Renting an EV (Electric Vehicle) for a European Road Trip

Renting an all-electric car (or EV, electric vehicle) for the first time ever on my recent trip to Italy, I was incredibly steep on the learning curve.

If you follow me on Facebook, you know I am a devotee of the little, sporty Fiat 500 (cheengkway-chento). For a short getaway in Piedmont between guidebook research assignments, my wife and I were looking to rent one again — ideally with an automatic transmission. I was comparing prices when a screaming deal popped up: a Fiat 500e that was automatic, because it was also all-electric, for the same price as a gas-powered car. I figured, why not?

It turns out, there are many answers to that question…mainly because, while I am fully on board with the idea of electric cars, I had never actually driven one. In the end, it worked out fine. But it provided a few moments of drama and an education in the pros and cons of EV road-tripping in Europe. If you already have an EV, none of this will surprise you. (In fact, you’ll richly enjoy the Schadenfreude of an EV newbie making every possible mistake.) But for fellow rank beginners, I hope you can learn from my experience.

I’m not a total fool, so before booking the car, I checked the range on the model I was renting: Approximately 200 kilometers on a full charge. We were picking the car up in Milan, then driving to a B&B near Alba (about 175 km away), where we’d be joyriding and day-tripping for a few days. Our B&B had a charger, so I knew we’d be set once there. The question was: Would we be able to get all the way down there? Preoccupied with booking the many details of my trip, I brushed that concern aside. Eh, whatever. We’ll figure it out.

I may not be a total fool…but I am certainly on the fool spectrum, because I failed to do anywhere near enough homework until we picked up the car. As she handed over the keys, the rental agent offered a grave warning: “You know the range is much lower on the highway…right?” Still in denial, we drove away from Milan and headed for our reserved lunch in beautiful Piedmont, cruising along the expressway at 130 kilometers per hour. But it soon became clear that our vacation was not immune to the laws of science. The “projected range” number on our dashboard began dropping precipitously…very nearly at a rate of two “kilometers to go” wiped out for every kilometer we traveled.

It soon became clear that there was no way we’d make it anywhere near our B&B on a single charge. And even our lunch stop, about midway there, was looking questionable.

This was the first of many stark lessons in driving an EV: The “optimal” range is for in-city driving, which continuously recharges the battery as you brake. On an expressway, however, the vehicle absolutely gobbles your battery. When you think about it, this makes perfect sense: You’re asking a lot of that electric motor to keep those wheels spinning at top speed. But it’s counter-intuitive to someone who’s driven gas-powered cars my entire life, and who’s absorbed the immutable rule that you get better mileage on the highway.

I should add, in hot weather, the battery drains even faster…for the same reason, which I’ve never fully understood, that my phone battery dies quickly on a beach vacation. And on this September day, the outside temperature was an unseasonably warm 90 degrees. (Obviously-in-retrospect, it did not help that we were also blasting the AC.)

We did make it to lunch. Rather than savoring three different delectable risottos, I spent most of that meal frantically researching our predicament on my phone. Searching for top-up options, I was horrified to see that a basic home charger might take as long as 22 hours to fully charge our car. (I briefly imagined scrambling to find a crummy roadside hotel, somewhere near a charging station, instead of the idyllic B&B we’d booked.) My panic subsided as I learned that there are different speeds of chargers. Most common are 22 kWh (kilowatt hours); to fully charge our car on one of those, it could still take a few hours. But when I searched for “fast EV charger,” I found some that were 110 kWh, which — I hoped — could fully charge our car in less than an hour.

Between the second and third courses, I located a fast (110 kWh) charging station about a 20-minute drive from our restaurant, in the direction of our B&B. After we finished eating, we headed out. Let me tell you, that was a harrowing trip. When the battery charge meter crossed below 20%, it began flashing yellow. At 10%, it went red. Soon after, we pulled into the hot asphalt parking lot of a gas station, in a particularly ugly industrial zone — and lo and behold, there was the charging station. (Cue angelic voices and miraculous sunbeams.)

In order to use the charger, I had to first download an app on my phone, then create a profile, and then add a credit card to my account. At that point I was able to active the charger and plug it into my thirsty car. We held our breath until…bingo! The Fiat was charging.

Charging the car from just under 10% to 100% took approximately 45 minutes. We went into the little gas station café and ordered a couple of cappuccinos, while I watched the charging progress on my app. (Another lesson I learned was that the first 80% is much faster than the last 20%. However, we were just far enough from our B&B that we did not want to take any more chances on a less-than-full battery.) Once it hit “full,” we hopped in and drove the rest of the way to our B&B…only about an hour later than we’d hoped.

A long expressway journey was, clearly, entirely the wrong use case for a small EV. But once we were at our destination, we adored our little electric car. Our B&B had two chargers available, and our gracious host, Fausto, let us use them for free.

Fausto was also extremely patient with how green we were — and I mean “green” not in the “environmentally conscious” sense, but in the “clueless beginner in desperate need of education” sense. One night, I plugged in our car, locked it, and went to bed. The next morning Fausto kindly explained that, once the car is locked, the charger cannot be removed. A fellow guest with a plug-in hybrid had to wait for me to unlock the car and free up the charger. While he was charging his car, this jovial German said to us, “You’re very bold for taking a fully electric car on a trip like this. That’s why I have a hybrid. I don’t need that kind of stress.” (Golly, thanks for the tip!)

We spent the next few days joyriding around hill towns, rustic restaurants, and remote wineries. We learned quickly that EVs love hilly terrain — which is as good for your range as expressway driving is bad for it. Anytime we were braking or going downhill — which we did a lot — it recharged our battery (slowly). It became a fun challenge to see how far we could go without our battery level dipping. My wife became an expert in driving to maximize our charge. The “scenic route,” over the hills and above vineyards, is even sweeter when it also tops up your fuel supply.

That said, driving an EV certainly changed the way we planned our time. We became paranoid about running out of charge at an inopportune moment. One day, we felt very risky driving to a city about 50 minutes away. As it turned out, we made it there and back easily — and, thanks to the hilly terrain, had plenty left “in the tank” to extend our drive to a nearby wine village.

There’s an old joke that “FIAT” stands for “Fix it again, Tony.” At one point, when we were scrutinizing our battery percentage while trying to decide if we could risk taking a scenic detour on the way home, we decided that they should change the name to CIAT: Charge it again, Tony.

On the other hand, from a philosophical point of view, it’s a healthy thing to be so aware of the fuel we consume as we travel. Every kilometer you drive burns energy, and takes some sort of toll on the environment. I have never been so keenly aware of this as when I was driving that little car.

Our B&B’s charger made life easy, allowing us to start each day topped up. But when we needed to charge on the road, we were impressed by the extensive EV charger network in this part of Italy. The most abundant ones were accessed through the Be Charge app, which — once set up — was easy to use. However, most of the chargers we found were the slower 22 kWh version (which would take something like 3-4 hours to fully charge our car), with only a few faster 110 kWh ones (which took 45 minutes or less).

Our big challenge was the return trip. My wife had a late-morning flight from Milan’s airport, which was about 175 kilometers (a 90-minute drive) from our B&B — within the Fiat’s theoretical optimal range, but, as we now knew all too well, far below its actual highway range. We plotted out a fast 110 kWh charger about halfway there, which should be just right to make the entire trip with just one recharge. This forced us to get up and take off an hour earlier than we’d have been able to with a gas-powered car. (This doesn’t sound too bad. But when you’re talking about getting up at 5:30 instead of 6:30, that’s a painful adjustment.)

We topped up our battery overnight, took off before dawn, and — just a few minutes after the sun rose above the horizon — pulled off at the fast charger I’d located. It was in the middle of an industrial zone, down a parkway from a giant furniture store, with not a soul in sight — extra-deserted since it was Sunday morning. During the 40 minutes it took us to hit 100%, we sat in the car, having a makeshift breakfast from leftover groceries. And then we were off — making it to the airport, and dropping off the car, in plenty of time.

I should note that our EV experiment was also a money-saver. The base price of the rental was about the same as it would have been for a gas-powered Fiat 500. But the fuel was drastically less. The car came fully charged. Our B&B let us use their charging station for free (though I’m guessing you’d pay at many others). The two times we did use a public charger, it cost about $12 for a rapid charge from 10% or 20% to 100%. And we were able to return it “empty” (just under 20%) with no penalty. So our total cost for fuel on this trip — 660 kilometers, or just over 400 miles — was less than $25. Based on my rough figuring, gas for that same journey would’ve cost well above $100.

In the end, despite a couple of hours of drama that first day — and the early departure the last day — I was glad to have had the experience of renting an EV in Europe. I’d do it again, under the right circumstances. And it got us thinking even more seriously that our next car back home should be an EV.

That said, if you’re considering renting an EV for a European trip, here are the points I’d take carefully into consideration:

  • An EV works best for in-city or in-region countryside driving, rather than a big, point-to-point road trip. Unless you enjoy the adventure of finding charging stations, and don’t mind waiting around for the car to charge, don’t attempt using an EV for a long-distance trip…especially on your first time out.
  • I’d only rent an EV if I were confident that all of my lodgings had easy, on-site access to a charger — and only if I could pick up the car relatively near where I’m staying. (In retrospect, my biggest mistake was underestimating how challenging that 175-kilometer initial drive would be for my EV’s range.)

  • Do some homework to fully understand the model EV that you’re renting. What’s the “optimal” range, and — more important — how is that affected by being on the highway, hot or cold weather, and so on? I had perhaps the “worst-case” scenario: an older-model (late-2010s) Fiat 500e. The optimal range is just over 200 km, but even when charged to 100%, it never showed more than 180 km available — and on a hot day on the expressway, we could barely make it more than 100 km. I understand that this particular car is known for its limited range; in fact, even Fiat’s own newer EVs have better batteries and longer ranges. And, of course, Teslas and other premium EVs are many times better still. (On the other hand, renting a Tesla costs a pretty penny — well beyond my budget.)

  • Be very clear on the availability of public charging stations in the areas you’re visiting, should you need them — not only whether there are enough of them, and where they are, but how fast they are. For a relatively speedy, on-the-way top-up, look for a 110 kWh or better charger; the charger at your accommodations can be slower, for overnight charges. Northern Italy impressed us with its widespread availability of charging stations. But, as the saying goes (and this time quite literally), “your mileage may vary”: I imagine there are parts of Europe (and vast swaths of the United States) where you’d simply be out of luck.
  • Also be clear on how to access public charging stations. In Italy, most options appeared to be through Be Charge. Their app made it easy to find chargers, know how fast they were, and even see whether they were currently in use. However, you must have the app installed — and decent Internet access on your phone — in order to activate the charger once you’re there.  I was expecting that I’d be able to “tap” a credit card at the terminal when I got there. But — in the case of these chargers, at least — I was surprised to find that payment and use was available only through the app. Of course, in other parts of Europe, other companies may dominate. Do your homework, download the app(s) you need, and set them up before you need them.

With all of those points in mind…happy EV traveling! While it’s a little scary to be so steep on the learning curve, in the end I’m glad to better understand the all-electric car option — especially because, I imagine, EVs will become more and more accessible to travelers in the coming years. And next time, I’ll make smarter use of this exciting technology.

Jams Are Fun: Making the Most of a Bad Situation

As we head into a long, dark winter, I find myself thinking about my travel motto: “Jams Are Fun.” That means making the most of a bad situation, rolling with the unexpected, and finding humor, joy, and meaning in the chaos. Here’s one example, from a recent trip to Croatia.

One time, in the scenic beach town of Rovinj, I parked my car at one of the big lots just outside the historic center. When I went to get my car a few days later,  the parking lot had become a huge outdoor market and carnival zone for the town’s big patron saint festival. The space where I’d left my car was home to a rickety tilt-a-whirl.

At the parking booth, I showed the attendant my ticket. He shuffled some papers around and asked for my license-plate number. Then he said, matter-of-factly, “OK, so we moved your car.”

“What?! But you don’t have my keys. Did you tow me?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head and wagging his finger. “Not tow. Not tow. We pick up your car… with…” And he pantomimed a crane lifting up my car and placing it gently on the back of a flatbed truck.

“Where is it now?” I asked. He pointed at the overflow lot, all the way across the bay. “Over there,” he said.

I protested that I had no idea there was a festival planned. “Don’t worry,” he reassured me. “You already pay for the parking. We just have to move your car. You can just go and get it, and drive away.”

I trudged 15 minutes along the grubby waterfront to the overflow lot — packed with hundreds of cars in town for the big festival — and started pressing the lock/unlock button on my key fob. Finally I heard my locks click. Sure enough, there was my car, none the worse for wear, just waiting for me… about a half-mile from where I’d parked it.

By the time I drove back into town to pick up my wife and our luggage, I was already chuckling about all of this. “What took so long?” she asked.

“Well, you know how it goes,” I said. I laughed and shook my head. “Jams are fun.”

My wife’s Great Aunt Mildred was a remarkable soul. She traveled far and wide, at time when such a thing was unheard of for a single woman. And after seeing more of the planet than everyone else in her small Ohio hometown combined, she penned a travelogue about her experiences. The title: Jams Are Fun. What really stuck with Aunt Mildred wasn’t the castles and cathedrals; it wasn’t the museums and the monuments; it wasn’t the grand scenery and the fine meals. It was when trips went sideways — memorable snags in perfectly laid plans, which forced her to scramble for creative solutions.

When I encounter fellow travelers on the road, the ones who impress me the most are those who have this same “Jams Are Fun” approach to life. They come alive as they tell long, meandering stories about a missed connection or a canceled reservation or getting hopelessly lost. Athletes call this “playing loose” — being prepared, but willing to improvise and respond to the situation as it unfolds (or unravels). Problems aren’t problems. They’re opportunities to create vivid memories.

Thinking back on this — many months into a pandemic, and more than a year since I last set foot in Europe — it strikes me that “Jams Are Fun” isn’t just a good philosophy for travel. It’s a helpful attitude for dealing with whatever life throws at you, including and especially during a crisis. This doesn’t mean minimizing or trivializing real problems. It means looking for silver linings.

My personal challenge through all of the anxiety, sadness, and disappointment has been to find moments of peace and joy: making progress on those do-it-yourself projects; mastering some new recipes; finally writing that book. I find that I’m in better touch with faraway friends than ever before. And one of my favorite work-from-home perks is when my friend and his seven-year-old ride their bikes by my house every afternoon so we can hang out on the front steps.

We’re entering what experts agree will be an especially challenging phase of this pandemic. We’re all fatigued. We’ve had enough. Those fun little things we did early on — putting teddy bears in our windows and doing Zoom happy hours with co-workers — aren’t quite so fun anymore. But now more than ever, it’s important to stay the course, stay positive, and try to find the fun in the jams. Like Sisyphus rolling his rock up the hill, we’re in this whether we like it or not. So we might as well make the most of it.

I’ve been collecting my own “Jams Are Fun” travel stories for the last few years on my blog. If you need a little inspiration (or just a few laughs at another traveler’s misfortune), check some of these out. And in the Comments, share your own favorite “Jams Are Fun” stories.

One time, in the North Atlantic waters around Norway, my cruise ship hit some incredibly rough seas. I lived to tell the tale.

On the back roads of Bosnia-Herzegovina, I got pulled over by a pair of corrupt cops and shaken down for a bribe.

Researching a guidebook on Italy’s Cinque Terre, I found myself embroiled in a community-wide dispute between rival gelato makers. I managed to escape, but the crossfire was delicious.

Finishing up a busy trip in Rome, and very ready to get to the airport and fly home, I discovered how hard it is to get a taxi when it rains.

When producing a TV episode in Bucharest, the Romanian Parliament told us that we could film inside. Then they changed their minds. And then…they changed their minds again.

In Salzburg, my guidebook research responsibilities required me to take two back-to-back Sound of Music sightseeing tours. Not one of my favorite things.

In a bizarre sequence of events, I made plans to meet up with an old friend at what we expected to be a quiet rural airport…only to find it was hosting a Europe-wide air show that very afternoon.

As a very light sleeper, I worry a lot about nighttime noise. So imagine my joy when I showed up at a hotel just as a wedding band was setting up in the lobby.

On Scotland’s remote North Coast, my fuel gauge dipped to “empty” just as I was pulling up at the only gas station for many, many miles in either direction…which had just closed for the day.

And, really, the entire experience of driving in Sicily. (Pro tip: Just go numb.)

What about you? What are some of your favorite “Jams Are Fun” memories?

The Insomniac’s Nightmare Hotel: It’s Gonna Be a Noisy Night

After a lifetime of world travel, my wife’s Great-Great-Aunt Mildred wrote a memoir. The title: Jams Are Fun. Mildred realized that it’s not always the big sights that stick with you the most…it’s those serendipitous moments when things go memorably awry. In the spirit of Aunt Mildred, this installment of my “Jams Are Fun” series — about when good trips turn bad, and the journey is better for it — involves an insomniac’s worst nightmare.

Checking into my hotel on a Saturday night in a small European city, I can tell immediately things will not end well.

“I mentioned this in my reservation — can I please be assigned a quiet room?”

“Oh. Hm,” the receptionist says, scrunching up her face, pondering an unsolvable riddle, tap-tap-tapping on her keyboard. “Well, you see, today we have a wedding.”

“Ah,” I say. Having read online reviews, I know all too well about this hotel’s epic wedding parties. Which is why I asked for a quiet room. Months ago.

Really working hard to reassure me — fruitlessly — she continues: “So, the wedding is on the first floor.”

“O…K…” Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“But,” she continues triumphantly, looking up from her keyboard to smile at me, “your room is on the second floor.”

Glancing at the mailbox-like key caddy behind her, I see the hotel has five floors. “Hm. Well, do you not have anything on a higher floor?” You know…like I specifically requested?

“No, unfortunately, we are full house tonight. We have the wedding. Plus we have two groups.”

“Hm.”

Buuuuut,” she begins helpfully, “your room is at the opposite end of the hall from the wedding. So I hope you will not have problems. And if you do, you can just…call.” She gestures toward the phone at the reception desk.

“So, if it’s midnight, and I’m trying to sleep, and someone’s wedding reception music has a thumping bassline that vibrates through my mattress and shatters any hope of the sweet solace of slumber, all I have to do is call the reception desk, and you will immediately bring the proceedings to a halt and circulate among the guests, individually shushing them until they are all speaking in barely audible whispers?”

“Yes, of course!” she cheerfully replies. “That is always our policy here at The Good Sleep Despite Wedding Hotel.”

“And then, in the wee hours of the morning,” she continues graciously, “I will personally scale the bell towers of nearby churches to remove clappers from any early-morning churchbells, lest they trouble your rest. Once stationed in the belfry, I will employ my silenced sniper rifle to dispatch any loudly chirping birds near your window. With these tried-and-true methods, we can guarantee you the highest quality of sleep.”

Except she doesn’t say that. And I don’t either. We both know what she really means: If you need to yell at somebody — without results — at 2 in the morning, she’ll take the abuse and apologize profusely. And then I’ll just toss and turn furiously for another hour or two, until the party subsides just before dawn…and its pesky churchbells.

Knowing I’ve been beat, I take my keys, hang my head, and, Charlie Brown-style, sulk up to my room. On the way, I pass a DJ hand-trucking his amplifier toward the ballroom, and another guy hauling up crates of jostling beer bottles.

To their credit, they have located me as far as they could from the wedding party — while still being just one floor above. (Seriously, guys?)

However, looking out the window, I realize that in order to get me away from the wedding, they’ve situated me overlooking the town’s main walking street. Opening the window, I hear the charming bustle of pedestrians, plus a street violinist who seems to be slowly executing an elderly cat. It’s mostly pleasant now (cat killer aside) — at 7 o’clock. But this is a college town. On a Saturday night. On the final weekend of nice summer weather. By midnight, I assume, a rave will break out about 20 feet below my bed.

I begin to hear a thumping bass beat vibrating through the walls. The wedding DJ must be warming up. But no — it’s coming from the other direction. It’s coming from outside the hotel. Sticking my head out the window and craning my neck, I can just barely see a bit of the main square, just a block away. Something’s going on.

Heading out to investigate, I walk a block to the square, which is filled with a lively commotion that seems excessive even for a festive Saturday night. They’re hosting some sort of wine harvest festival. Food stalls are grilling up meat and potatoes and onions, and I realize how hungry I am. Just then, a DJ mounts the big stage and grabs the microphone. Promising several uninterrupted hours of top hits, he begins playing an old Britney Spears song. It’s loud. No, I mean, really loud. The bass vibrates through my back molars, and my eardrums start to tingle.

Grabbing a plate of food, I find a bench at the far end of the square and consider my predicament. I am a terribly light sleeper. And it seems that on this Saturday night, I’m faced with a perfect storm — stuck between the proverbial hard place (the wedding) and the literal rock (music, from the square). This could be a sleepless night.

Except…it isn’t. It turns out I’ll sleep like a baby…eight-hours-plus. Because, knowing I’m a light sleeper, I’ve spent the last few years assembling strategies to get me through situations just like this one. And it works. In my next post, I’ll fill you in on my best tips for getting a good night’s sleep on the road.


Aunt Mildred was right: Jams are fun, indeed. What’s your favorite travel jam?

If you savor the Schadenfreude of hearing about good trips gone bad, check out the other posts in my “Jams Are Fun” series. How about that time I ran out of gas on Scotland’s remote north coast? Or that time I was stuck on a cruise ship during a massive storm in the North Sea? Or the time I became embroiled in a gelato feud in a small Italian village?

See You at the Air Show: A Not-So-Glamorous Day in the Life of a Travel Writer

My wife’s Great-Great-Aunt Mildred traveled far and wide, long before such a thing was fashionable. Late in life, Aunt Mildred wrote a memoir about her experiences. The title: Jams Are Fun. It turns out that, after seeing so much of the world, Aunt Mildred realized that it’s not always the big museums, the fancy dinners, or the castles and cathedrals that stick with you most. It’s those serendipitous moments when things go awry. And so, in the spirit of Aunt Mildred, this part of my “Jams Are Fun” series about when good trips turn bad, and the journey is better for it, takes place in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Czech Republic.

As a travel writer, I pride myself on coming up with creative solutions to vexing itinerary challenges. It’s a fun problem-solving exercise. But sometimes, things just don’t pan out.

On a recent guidebook-research trip through Eastern Europe, I wanted to drive my rental car from Prague to Kraków, with some countryside stops along the way. However, the international drop-off fees for going between the Czech Republic and Poland were prohibitively high. I was mightily pleased with myself to come up with a clever plan: I’d drop my car at an obscure little airport on the outskirts of the small city of Ostrava, just a 30-minute drive from the Polish border. And then, for the second part (and masterstroke) of my plan, my Polish driver friend, Andrew, would come pick me and bring me the rest of the way to Kraków, with some sightseeing stops en route. Brilliant! What could go wrong?

Excitedly, I emailed Andrew to set up the plan. He was totally game. By the way, Andrew Durman is a prince of a guy and one of my favorite Polish people. I’ve recommended him in our Rick Steves Eastern Europe guidebook for years, and he’s provided hundreds — maybe thousands — of our readers with a warm welcome and a worry-free side-trips to outlying sights, or even scouring the Polish countryside in search of their family roots. When I brought my Chicago-area Dabrowski cousins to Kraków several years ago, it was Andrew who piled us into his van, drove us deep into pig-farming country, and translated our conversations with our newly discovered, long-lost Polish cousins. I always think of Andrew as my honorary Polish uncle.

The day of our big meetup arrived. And as I left the charming little Moravian village of Štramberk en route to the airport, I was feeling pretty smug about how well this was going to go. I love it when a plan comes together! Strangely, my GPS was showing the drive to the airport at more than double the 20 minutes I had expected. Hm. Must be a glitch.

Except…it was no glitch. After a few minutes, I ran into a long column of backed-up traffic, inexplicably jamming the remote country road. I bailed out and went looking for an alternate route. But that one was backed up, too. And the next one. And the next one.

And that’s when I heard the jet engines.

A fighter jet went screaming overhead. And then another one. And it slowly dawned on me that this was no random traffic jam. I crawled past a billboard and slowly deciphered its Czech message: “Air…Force Days…Saturday…September 20.” Wait, that’s…that’s…well, that’s today.

According to its website, the NATO Days in Ostrava and the Czech Air Force Days are “the biggest security show in all of Europe.” And I’m quoting here: “The main program, taking place at Ostrava Leoš Janáček Airport, consists of presentation of heavy military hardware, police and rescue equipment, dynamic displays of special forces’ training, flying displays, and presentations of armaments, equipment, and gear of individual units…the most-visited two-day family event in the Czech Republic.”

And so, I had scheduled a rendezvous at what I imagined to be a deserted regional airport on the very day it was hosting 200,000 visitors from all over Europe.

I called Andrew, who had figured out what was going on right around the time I did. “Hello Cameron! I have been sitting still in traffic for 20 minutes. What do you want to do?”

I had to drop off this car at this airport, before crossing into Poland. I had no choice (other than, perhaps, driving myself three hours to Kraków, then driving back three hours tomorrow to return the car, then finding a ride for the three hours back to Kraków). By hook or by crook, Andrew and I had to figure out some way to meet up…and leave this car behind.

Andrew and I — coming from opposite directions — inched toward each other and the airport, periodically calling each other to track progress. I called the rental car office and said, “I’m trying to get to the airport to drop off my car.” Nonplussed, the bored agent replied, “Oh. You know, there’s an air show today.”

As I got closer to the airport, Andrew called me to say he’d parked his car, and was walking back to direct me to the terminal. I pulled over to the side of the road and went looking for him. By this time, the air show was in full swing, with military jets doing their eardrum-piercing loop-de-loops overhead. We might as well have been on the deck of an aircraft carrier on family visit day. Employing a kind of surreal doppler radar, Andrew and I followed the deafening sound of jet engines through each other’s cell phones to triangulate our way closer and closer to each other. Finally, Andrew came into view, far down the road, and we greeted each other with a big, fraternal, Polish bear hug.

Andrew hopped in my car and said, “I told the cops up there what’s going on. He said you can just ignore all of the ‘no entry’ signs and drive up to the terminal anyway.” Gingerly, I navigated my car between throngs of aviation enthusiasts, and — with Andrew’s encouragement — drove the wrong way down a one-way service road. Approaching the police checkpoint, Andrew looked a little concerned. “Hm. That guy I talked to earlier isn’t here.” He hopped out of the car and, after a very animated conversation, told me it was OK to proceed. And so, by some miracle, we got the car back to the rental office.

We hiked a half-mile back to Andrew’s car, occasionally peering up to see the warplanes swirl overhead. By the time we reached the car, traffic had cleared out, and we zipped across the border and headed for Kraków. By the time we pulled up to my hotel — hours later than planned — Andrew and I were already laughing about our impromptu visit to Europe’s biggest air show.


If you savor the Schadenfreude of hearing about good trips gone bad, check out the other posts in my “Jams Are Fun” series.

How about that time I was stuck on a cruise ship during a massive storm in the North Sea?

Or that time I got pulled over by keystone kops in a remote corner of Bosnia?

Or, really, the entire experience of driving in Sicily.

Aunt Mildred was right: Jams are fun, indeed. What’s your favorite travel jam?

How to Drive in Sicily: Just Go Numb

I recently spent three weeks driving 800 miles around Sicily (working on our new Rick Steves Sicily guidebook, available now). And let me tell you, that’s no easy task. While touring Sicily by car is a smart, efficient approach for travelers, the timid and the uninitiated may find it challenging. Hold on, is “challenging” the right word? Hmmm. No, wait. I’ve got it: “Terrifying.”

The trick to driving in Sicily is keeping in mind that you are driving in Sicily. It took me a few days to dispense with my preconceptions about things like obeying traffic signs, or why it’s a bad idea to triple-park in the middle of the street, or the importance of cars staying in their lanes (or, really, the very concept of “lanes”). Drivers who refuse to accept Sicily on Sicily’s terms will need to end each journey by popping a Xanax and prying their raw, white-knuckled, death-grip claws from the steering wheel. But, like with other things in Sicily, if you just sort of go numb and roll with it…you’ll be just fine. (Oh, and while you’re at it, spring for the zero-deductible insurance. Not joking.)

Entering a big city like Palermo or Catania, forget about right of way and obeying signs — just go with the flow of local traffic. I was taught to drive defensively, which works in Sicily…to a point. But don’t be too stubborn about it. Assuming you actually want to get where you’re going, occasionally you need to drive like a Sicilian. Just today, in the very heart of Palermo, I obediently pulled to a stop at a red light, instantly generating a chorus of furious honks from the column of cars behind me. I shrugged, checked both ways three times, and ran the red light…followed, without a moment’s hesitation, by everyone else.

Meanwhile, there are the motor scooters — the true love of most Sicilians. Knock-off Vespas weave between cars stalled in traffic, brushing past your side-view mirrors, bushwhacking their own path through an urban jungle. Pausing at a red light, my car was instantly enveloped by motor scooters squeezing around me on both sides. They gathered in front of me, cramming into the tiny no-man’s-land between my hood and the intersecting traffic, forming a scrum of eager beavers at my front bumper. When the light turned green, a half-dozen little engines buzzed to life, like a swarm of bees taking flight, and off they zipped…leaving me in a cloud of dust and exhaust.

While urban driving is challenging, driving in the Sicilian countryside is, for the most part, a delight. The roads are empty — it’s easy to make great time. But be prepared for the dramatic variation in Sicilian cruising speeds. On a road with a limit of, say, 100 kilometers per hour, virtually nobody actually goes 100 kilometers per hour…except me. Approximately half of all Sicilian drivers go far, far below the speed limit. The co-author of our upcoming Rick Steves Sicily guidebook, Sarah Murdoch, quite rightly pointed out that Sicilian roads are clogged with dinky, boxy Fiat Pandas from the early 1980s, which appear to have a maximum speed of about 70 kmh. Sure enough, I spent enough long journeys stuck behind Pandas to become something of an aficionado. (The lines on the 1982 Panda 45 Super were nothing short of breathtaking.)

Meanwhile, the other half of Sicilian drivers go far, far above the speed limit. And if you’re going even a smidge below their preferred speed — even for a fleeting moment, even if there’s a stop sign a hundred yards in front of you — they’ll ride your bumper so close, it feels like you’re giving them a tow. Passing on blind curves is a high-risk national pastime in Sicily (like bullfighting in Spain), and drivers take insane chances. On a busy parkway into the city of Siracusa, a motorcycle screamed past me at around 120 kilometers per hour. As he faded into the horizon, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the daredevil driver riding sidesaddle, his bike leaning at a precipitous angle.

Navigation is tricky. Sicily’s roads are potholed and inconsistently signed. And when there are signs, they can be more confusing than no signs at all. Highways can be unexpectedly closed — or exist only on maps despite never having been completed (I spotted quite a few on-ramps to nowhere).

I am a fanatical devotee of using Google Maps on my phone for navigation, and — with only a few memorable missteps — it has been my reliable copilot through dozens of European road trips. But it was patchy at best in Sicily.  Late one night, returning to my agriturismo in the hills near Agrigento, I was counting on Google Maps to get me home. It treated me to a fun little detour, 10 minutes high above the seashore, before dead-ending me at a three-way intersection with two rutted, overgrown trails suitable only for tractors and herds of goats. (About 20 minutes of backtracking later, I finally found my way home.) I can get away with blindly trusting my GPS in most of Europe and the USA…but not in Sicily.

A word about roundabouts: I deeply believe that they are humankind’s greatest invention, a notch above penicillin and smartphones. We should have roundabouts at every intersection in the United States. I’ve driven miles and miles through the British countryside, zipping around the outskirts of major cities and through the historic cores of quaint villages, without ever coming to a full stop. When properly utilized, roundabouts make traffic flow like poetry.

But Sicily is a long way from Britain. And it’s the only place I’ve been where a roundabout is treated like a lawless intersection: Everybody just aggressively plows through, willfully defiant of silly concepts like “right of way.” Yield to vehicles already in the roundabout, and those entering from the left?! Per favore! What a ridiculous concept. You just go, and let God sort it out.

All of this sounds like madness…chaos. But if you manage to approach Sicilian driving with the right attitude, it becomes clear that it’s a controlled chaos. The thing is, it works. It works not because it’s “every driver for himself,” as it might seem at first glance…but because there’s an unspoken understanding that we’re all in this together. Other drivers are watching you. They see how fast you’re going, how big your car is, and where you’re headed next. They probably know more about your driving skills than you do. And they adapt — constantly, intuitively, and effectively. If you get stubborn and use roundabouts the way they were intended to be used, dammit! — you’ll get everyone angry (at best) or cause a fender-bender (at worst). Put another way: If you’re the only one using the roundabout “the right way,” then you’re the one using it the wrong way.

A cadre of road engineers in Britain and the Netherlands are pioneering a new way of handling complicated intersections: You simply remove all of the signage. There are idyllic little English and Dutch towns where, upon reaching the village green, suddenly there are no traffic lights, no roundabouts, no bike lanes, no crosswalks, no signs of any sort. You just have to pay attention. You have to. And so, everyone does: Drivers, cyclists, and pedestrians all make eye contact with each other, ensuring that everyone’s on the same page regarding what’s about to happen. It sounds counter-intuitive, but removing all signage from intersections not only drastically reduces accidents — it actually makes traffic flow more smoothly, reducing congestion. (This is just fascinating. Check it out.)

On about my third day driving in Sicily, I was cursing my fellow drivers who refused to abide by the universally accepted rules of using a roundabout, when it suddenly dawned on me: Sicilians long ago intuitively figured out what all those Northern European eggheads have spent their careers researching. The road is a shared venture — a communal enterprise. And as long as we all look out for each other, we’ll get through it in one piece. And if you can do that, and just dive in…well, then, you might just come to enjoy it.

Bruised and battle-hardened, but wiser, I leave Sicily thinking it’s a fine place to drive. A car gives you maximum flexibility for linking up the remote and rural highlights of Sicily, even on a short trip. And distances are short, making fuel prices reasonable — I circled the entire island on just three tanks of gas. So don’t be afraid to tackle the Sicilian roads. Remember: Just go numb. Go with the flow. And keep in mind that, like all things Sicilian, everyone’s in this together.


If you’re ready to tackle the Sicilian roads, our Sicily guidebook is available now.

In other blog posts, I wrote about my top 10 tips for visiting Sicily, Palermo’s amazing street food scene, and the challenge of driving in Sicily.

This post is part of my“Jams Are Fun” series — designed for those who savor the Schadenfreude of hearing about good trips gone bad. How about that time I ran out of gas on Scotland’s remote north coast? Or that time I was stuck on a cruise ship during a massive storm in the North Sea? Or the time I became embroiled in a gelato feud in a small Italian village?

If you’d like to visit Sicily — but would love it if someone else did all the driving, took care of the hotels and half of the meals, and explained it all to you — well, then, we have a great 11-day tour for you.

We also have a wealth of free Sicily content on our website, including a recommended itinerary, links to two new episodes of Rick’s public television series about Sicily, several interviews from Rick’s public radio show about Sicily, more gorgeous photographs, recommended books and movies about Sicily, and much more.