I Thought Buying a Classic Car Was About Money. I Was Wrong.

Vasilis is back. Last time he told us why he bought a 1971 Alfa Romeo GT 1300 Junior Bertone and what strangers say when they see it. This time he writes about the man without whom the Italian would never leave the garage. From Crete and Alte Strada Garage, where you can also see his collection on Instagram (@alte_strada_garage).

It is well known that every serious (or less serious) conversation about buying a classic car eventually arrives at the three Ss.

Space. Spare time. Savings.

The essential trio. The travel documents you need to cross the border into the land of nostalgia - that land where people find it perfectly normal to talk for hours about carburettors, exhausts, camshafts and springs.

But shortly after the dream is yours, once the first rush has settled and you start hearing that new noise you are almost certain "wasn't there yesterday", you discover that the famous trio is missing what may be its most important letter.

The M. And before anyone gets the wrong idea: I mean the Mechanic.

You need someone who knows

However handy we are, however many videos we have watched, forums we have read and however firmly we have convinced ourselves we can synchronise the twin Webers on our own, sooner or later the moment of truth arrives.

You need someone who knows.

Not just a good mechanic. If at all possible, someone who knew the car back when it wasn't yet a "classic". The one who smiles and tells you:

And this is where the story gets genuinely interesting. Because the three Ss are things. The M is a person.

The inheritance

In my case, I inherited that person.

Efthymis, around 70 today, still keeps a small place of worship. A country chapel for the old-calendar faithful of motoring.

That is where my father spent many hours while Efthymis looked after his 156 and his 147. Hours that, as workshop tradition demands, involved - beyond oil, filters and spark plugs - teasing, stories and, of course, the obligatory football arguments.

So when the moment came and I needed the inheritance, I arrived at Efthymis's ramp.

I still remember the moment he welcomed her into the workshop. A newly arrived Italian, many years in Germany, who ended up in Crete for her retirement.

He didn't need to say anything. His smile was enough.

It was the smile of someone meeting a childhood friend after years apart, as if not a week had gone by. Since 1973, when he was a kid learning the trade at Alfa Romeo.

The list

From the very first hour the Junior went up on the lift, the list was born. Because every classic owner knows there is always a list.

The things that must be done now. The things that can wait. The things "we'll get to at some point". And that last, suspicious part of the list, usually accompanied by the phrase:

Luckily, nothing was urgent.

And so, almost without noticing, our relationship took on the character of fatherly care and guidance.

So between my old-boy-teenager escapades, the Regularity rallies and the photo shoots, Efthymis makes sure all of it can carry on. Like a good parent discreetly keeping an eye on his child's unbridled adolescence.

Whenever I return to the "temple" - for an adjustment, a strange noise, or simply for that "have a look when you get a chance" - he is always there, with the same smile.

The fee

As for the fee… First and foremost, the ritual test drive.

He takes the Junior out for a run. When he comes back, I know everything went well from his relaxed, serene expression. Just before he lights a cigarette.

In the end, the relationship with a classic car is not only about sheet metal. It is also about the people you meet around it.

With Efthymis bent over the pump, Nikitas arguing back at him and, perhaps, somewhere further off, Mr Lambros commenting on Olympiacos's rigged penalty.