Running late to return a rental car in Athens, myself and my three companions pull into a car wash on the outskirts of Pireaus. The car has been received heavy use under rural conditions for two solid weeks and is in desperate need of a top-to-bottom cleaning. Our timing is good, the car wash is empty and the car can be cleaned immediately. The worker doing the cleaning – a slight, southeast Asian man, motions us right on in. But what to do with the luggage? There are a couple of chairs next to a tiny table where the car wash’s two muscular, Greek owners have been sitting drinking energy shakes and smoking cigarettes. They get up and offer us the table. We hastily arrange the luggage in a semi-circle and try to make ourselves comfortable. The sidewalk where the table and chairs are perched is narrow (as are all sidewalks in Athens), and the street running alongside is thick with evening traffic. The sun beats down mercilessly from the west. There is no shade. I encourage my companions to walk along the tree-lined street heading up hill while I stand guard. They do this one by one, but soon it becomes apparent that the ‘quick clean’ will take quite a bit longer than anticipated. We chat, pace, take turns in the two chairs. The worker has now removed the carpets and is vacuuming the hidden recesses of the trunk and backseat. After this he begins an operation that involves meticulously washing the inside of all the windows and doors. We shift positions and try to minimize our exposure to the sun. Other cars arrive for a wash and are told to park and wait on the curb. This itself is apparently no reason for our cleaning to be expedited, and the closer the car gets to completion, the longer the final stages seem to take. I check the time: we are running perilously late to return the car. Every so often one of the owners comes out to inspect the work in progress, flexes his muscles, and barks some instructions to the worker, then goes back inside. Finally, after what seems like a small eternity, the spotless car is backed out of the garage and I’m handed the keys. We rush to reload our luggage and start the engine. But wait: the worker has missed a spot! The owner points and barks, another can of cleaning fluid is deployed. Then, a final request – the owner wants to know where we’re from. I dutifully mention our respective countries of origin, and he smiles, our exoticism confirmed. Hoping to show my gratitude (as well as put a cap on this interminable service) I offer him a tip. ‘Mohammed!’ he barks; the worker scurries over, probably expecting to be reprimanded again, but instead the owner slams the coins firmly in his palm.