the knocky engine is still just sitting there at that boat dock. And when I close my eyes... I can still hear The Knocking.

Crete is a mini-continent masquerading as an island.

This is my main impression after a week of running around this giant island to research and write a new section on Crete for our Rick Steves Greece guidebook.

A couple of years ago, I went island-hopping through the Aegean to add a few new islands to our Greece book. I imagined this project would be much the same. But Crete is so big — with its own history, landscape, climate(s), culture, cuisine, and so on — that I kept forgetting I was on an island.

Crete is divided into four sections, and I managed to visit the main city of each one (some for a few hours, others for a few days):

Chania (locals pronounce it "khan-YAH!" like when Miss Piggy gets mad) is the glamour model: beautiful Venetian harbor, fascinating layers of history, trendy restaurant and nightlife scene.

Rethymno, my stealth-favorite, is a mini-Chania but feels more local and grounded, with an exceptionally well-preserved core and a giant old fortress.

Agios Nikolaus felt the most breezy/resorty/just plain fun, with restaurants clustering around a lagoon under a curtain of cliffs. It's the Cancún of Crete.

And Heraklion, the island's main city and transport hub, is harder to like at first; in a triple-whammy of history, the city has been leveled three times (Ottoman siege 1648-1669; devastating 1856 earthquake; N**i paratroopers). But with the help of great local guides, I was able to appreciate the deep Cretan soul of this ramshackle metropolis — and its archaeological museum, filled with Minoan treasures, is one of Greece's best.

The Minoan palace of Knossos, just outside Heraklion, is one of Greece's great ancient sites — one that, again, requires the help of guides to fully appreciate.

Of course, there's so much more to the island than those three cities, from snowcapped mountains to remote villages to dramatic gorges to glittering "destination" beaches, not to mention Europe's last l***r colony (on a Venetian-fortified islet; the last l***r left in 1957).

After a full week touring Crete, I feel I've barely scratched the surface. I hope these photos and impressions tide you over until the new book arrives.