The Spork Incident

Before we could leave the land of crumpets, tea and cucumber sandwiches, it hit us. The Spork incident. 

 

 

 

In the rush to pack and unpack our bags in a fruitless effort to get our luggage weight below the Ryan Air ration, my darling husband had forgotten all the rules of air safety. It was there in the middle of London City airport (not the premier airport of the UK) that old Gary transferred a prized set of pewter, handmade salad tongs (that we had shelled out more than a little moola for in St Paul de Vence) into our carry-on bag. These gorgeous items of homeware were to be our gift to my parents upon our return, and really were prized possessions made more special because of their sentimental value.  Having had a leisurely coffee and croissant at one of the airport restaurants, we left going through security and walking to our gate a tad late. Yes, it is unbelievable that we had survived all these weeks of travelling by ourselves when we had so little common sense to spare between us. I don't know how we made it out alive.

At security, Gary’s momentary indiscretion was uncovered and, in the cold glow of the flashing ‘boarding’ sign next to our flight number on the display screen, security told us that we would have to remove the offending fork and knife set. Now, these people had obviously not bargained on having to deal with a Gary Baranov charm offensive. And boy was he going to unleash his crack strategy.

“But it isn’t a knife, it’s a salad server. A ‘spork’  if you will – fork and spoon combo. Bought with our last few Euro at a place very special to my in-laws”.

Security says no. They’d never heard of a ‘spork' and after radioing back and forth to find out their airport's spork policy, returned with another denial of access onto the plane.

“Look, what if I tried to cut your arm with it and you would see it could never be considered a weapon?”

Security says no and call for back up. The suspect is threatening violence.

"Sir, please put your spork down".

“Please, we are going to miss our flight! Look, what if I bend the fingers of the spork backwards so that you can be sure it couldn’t be used as a weapon”.

 

Gary tries to bend a pewter spork with his bare teeth. To no avail.

Security says no YET AGAIN and now finds the suspect's desperate need to retain said article, despite it possibly being defaced beyond recognition, quite worrying.

Eventually, a solitary security lady took pity on us and allowed us to rush back with our handluggage (spork inside) and check the bag through. It might have been the giant queue of seething travellers that was growing behind us but, but hell we were free.

I ran to the gate, dragging my bag as it burst open for the twentieth time and left sprawling underwear across the airport floor. Literally, standing with one foot on the plane and the other in the plane tunnel thingy, with boarding gate staff threatening to offload our bags and asking the exact ETA of my husband, I tried to hold the flight (thinking to myself, how am I supposed to know how long this will take down to the second, we haven't exactly been practicing this sprint route now have we?) as long as I could.

Seeing my spork crusader run over that horizon towards Gate 11, with salad spoony fork checked in and unmolested, was a triumphant moment. Walking down the aisle of the packed, hot, tired and not-so-patiently waiting plane wasn't. 

 Phew. Now on to Amsetrrdam where, if you can believe it folks, things are only going to get weirder ...

Londontown

 

We had been trailed throughout our journey by several breaking news, deadly world events – from E Coli outbreaks as we landed in France (that followed us around the country and into Spain, the home of the offending bean sprouts mind you) and now we were landing in London, fresh from the riots which had turned the city into a fiery ball of discontent right before touch down.

But I digress, first a word on the real trauma at the forefront of our minds at this time - flying Ryan Air. From paying an extra 10 pounds to do the ‘early check in ‘ which meant bugger all at the actual queue with men, women and snotty children elbowing their way in front of us to the airport bus (followed by people literally sprinting from the bus onto the plane to nab the best seats), the entire production was somewhat unbecoming. For the home of Western civilization and all that.

We did get on board though and managed, upon arrival and after several frantic phone calls to Durban and Joburg to figure out where to meet, connected with my wonderful cousin Nik. He swiftly bundled us into his car and away we went to the blissful oasis of a home away from home - Bromley, South London.

London is so much more colourful than I remember. The touches of old English charm, the blend of cosmopolitan cultures on the street against the backdrop of historical buildings and famous street names really is enchanting. London came and went in a blur of rushed train rides from Bromley into Victoria Station and then on the tube to wherever Gary had his next appointment. I spent some seriously intensive time at a variety of coffee shops (anywhere with a reasonable cappuccino and free Wifi) and looked into Lonely Planet travel writing jobs. Sadly, it was a no go.  We did manage to squeeze in a delightful pub lunch of fish and chips and warm, stale ale at  traditional pub; have drinks with a lifelong friend of mine living in the city and a fancy dinner with Gary’s cousin. We also walked around Trafalgar Square and some of the other sights of the city and thoroughly enjoyed the day with my cousin Nik and his family picnicking at Kent Castle. A pristinely restored, gorgeous English country garden and manor house. What a treat!

We cannot believe this is the final stop.

Now for something completely different … Amsterdam.

Like two trains passing in the night …

Or maybe it was more a case of a husband misguiding his wife into a moving train minus money, tickets and luggage and hurtling her off into the great unknown? Well whatever it was, this disembarkation off the Navigator of the Seas had certainly taken us from first class to coach quick.

After bidding a sad farewell to the cruise, we landed back in the real world with a resounding thud. Even before we had finished dragging our luggage the couple of cobbled stone kilometres from the ship to the train station in the blazing Civitavecchia heat, our well-oiled plan for returning to Rome and getting to the UK was already unravelling. There is a saying that men (and women) make plans and G-d laughs, well in this case we made plans and all hell broke loose.

In our defence it was inching towards the final weeks of our dream 3 months of travel around Europe and we had held up pretty darn good thus far, surprising even the most cynical naysayers (yes Mom, we were still alive at this stage). So this was our big Baranov travel disaster of the trip, and even though at the time it wasn’t all fun and games, in hindsight it still makes us fall about laughing.

So Gary had done the research and figured out that to catch our Ryan Air flight to London later that day we needed to get from Civitavecchia to Ciampino airport outside Roma. We had bought our tickets for the train ride from the port town to Ciampino, connecting in Rome, just in time to board our flight. The only catch was that at some stage during our mad baggage dash off the ship to catch said train, we learnt that the train to Ciampino went into the town itself and not to the airport of the same name – which was a good few miles into the countryside. Yes, we were going to have to wing it.

As a result of this little snafu, we now needed to catch the earlier train to Rome so that we could buy ourselves some time to work out the cheapest way to get to Ciampino airport from that point, either by bus or another train if it existed. We looked more haggard than two contestants lost in Morrocco in the final leg of the Amazing Race, and we were using the momentum of both our body weight coupled with our luggage to ram the elderly and random men, women and children out of our way. Pavements became ramps and the sheer power of our minds was employed to break through the ensuing arm and calve cramps. The sorry state of our luggage by August meant that Gary’s carefully taped up suitcase wheels and superglue stitching was unravelling faster than we were running but we could stop for nothing and no one.

Arriving at the quaint little railway station and having offended all our fellow passengers from the cruise, we then propelled ourselves past the ticket machines causing more than a little commotion, only to learn that our train was sitting at one of the furthest platforms from the entrance. With the station obviously still firmly stuck in the 18th century (or further back, when were ramps invented?) we had no choice but to throw our bags and ourselves one by one down the stairs, across the tunnel under the tracks and up the next set of stairs to the platform as no elevators were to be found. Gary was first up the stairs, which by the way was a Herculean feat at this point considering that he had so gallantly taken control of our main bags and given me the lighter hand luggage to cart along. The train was still on the platform before us, although by the sound of the deep rumbling noises it was beginning to emit, all indications were that ‘go’ time was any second now. As my husband summoned every ounce of remaining strength to assault the ‘open’ button on the closest carriage door, images of London and all the things we’d be losing out on after missing our flight went flashing before my eyes, the doors miraculously opened in front of us and I was inelegantly placed into the train with screams of ‘get in, get in’ ringing in my ears.

Triumphantly in the train, I turned round to grab the next bag from Gary and yes, the unthinkable happened. With the inaudible Italian announcement that our journey was to begin blaring through the train’s speakers, and conductors striding beside us with whistles going full tilt, AND with me IN the train mind you, Gary suddenly turned around and bolted back down the stairs of death and into the tunnel. I was stunned. I was speechless. Faster than a little whippet Gary had disappeared into the wide blue yonder and before I could extract myself from this precarious position, the heavy industrial steel train doors of the train shut suddenly just inches from my face.

It was at this stage that time seemed to slow down to a snail’s pace but in reality only a few seconds had passed before Gary re-emerged at the side of the train with our other main bag in tow. The very same bag which he had, unknown to me, left at the bottom of the stairs a few minutes before in order to get to the platform with the first bag at lightning speed. As never EVER letting our bags out of our sight was our paranoid South African rule number 2 on this travel expedition (a close second to always accepting free alcohol and appetizers), coupled with the fact that he had indeed opened the train door and pushed me in, I had unquestioningly jumped aboard like an innocent lamb to the slaughter thinking that we had just made it onto the train in the nick of time. Apparently not.

As Gary began banging on the train doors and waving his hands around violently, I knew I was done for. For a brief moment our eyes locked - his animated with helplessness and mine glaring back with the fury of a thousand suns. The train lurched forward jerking my two sad carry-on bags and I around like rag dolls and I succeeded in giving the international signal to phone me to my husband who had already gathered a sympathetic crowd of onlookers around him. Crazy tourists they must have thought, but entertaining none the less. Sadly, I think I was just out of his peripheral vision when I finally roused from my stunned daze and mouthed the words “I am going to kill you’ but I suppose I had other things to worry about now.

As a girl, like most young woman do, I had envied the 1940s black and white movie scenes where the stylishly clad lady waves goodbye to her 'Clark Gable' from the window of a moving train. Appropriately suave man on the platform shouts back, running beside the tracks and declaring his heroically undying love. Well kids, fairy tales aren’t what they used to be. I was now found myself standing in the tiny steel link area which connected two completely packed carriages, the tinny floors moving out of synch with each other beneath my feet and providing brief flashes of the stoney tracks below every now and then. I had no money, no passports, no water or much needed painkillers, no idea what our plan was and most importantly, as i was remined by the trusty sign smack above my head which read no ticket = 100 Euros spot fine or jail if not paid’ - I had no ticket. Granted, we had never actally been asked for our tickets on an Italian train before but the universe and I have this nifty little arrangement in situations just like these and I knew that today, as sure as night follows day, I would be called out by the ticket inspector. The fact that i had parted with more than a few Euros and had a perfectly good ticket sitting in my husband's back pocket just aded to the frustration levels.

It was only an hour long trip to Rome, you can do this Pugh-Jones. Just stand iinnocuously in the corner with your bags innocently between your legs and try to look as law abiding as possible. Maybe the worst of this mishap was behind us? Sure, it was going be yet another mad sweaty dash to the plane at Ciampino but goodness knows I had carbo-loaded on the ship for just such an occason … that is if we had the right plane/ airport/ town this time … how many more mix ups could two people actually make in one day?

It was only upon taking a moment to survey my fellow travellers jammed with me in this sinister nowhere land between carriages, that I realized that I may not be in the home stretch just yet. The man who grabbed my attention first was a lively elderly Italian who was obviously extremely inebriated and began singing and chatting away to who knows what at the top of his voice. Somehow, in between his constant rolling on the floor, he because quite taken with me and even with my eyes downcast he insisted on asking me a loud series of personal questions. It wasn’t his complete lack of personal space, or even his need to spit in my face as he jabbered away, but his constant urge to stroke my face with his stained hands that relly started to become a little much. I tried to diplomatically and as unassumingly as possible, sidestep myself out of this hot mess - bloody boiling in there it was indeed! It then dawned on me that the only people who could potentially save me from this strange man if he became any friendlier were a group of angry looking hooded Tunisian youths staring me up and down. They didnt look particularly amenable to coming to my rescue and so, feeling more than a tad vulnerable at this point, it was a relief when the automatic carriage doors started slamming open and shut every 10 minutes or so. Adrenlin at the thought of being arrested kicked in every time and I came up with a nifty routine of taking refuge in the public toilet to dodge any ticket conductors.

I was literally stuck between a rock and a hard place. Well, actually I had suspended myself above the floor (come on, I had seen enough movies and knew how to hide in a bathroom with some skill at least), one foot on the dirty sink and the other on the broken toilet seat. The longest train ride of my life and accompanied by the sound of sreetching metal for some extra mood music.

Flash forward to Gary about an hour later whom, upon entering his 2nd class carriage and placing his luggage serenely into the designated bag compartment, sat down at his caboose and spent the journey chatting with doting Americans (‘You poor man, you must be so traumatized about being left behind’) in between checking the latest Skysports football news on our laptop compliments of the free WIFI. With an extra ticket for good measure. Just saying.

Well, all’s well that ends well. Luckily I had an hour at Roma Termini to sip some coffee and recover, and by the time Gary arrived I had secured us a speedy taxi ride to Ciampino. Of course, the pleasure of having to try wear or trash half the weight of our bags before boarding our Ryan Air plane was still ahead of us, but at this stage we were just happy to have arrived in the same place together. Not even the fact that our overweight charge cost more than our actual ticket, and the whole exercise neagated the purpose of going through Ryan Air pergatory in the first place, could dampen our relief. The drama of having to put our much loved and schlepped hand pressed olive oil from the Agritourismo in Lazio in the airport bin because it weighed 2 kgs - and then deciding not to cheap out and trying to dig it out of the rubbish only to rethink this again and chuck it away - also created its fair share of what I like to think was a form of live performance theatre. And the run to the plane to secure one of the undesignated seats on the plane made for a nice change.

Next stop, Londres and the Lipinskis.

The passage of time ... Kusadasi and Chania

Kusadasi, Turkey and Chania, Crete share much in common: both are picturesque port villages nestled on the edge of the crystal-clear azure bathtub that is the Mediterranean, charmingly combining vestiges of bygone eras and civilizations alongside bustling tourist markets and hubs. And yet, beneath the sometimes kitsch markets and bazaars they are known for, each destination hides buried jewels of exceptional significance that would delight even the most seasoned traveller.

Stepping off the ship at Kusadasi I was immediately hit by a wall of sunlight and heat, followed closely by an overwhelming wave of chaotic noise – a cacophony of hooting scooters and voices raised in haggling and bartering and negotiating. After the mandatory trek to Bird Island, with its beautiful walkway connecting the mainland to the tiny island in the shallow waters, we walked the pier and went into the village for some much needed shade. Being more concerned with getting to grips with the history and essence of the town rather than the discount deals to be had in the shuk, Gary and I headed straight into the side streets of the port and looked for any cultural landmarks that took our fancy. After a long morning of the maze of alleys, we stumbled upon the still heart of the village – the beautiful mosque and its courtyard.

Arriving just as the call to prayer was sounded, and not wanting to offend or get in the way, we stood behind the intricate green gates of the square and watched the men and boys of the town leave the humming shopping area and take in a moment of quiet contemplation. The peace of this ritual even washed over us on the sidelines and after prayers had finished we decided to locate an authentic Turkish restaurant, preferably one favoured by the locals, where we could spend the rest of the afternoon with a strong cup of authentic coffee.

Having no idea of where to turn, and with hundreds of choices of places to eat and drink in the town, it was pure luck that led us to the best spot in town – verified by the fact that the ship’s captain and senior staff, as well as our Turkish waiter, were the other patrons for the day. The open courtyard of the seating area, filled with dappled light through plump vines and men dressed in freshly pressed white apron’s and uniforms, flowed with ice cold Effe beers and homemade dolmades and humus. We idled away the hours people-watching and overhearing conversations of the various locals and travellers who regularly frequent this place. After talking to our own family via free WIFI, we made a dash back to the boat and yes, Gary even got to flex his bargaining muscles in some of the stalls on the way to the ship.

In Chania, we also bypassed the markets with their baskets of crawling (and escaping!) snails and fresh crabs and made a beeline straight for the island’s famous synagogue. The route to the shul, which we made up as we went along sans map, transported us back into the movie Zorba the Greek - whitewashed two-storey homes with turquoise shutters and matching tables and chairs; heavy ripe creepers hanging over entrances with white laced curtains; courtyards filled with old men drinking ouzo to the sounds of a strumming guitar. Beautiful! The synagogue, hidden behind a non-descript door down one of the side streets, was absolutely gorgeous in every way – more vines and trellises, corrugated iron roofs and chiselled stone doorways with elaborate wooden interiors. The velvet and gold and silver artwork of the Judaica, and the simple yet striking beauty of the stone mikveh, all felt untouched for the past hundred years. And yet the incredible warmth and history of Etz Hayyim also had a painful side. The unique history of this community, isolated from much of the world like Crete itself, was subject to the different influences of the various powers that were in charge of this part of the Med throughout the centuries. Periods of religious tolerance bled into periods of persecution for the Jews here, culminating in the 1942 tragedy where the entire community was imprisoned under Nazi rule and forced onto the ill-fated Tanais ship, which was mistakenly sunk by an Allied torpedo and left no survivors.

Despite this haunting event, the spirit of which we could feel in the synagogue halls and courtyards that day, the image that comes to mind when I think of Chania is of the gorgeous old harbour entrance. Despite still being littered with crumbling buildings damaged by World War 2 bombings, the area is defined by an elegant domed mosque on the edge of the waters, a building which has served as a church too and is now a public art museum. The amalgamation of Ottoman, Roman, Greek and other Western and Eastern influences has created a striking town and population, which today stands as an intriguing example of multiculturalism and interfaith harmony.

The passage of time is chronicled so beautifully in both these seaside towns, and the timelessness of the cultures and exchanges of the buildings and heritage here endures into the future just as the ancient waves of the ocean reinvent themselves as they spray against the stone of the piers …

A Greek Tragedy? Phyllo Pastry and Protests

Whizzing through the whitewashed maze of streets at lightning speed, the creaking of the careening bus competing with the anti-EU commentary of our very own ‘Zorba the Greek’ lookalike tour guide.

“Funny, the Germans are putting us in debt when they stole all that money under the Nazis. What if we asked for that money back? They occupied our homeland and now they think they can tell us what to do!”

Through the windows we see the early morning sun beginning to warm the cool stone pavements around us and we catch glimpses of open shirted men, heavy gold crucifixes catching the light as they resume their positions on flimsy chairs lining the streets. Hands constantly in motion weaving worn, decorative worry beads between their fingers weaving in a rhythmic pattern, these men seem to immediately launch into animated conversations which continue even as the condensation on their iced coffees mark the old wooden tables.

The juxtaposition of the tense political, social and economic climate alongside the almost timeless carefree nature of city life here and was a theme that would echo throughout our very eventful day in Athens.

So many images stand out in my mind when I think back to our day in the homeland of democracy. The peaceful beauty of Athenians taking their morning swim before a day of work, diving into the cool turquoise water right overlooked by their three and four storey city apartments. The whisper of the wind through the pillars of the mighty Parthenon, rising above Athens from its majestic perch on the Acropolis – the sheer genius of its scale, structure and white beauty mesmerizing even the rowdiest tourist crowds. And of course, the huge and impossibly sluggish fans above the restaurants, doing absolutely nothing to cool the perspiring patrons who, despite the heat, do not stop for even one second before tucking into their fresh, steaming spanakoptika. Yes, the only thing that cools you off here is the Mythos beer.

Ah, Athena. The noise, the traffic, the religious knick knacks, the shopping along the Plaka and the smiling Greek Orthodox priests in their flowing black robes. We walked the streets of the city attempting to soak it all up and make the most of our time here. One stop I had to take Gary to was, of course, Syntagma Square and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Years ago on a family holiday my brother had mortally insulted the Greek people by mocking the unique walking style and sheer pom-pom shoeness of the Greek guards at the Evzones. We simply had to return to the scene of the crime! Besides, any tourist worth their weight in salt has to pose with one of said guards in the blazing midday heat.

The changing of the guards was interesting but we sensed something more exciting was in store when an increasingly large number of riot police began erecting temporary barricades. Asking one of the journalists who had suddenly appeared on the scene what was going on, he informed us that Syntagma Square was about to play host to an anti-austerity measure protest by students against cuts in funding for universities. Now, we had mastered the art of free guided tours and it was time to take this up a gear – catching a little history in action, gratis.

The arrival of the protesters was heralded by an eerie quieting of the streets, as weary shopkeepers and newsstands in the vicinity began boarding up their windows and wares. From the bowls of the city raised voices began chanting and the sound of wooden sticks being beaten on cement carried across the square. Now, although I’ve organized a few protests on parliament in my day, when it comes to anti-austerity measure etiquette, I was at a bit of a loss. We didn’t know what to expect and we were met with a little more than we bargained for when the students began descending on Syntagma. These guys were showing up for duty - black balaclavas, gas masks, sticks and poles and raised fists in gloves. No jovial toyi toying and cheering, the anger and frustration was visceral. The riot police were also out in force by this stage and within a few minutes of a water bottle being thrown from the crowd we were met by a short sharp round of rubber bullets as a tear gas canister was lobbied into the masses.

After spending some time amongst the students hearing about their grievances and reading what we could from their banners, and darting across the street to miss any stray rubber bullets, we decided to walk back to the ship and leave unscathed. However, this was not before Gary was asked to hand over his camera by one of the protest organizers. Apparently they were concerned that his photos would be used by the police for identification purposes. Greek charades in a protest gathering under pressure is not easy, but Gary somehow managed to charm his way out of this situation too.

On our way back from the city I was struck by the sight of resigned and dejected shopkeepers slowly coming back to their shop windows after the protestors had passed. With wipers and buckets of soapy water in hand, they seemed to wash off the graffiti as if on autopilot – this spectacle was obviously a regular occurrence. ‘Wanted’ posters of the faces of Greek parliamentarians who had voted for financial bail-out packages lined the intersections, and the feeling one got that day was that this incredible place where the theories of power to the people had emerged was home to a population who now felt marginalized and voiceless.

Some of today’s most current event stories where playing themselves out against the backdrop of ancient ruins belonging to one of the oldest civilizations in the world.

'Leave the guns, take the cannoli'

Sicily - salty royal blue surf and searing heat pelting down on dusty piazzas and domed churches. The birthplace of cannoli and Mafioso, arriving on this sun kissed island is like being transported to a scene of the ‘old country’ in a Mafia movie.

Indeed Messina, the town of our Sicilian stop, was the actual location for the filming of ‘The Godfather 2’. So much of the timeworn buildings, stereotypical residents and ‘rough around the edges’ atmosphere conjured up vivid images of a forgotten era.

With most of the ship’s guests, over half of whom hailed from Italia, still on board the ship and packing the pool and gym areas to maximum capacity, spending a day in Messina was a chance to step out of the luxurious sophistication and crowds of a cruise bubble and into an authentic and humble world. We wandered the streets, curiously peering into every grocer, café and deli along the way and taking in the lazy hazy afternoon ambience of a region that holds so much mystery and infamy.

Despite our secret wish of stumbling upon a car chase complete with large shiny black vehicles or a shoot-out between men in tailored black suits and fedoras, the town was rather unassuming and relaxed. I was intrigued by the exotic mix of Moorish, Venetian, Spanish and Italian influences in the architecture, religion and cultural life of the island, not to mention the dialect, and would truly love to explore more of this area in the future.

Carrying the striking mental pictures of exquisitely delicate and gold flecked mosaics of Madonna and child that bathed the roof and beams of the main basilica, Messina was a relatively monotone detour sprinkled with moments of remarkable beauty and perplexity.

A note on European parking

After nearly two months of driving on the wrong side of the road less travelled, through France, Spain and Italy, we have come to some incredibly profound and universally powerful conclusions.

The key to road safety in Europe can be summed up in three deceptively simple words: hard, fast and dangerous. With lots of swerving. Lots.

Now it some of these tips may seem counterintuitive, but here are some of my top driving/parking/ vehicle points to keep in mind. Thank me later:

1. Paying for parking is for suckers – it’s expensive, your car will get dented and it’s harder to find than hen’s teeth and unicorns. There is never any excuse to pay for parking in Europe: just pull over into an alley, put on your hazards and head on out. Everyone’s doing it?

2. Nudging the vehicles in front and behind you to get that perfect parallel position is a special kind of art. Master it immediately.
3. I recommend Smart cars, which in Europe can be parked horizontally and vertically into any roadside space.

4. Driving lanes are mere suggestions and when rounding corners on blind rises, feel free to pop on over to the other side for a bit (this is especially popular along coastal corniches).

5. Speed limits are minimum recommendations; the only real limitation is your imagination and whatever horsepower you’re packing.

6. Hooting is obligatory and seems to be a cheery way of greeting fellow motorists.

7. Do not trust scruffy men wearing takkies at toll booths. They will rob you, and yes I speak from experience.

8. Violent hand gestures are a must and really do add to the calm and soothing environment around you.

9. Stopping for pedestrians is frowned upon, under any and all circumstances.

10. Vespas have right of way, always and no matter what.

11. And if you have more than one or two pieces of hand luggage, do not even think of hiring a Fiat 500. (If by some evil stroke of karma you do end up with a Fiat 500, quickly swop it out during a beer break at the rental car place and do not, I repeat, do not look back).

You're welcome!