Yesterday morning, we drove from Galway back to Dublin and hopped a flight to London. At the airport, we rented a car.  The following is Paula’s story:

When we got off the plane at Heathrow, we walked about a mile and a half before we found the Hertz rental kiosk.  It was video only and soon I was talking to an Italian lady named Paola.  She reminded me that I was a Hertz “gold” member (I’d forgotten) but would have to go to the main rental station via shuttle to pick up my car. After watching three Enterprise shuttles stop and load up passengers, a Hertz shuttle finally came along; and after a 20-minute drive, the bus duly deposited us at the Hertz building.  With Linda diligently guarding our luggage, I went to the “gold” counter where you were supposed to be waited on immediately, but there were two obviously impatient businessman types in front of me.  One of the two computers was down and they were moving extremely slowly. I asked one of the two ladies if I should stay there, but she told me I had to go to the main Hertz counter in another building as I had booked my reservation through an auto booking site and not directly with Hertz.  I trooped over to the main counter and was waited on immediately.  I presume the two businessmen at the “gold” office were still fuming.  The young lady at the counter immediately asked how many bags we had.  I told her two big suitcases and two carry-ons.  She said we could not fit all the baggage we had in a compact rental, which I had rented for the low, low price of $391.00 per week.  I told her they would fit fine.  She insisted she could upgrade me to a much nicer, bigger vehicle using diesel (which saves on gas) for the low, low price of an extra 35 pounds per day (about $55.00 daily).  I said no, that was too expensive.  She then said the lowest she could go on that upgrade would be 30 pounds per day.  I said, no, thank you, we would be fine with a compact.  She insisted our baggage would not fit.  I looked at her and said we rented a rather beat-up compact Ford Fiesta in Ireland and drove all over the island with it and our baggage fit fine.  Next, she offered to upgrade me to a bit larger but nicer vehicle for an additional 15 pounds per day.  I said no thank you.  Finally, she gave up and asked me if I wanted additional personal injury insurance for the low, low price of 9 pounds per person per day.  I said no thank you, we would take our chances.  Then she inquired if we wanted emergency roadside assistance for an additional 3 pounds per day.  I turned that down as well.  I also turned down the fuel option, GPS, child seats and a free six-pack in the back seat.  Okay, I’m kidding about the six-pack.  By now, I’d aged appreciably and Linda’s hair was drooping.  Finally, she mumbled something under her breath, gave me the rental agreement and instructed me to bay 203.  We gathered all our luggage and slowly moved toward the bay.  Sitting in 203 was a virtually new Mercedes mini-SUV.  I said “Oh no,” left Linda guarding the luggage once more and went back to the rental counter.  My poor rental agent had disappeared, probably having been dropped through the floor into upgrade-failure hell.   I went up to another rental agent and told her we had rented a small compact and there was a Mercedes sitting in our spot.  She looked at me, her eyes literally bugging out of her face, said “OH NO!”, grabbed my paperwork and frantically begin making phone calls.  After a short time, she hung up, smiled a megawatt smile and said, “No, this is correct, you’ve gotten a free upgrade.  Isn’t that lovely?”  I felt like telling her I didn’t want a free upgrade to a Mercedes, that I was an American and with my limited driving skills, I wanted an old, compact car.  But by this time, I was five years older and Linda’s hair was falling out.

Linda’s comment:  No, it wasn’t.

Paula’s story continues:  We took the Mercedes.  Unfortunately, we spent another thirty minutes trying to figure out what all the buttons were.  We never could figure out how to turn on the satellite system it supposedly had.  The electronic transmission works off a switch on the steering wheel.  Since it’s a diesel, it dies whenever you stop, presumably to save gas. The minute you step on the accelerator, it starts up and goes again.  Coming into Bath, I thought I was doing fine until Linda yelled out.  By the time she did, it was far too late.  I grazed something (car, truck) with the passenger-side mirror.  We managed to park on the street in front of our B&B so, if necessary, I can claim someone else hit the mirror, even though we have full insurance coverage.  We’re not sure we’ll be driving it again anytime soon.  They have very good buses here.

The next day, and Paula’s story continues:  Linda’s getting quite tired of me at this point. Being as anal as I am, I find myself wandering along behind her, hanging up her towels and folding her washcloth.  I don’t think she can take much more.  But this morning, I was able to remind her that I am not perfect.  I found myself spritzing face mist on my hair and hair spray on my face.  My face is now frozen.  I think this is better than Botox and I might be on to something.  I told Linda if she will forgive my OCD ways, I’ll cut her in for a piece of the profits when I open my hair/face spray business.  I think it’ll be a hit.