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.

When working on our guidebooks, I love to come across stories of great women who made history. (Of course, these stories are all too often left out of history books.) On this trip, my favorite example came in Nafplio, Greece.

In Nafplio, which briefly served as the first capital of independent Greece, I stumbled upon a monument to Kalliopi Papalexopoulou (1809-1899), in front of a bank building on Syntagma Square.

Some context: Greece had recently thrown off centuries of Ottoman rule. But after its leader, Ioannis Kapodistrias, was gunned down in the streets of Nafplio by headstrong Maniots, the Great Powers of Europe (quite paternalistically) decided Greece couldn't be trusted to rule itself. And so, they imported an 18-year-old Bavarian prince to become King Otto of Greece. (Greeks grouse, "They just replaced the Ottomans with Otto.")

Enter Kalliopi Papalexopoulou. When she first came to Nafplio, as the wife of the city's mayor, Papalexopoulou fostered the arts and culture. But after her husband died and Greece's fortunes shifted, she emerged as a leading voice of the "Nafplio Revolt" (a.k.a. Nafpliaka) against imposed foreign rule.

This monument stands on the site of Papalexopoulou's former home. On February 1, 1862, she stood on her balcony (notice the frilly railing on the relief) to rally an assembled crowd in favor of true Greek independence — and an end to the reign King Otto. The engraved message on the pillar reads: "People of Nafplio, be courageous."

Ultimately, Greece succeeded in overthrowing Otto. Papalexopoulou has been called "the woman who caused Otto's throne to totter."

For more examples of stories like Papalexopoulou's, check out .

Sightseeing in Greece is strenuous. So many of the great sights require hiking up a very steep hill. (The ancients needed to keep the strategic high ground... and must have been part mountain goat.) After a few weeks hiking around this rocky land, I'm in much better shape than when I left home.

One of the most difficult ascents (or, more precisely, descents) was the upper town of Monemvasia — where, during Byzantine times, they built a sprawling community on top of a vertical tabletop mountain that juts up just offshore.

Twisting up the serpentine path from the lower town, passing through the fortified gate, and emerging into a vast field scattered with foundations was certainly worth the hike... and I was glad I'd waited until later in the afternoon, with a cool breeze.

But the hardest part wasn't the hike up; it was the hike down. And that's because whatever black stones they used to build these stairs have been worn and weathered by millions of visitors through history to a high shine. While Greece has plenty of surfaces that are slippery when wet, the Monemvasia stairs are incredibly slick even when dry. They might as well have made them of sheer ice, then sprayed them with teflon. (Geologists, any insights here?)

Gripping the wall as I walked down from the top — like a novice on roller skates — my feet kept going out from under me with each step. Eventually I learned how to identify the slipperiest rocks (the black ones that catch the glint of the sun) and sidestep them... where possible. It's a miracle more people don't go tumbling down the entire staircase.

After making it back down to sea level, I was traumatized for the next few days: Anytime I had to descend from a steep climb, I stepped gingerly like a newborn fawn, until I realized that they had used more sensible building materials, and could walk normally.

If you're going to Monemvasia, it's well worth the hike up to the top to appreciate the grand view. Just watch your step on the way down.

I've been working on guidebooks long enough (25+ years!) to have seen entire industries transform. And one example is the sad decline of affordable, humble-but-lovable, family-run B&Bs in favor of superficially slick but soulless and impersonal short-term rentals. I've been especially aware of this trend on my trip through Greece.

"Dhomatia" or ΔΩΜAΤΙΑ (rooms) used to be the word that Greece-bound budget travelers looked for (like sobe in Croatia, or Zimmer in Germany) to find a friendly local renting a simple room for low prices. Once upon a time, it was easy to find dhomatia to recommend in our guidebooks. In fact, often they'd come to me: Some of my favorites, I passively "discovered" by being approached by a gregarious local as I stepped off the boat.

While a few scrappy dhomatia survive, most have gone by the wayside. Those that continue are often run by sweet but exhausted elderly proprietors who complain to me, "Keep me in the book, for now... but I'm not sure how much longer I can keep doing this!"

So what's the new business model? All over Greece, you see signs advertising "Suites": These are generally small guesthouses, with a handful of units, that have been modernized and updated to feel slick and modern (but with the same old plumbing and other quirks). They are advertised and booked exclusively online.

Crucially, these new rental options cost much more than traditional dhomatia... and they are entirely anonymous. On this trip, I stayed at a few of these "suites"... and never met my host. (Are they truly a "host" if your entire interaction is through a booking app?)

Selfishly, this makes it much harder to find great budget and midrange lodgings for our guidebooks: While the dhomatia owner usually lived on-site, making it easy for a quick doorbell inspection, most "suites" are entirely absentee-managed. I could knock on the door all day long and never find a soul at home (other than, perhaps, some irritated guests).

In a common story, locals also lament that these short-term rentals are straining the local economy — pricing young people and seasonal workers out of places to live in expensive, touristy towns.

Over several years, I've found the number of dhomatia in our Greece book dwindling to almost nothing. I try to replace them with the next generation, but the "suites" format isn't well-suited to a guidebook listing. This makes it hard to advise budget travelers, other than to say: "Good luck finding something cheap online!" When I do find a lovable little guest house, tucked in the back lanes, where you can sleep comfortably for €80 or €90, I high-five myself all the way down the street.

Things change and evolve; it's natural, and it's healthy. But I do get nostalgic for the simplicity and affordability of the way things were, not too long ago. I, for one, am sorry to see the old-school dhomatia fade away.

Do you have any favorite dhomatia memories?

Greek dinner.

My top tip for visiting Greece's great ancient sites? Go late!

I'm tooling around the Peloponnese, Greece's heartland, dropping in on some of the world's most famous ancient wonders — Olympia, Mycenae, Corinth, Epidavros — plus Monemvasia and Mystras. Many people dream of visiting these places. But then, when they finally do, they complain about two things: the crowds and the heat.

All of Greece's great cultural sites have the same hours: From April through August, they're open until 8 pm; as the days get shorter starting in September, they close slightly earlier.

Of course, most visitors show up mid-morning through early afternoon. And if you arrive then, you'll be stampeded by other tourists... and blasted with the worst of the mid-day heat.

As I update our Rick Steves Greece guidebook, I'm always trying to squeeze in "just one more sight" at the end of each busy day. So I've found myself rolling into places like Olympia and Mycenae at about 6 pm. I've found this ideal: It's just enough time to fully enjoy them. The worst of the day's heat has subsided. (It nearly hit 90 degrees yesterday, but by evening, there was a pleasant breeze.) And, best of all, in both places, I had those wonderful sites entirely to myself.

That's not hyperbole: At Mycenae, I was literally the only living soul on top of the acropolis at 6:30 pm... leaving me alone with my imagination and the tales of that militaristic civilization that ruled Greece 3,500 years ago, who built so big it was called "cyclopean."

At Epidavros — with the best-preserved ancient theater in existence — I was there a little earlier, about 3 pm. But that was still just late enough to be one of a smattering of visitors.

I'm also finding early May to be ideal: Beautiful, summery conditions, and relatively few crowds. Locals told me that I've (accidentally) hit that "sweet spot" after some big Greek holidays (Easter, May 1) and the peak summer season... a rare lull that also coincides with great weather and high-season conveniences.

I guess sightseeing in Greece, just like comedy, comes down to one thing:






Timing.

After two and a half weeks of eating nothing but Greek food... I finally went for Chinese.

That's a pretty good streak! Even in places with cuisines I enjoy, I often grab a burrito, stir fry, doner kebab, or curry every few days. There are only a few countries where, even on a long stay, I don't get tempted to stray. And Greece tops that list.

When it comes to Greek food... what's not to like? Fresh, abundant local produce; luscious cheese and yogurt; good meats, well-grilled; all smothered in top-quality olive oil and flavorful herbs.

I've eaten very well on this trip, starting in Crete — which lived up to its culinary reputation. Whether I was just grabbing a bite at a sidewalk café, or seeking out top-notch "destination" restaurants adored by foodies (Avli in Rethymno, Peskesi in Heraklion), I was always satisfied.

The classic "Greek salad" (or horiatiki salad, meaning "village") is a good barometer for the local cuisine scene. The basic ingredients: big chunks of tomato, cucumber, and onion; olives (sometimes capers); olive oil and herbs; croutons; and, of course, cheese. In much of Greece, the cheese is feta. In the rustic corners of the Peloponnese, it's a slab as big as a deck of cards (or if you're really lucky, a paperback).

But Crete replaces the chunky, chalky feta with rich, tangy, spreadable mizithra cheese, and the "croutons" are giant hunks of rusk: an extremely dense bread, usually made of barley, that's slow-baked to become hard as a brick. Rusk, which lasts months, was taken on long voyages before being rehydrated and eaten. But because it's so classically Cretan, it's a staple of modern cuisine as well — one of those "hardship foods" that has thrived beyond its hardship.

So why the Chinese meal? Just a few days before heading home, I had eaten Greek so well, so much, and so often that I needed a break from feta, oregano, and EVOO. That Sichuan chicken was just the thing to get me through. (And it was spicier than everything else I ate in Greece, combined.)

And where is Greece's best food? Crete definitely held its own. But there's one place where everything I ate ranks at the top of my all-time list: the island of Naxos.

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.

It's time now for another rendition of: WHERE AM I?

First, I'm on one of the biggest islands of the Mediterranean, with its own climate, cuisine, and culture. Four thousand years ago, it gave rise to one of the, if not *the*, first flourishing European civilizations.

As for the exact location? I'm in the best-preserved old city on this history-battered island. (Other communities were leveled again and again — by sieges, earthquakes, and N**i paratroopers.)

This city's main feature is its sprawling, Venetian-built fortress that juts out over the sea; the town's entire population could squeeze into its walls for protection. The centerpiece of that fortress is a mosque, which the Ottomans converted from an old church.

In the charming, restaurant-lined streets below the fortress, you'll find another mosque — yet another (of many) that began as a Venetian church, was later turned into an Ottoman mosque, and now serves a different purpose (a music conservatory). Kids love to play soccer in the gigantic square in front of the old mosque.

The town's main landmark is a (Venetian-built) fountain, and it also enjoys a fine archaeological museum — one of many top-notch collections on this island — with a resident cat.

Out at the old harbor, bobbing with leisure and fishing boats, an Egyptian-built lighthouse keeps watch over the entrance to the port.

Many of these details could apply to multiple places on this island — for full credit, I'm looking not just for the country and island, but the city.

So, then: WHERE AM I?

Thanks to all of you who've been following my thought-provoking travels through Berlin and Munich... both fascinating places that I enjoyed re-connecting with.

I have one more bit of new writing on Berlin, which I recently posted to my blog. I actually wrote the first draft of this piece several years ago, after a previous visit. It's been sitting on my hard drive (with dozens of other "almost done" pieces) since then. But this trip to Berlin inspired me to finish it up, as I reflect on the wonderful urban tapestry of this fascinating European metropolis of neighborhoods... one that reminds me, in so many ways, of Sesame Street. Check it out:

https://blog.ricksteves.com/cameron/2026/05/berlin-kieze-sesame-street

But my trip's not over yet! I've already moved on to my next destination, where I've been working like a dog on some new guidebook material. It's a place that's geographically and culturally as far removed from Germany as you can get, while still being on (or, maybe, "near") the European Continent. Stay tuned for reports from the next leg of my trip!

Berlin’s Kieze: Europe’s Sesame Street Cameron Hewitt considers the many lessons of Berlin's funky neighborhoods

A transcript of the 32nd annual Convention of German Bathroom Hardware Engineers, held in Stuttgart on April 14, 1995, remarks by Fritz Grohe:

My dear ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much for your kind invitation.

I have exciting news of an innovation that will revolutionize German bathroom design — in particular, the shower.

For too long, we have used a variety of different designs for the handles used to turn the water on and off in a shower. It is long past due to standardize this!

I have designed a new fixture, which will be mounted to extend a distance of no less than 10 centimeters from the wall into the shower enclosure.

Even better, when the handle is turned on to begin the flow of water, it will extend an additional 5 centimeters into the enclosure, for a total of 20 centimeters. (For you Americans in attendance, that is approximately six inches!)

I also recommend that the handle itself take the shape of an oversized paddle, and this new fixture always be located directly under the flow of water. In this way, we can ensure that any human being, large or small, tall or short, will be guaranteed to constantly bump the handle with their elbow during each shower. Sometimes, this will result in the water shutting off entirely. Sometimes, it will result in the water instantly becoming very, very hot or very, very cold. And sometimes, the extremely high profile of the handle itself will simply jab the showering person painfully in the ribs.

And that is the joy of this new invention: It will bring the sense of fun and unpredictability to the until-now-mundane task of taking a shower!

I encourage all shower manufacturers, henceforth from today, to adopt this new design, which will make every shower what it should be: an adventure!

Before we break for lunch, I will remind you that our Swiss colleagues from Geneva will lead off this afternoon's session with their plans to adjust their electrical plug size ever so slightly, so that it is almost, but not quite, compatible with every other country for a thousand kilometers in every direction.

(NOTE: This post is satire. Any resemblance to real life is accidental... but highly likely.)