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As I count sleeps to my return to the Mediterranean I can’t help but think of the times I’ve been there before.

On my second visit to Greece, a friend and I decided we would rent a car and tour the Peloponnese for a week before skipping off to the ever popular islands. We wanted to see the country-side without guided excursions, have the adventure of following their roads and…their rules. Traverse down narrow lanes, navigate through a herd of mountain goats, glide the open spaces, and bend along the sharp cliff-edged turns.

I would wheel the cities relying on my friend’s navigation and she the country-side. Trusting a Greek travel agent I had used before, our hotels and car were booked. Great prices and great itinerary; we really couldn’t complain. Anxious to get there and start our adventure, days moved at a snail’s pace.

The day we finally arrived in Athens I was astounded by my memory and walked us straight through the Plaka to the travel agent. The ancient city stayed true. Nothing changed. Why should it? 1000s of years or 7? What’s the difference there?

Sitting there, excited to get our vouchers and itinerary we were all a glow…until:

“Did you say the car is a standard?”

Blanched faces, fluttering tummies, eyes as big and white as the moon.

“We don’t know how to drive a standard!”

Images of trying to learn how to drive a standard in downtown Athens raced through our minds.

“What do you mean we’ll be ok? Isn’t the Peloponnese mountainous?!”

We spent our first night in Greece silently pleading with God for an automatic.

The next day tentatively walking into the travel office we were greeted with excitement, which we caught when they told us that the last automatic in all of Athens was ours. Their exaggeration not ours. Someone canceled their car. Whoever you are, thank you!

Beaming we drove off. Praising our blessings. That car took us wherever we steered it. We learned fast is good and stop is just a suggestion.

Days later our dear Matrix had a flat. Stereotypical girls, we couldn’t figure out the jack. So my friend ran back to the hotel where we suspected we would find help.

I can imagine the scene even now: A 6’2”, slender woman with chocolate hair and eyes, and a brilliant smile running into the hotel lobby past the dining men on the patio. She’s wearing short shorts and a tank top and has tourist written all over her. Who could resist her cry for help?

Shortly after I see her running back with not one, not two, but five (YES FIVE) members of a local soccer team to change the tire of one wheel. Cheers to my friend!

Oh and FYI, they had trouble with the jack as well.

We then stopped at a gas station where a a priest noticed the donut tire and pray over it. These six men made our day.