Walking in, I half-expected a queue longer than a festival toilet line. Nope. The staff looked like they’d actually had their coffee that morning. A woman named Clare (I think) handed me a tablet, and within seven minutes I had the keys to a little Fiesta.
Now, I’m not saying I’m a picky customer—I once rented a van that smelled faintly of regret and old sandwiches. But this Fiesta was clean. Like, “has anyone actually driven this?” clean. The tank was full, the seats adjusted, and the radio wasn’t stuck on a classical station from 1987.
Of course, you’re probably thinking: “What about the hidden fees?” I checked the contract three times—no mystery charges for “fuel processing” or “valet appreciation.” Just a flat rate, a deposit that vanished back onto my card, and a cheerful “see you later.” It felt suspicious, but I leaned into it.
