And then there are the Greek summer vacations. The dream: whitewashed houses with blue shutters and doors, turquoise waters, sunsets that make you cry, and grilled octopus on the beach. The reality: a logistical operation that makes D-Day look like a picnic.

You want to go to the islands. Great idea—so does everyone else. You rented a car? Perfect, because nothing says “vacation” like trying to parallel park on a floating metal box. You booked your ferry tickets months in advance? Bravo. Now you and a gazillion other Greeks are all heading to the port at the exact same hour, each convinced they’re the only genius who thought of leaving Athens on a Friday afternoon middle of August.

The ordeal begins the moment you approach Piraeus. Traffic grinds to a halt. Scooters zip past carrying families of four, plus a dog, plus three suitcases balanced on the handlebars. Suitcase wheels rattle on the pavement as passengers sprint toward their ferries like contestants on a game show: “Who Wants to Board Before the Ramp Opens?”

Inside the port, the heat rises. You start sweating at the mere thought of the boarding process. Will you get waved forward? Will you stall on the ramp? Will you become that tourist everyone on the dock points at, whispering “ksenos” with pity?

Meanwhile, Greek families approach the ordeal like seasoned generals. One cousin drives, another cousin runs ahead with tickets, yiayia having an umbrella waves from the shade, and Papou already knows the best table on the deck. They’ve been doing this every August for decades, and it shows.

Your rental car is a stick-shift Fiat Panda. You haven’t driven a manual since that one time in college, and even then, you burned through a clutch like it was baklava at Easter. Maybe you should have paid a little extra and got an automatic. Now you’re in line at Piraeus, staring at the back of a ferry that looks less like a boat and more like a mechanical mouth ready to swallow you whole.

The stream of cars is exiting the ship. Passengers lugging their suitcases scurry across the dock to meet their “drivers” on the other side. Meanwhile, the line of cars waiting to board inches forward, a caravan of nervous ambition.

It is time…

A man in an orange vest waves frantically, shouting instructions in Greek that sound like a mix of military commands and opera. You nod as if you understand, then immediately stall the car. Behind you, 1,131 other cars honk in symphony—a Greek chorus of impatience. The man in the vest exhales, mutters “ahh, another ksenos (foreigner),” smokes half a cigarette in one drag, and then climbs halfway onto your hood to guide you in personally.

The ramp is steep. You try to balance gas, clutch, and prayer. The car jerks forward like a nervous donkey, then surges up the ramp at rocket speed. By some miracle, you make it inside without flattening a Vespa. Inside, the real chaos begins.

Cars are packed tighter than olives in a jar. The ferry crew waves their arms like symphony conductors directing traffic. You’re told to park an inch from a BMW that looks more expensive than your entire vacation.

“Turn all the way left! Look at me! Keep going! Now right! Straighten! Brake! Brake! OPA!!! Kalos!” they shout, as though you have six extra limbs and Formula 1 training. Finally, with a screech and the smell of burning clutch, you’re in place. The crew signals success with a shrug—the highest form of Greek praise.

You step out of the car, drenched in sweat, legs shaking. The ferry hasn’t even left port, and you feel like you’ve awakened from a nightmare.

And here’s the thing: Greeks do this every summer. Effortlessly. They reverse uphill, squeeze through gaps the size of a needle, and step out of their cars with sunglasses still perfectly in place. Meanwhile, you’re silently Googling “how to apologize to a rental car company.”

Only once you’re on deck, freddo in hand, staring at the blue Aegean, does your heart rate return to normal. You’ve survived the true initiation of Greek island travel. The ferry ride is secondary. The real adventure was the parking.

Then you take out your phone, dial, and whisper:“Aegean Airlines? Please tell me you have two seats from Milos to Athens on August 23rd.”

P.S. I drive an automatic. I don’t want to risk being called “ksenos”.