The bus route to hell is paved with buone intenzioni
I find a use for my limited Italian
I enjoy taking intercity buses in Europe because they offer a chance to meet other travelers, share stories, and swap tips or recommendations. I’ve learned about places off my radar that are worth a visit (Belgrade, Albania, Transylvania, and others), sold some folks on favorites of my own (I think the Sarajevo Board of Tourism owes me a substantial finder’s fee), and learned how to avoid common mistakes (if you don’t understand how to accurately read fish prices on a Dalmatian menu, the bill will bring your expensive meal right back up).
Not everyone has something to offer, and there are always a few irritating people who just want to talk about topics I find of little interest (no matter what you tell me, I’m not going to believe that staying in a youth hostel at my age will be an agreeable or enriching experience).
And then there are the agents of chaos whose true nature goes undiscovered until it’s too late.
I sat beside a voluble Italian tourist on the bus from Pula to Rijeka. She was excited that I knew how to respond to very simple queries in her native tongue, and grew even more expansive upon discovering that I, too, was getting off in Rijkea instead of continuing on to Split. Our destination was ”magnifica, migliore di tutte le altre città croate, meravigliosa e perfetta per i gatti.” What remains of my college Italian allowed to understand “Magnificent! Better than all other Croatian cities! Wonderful!” but “Perfect for lunatics!” left me puzzled. It took me a minute to realize I’d heard matti (“mad people”) instead of gatti (“cats”), which was still a perplexing non sequitur as felines had not previously come up in our conversation, nor was I carrying one about my person.
After this embarrassing confusion, she mainly spoke in simple English, regaling me with the glories in store as the bus meandered down the coast, frequently pausing to let people on and off at what appeared to be isolated bus stops. We passed a sign suggesting we’d entered Rijeka, and at the next stop, my companion practically shouted, “Here! Here! Here!” and shooed us off the bus.
We alighted in a parking lot attached to what I could have sworn was an auto-supply store. It didn’t look like any metropolitan bus terminal I’d visited, but who was I, a lunatic and/or cat-fancying American, to judge? I expected the driver would also get down and open the luggage compartment; to my horror, la Italiana emozionata and I were the only people to disembark from the bus, which pulled back into traffic and continued on its merry way, my suitcase still lodged in its hold.
This elicited another stream of rapid Italian from my benefactress, which I was unable or unwilling to follow. A check of Google Maps revealed that the actual bus terminal was several blocks away; it appeared that a long hike would be the first of Rijeka’s many perfections I’d enjoy. Then I remembered that the vehicle was only meant to stop at the station for about ten minutes before proceeding to Split, and I desperately tried to recall if I’d learned any Italian profanity back at university.
So I took off at an awkward trot (you try to run with a heavy backpack and a shoulder bag in the midday Mediterranean sun and see how graceful you can be), praying I’d reach the station before my suitcase went off on an unsupervised journey of its own. Honestly, I’m still not sure if my Italian friend tried to follow—I just know that I was unaccompanied when I stopped to wait for a crossing light a few blocks later. Perhaps shame had frozen her to the spot of her betrayal; more likely, that was the correct stop in Rijeka for her, and she’d beetled off to whatever pensione enjoyed her custom. Perhaps her gatti were waiting there, regretting her absence but so damn happy to be in Rijeka that all would be forgiven.
I made it to the station just as the last passenger for Split was boarding. While panting and wiping sweat out of my eyes, I persuaded the distinctly uncharitable driver to let me retrieve my luggage. A small group of travelers waiting for another bus watched me with greater sympathy and kindly pointed out that my backpack had come open and was about to spill its contents to the ground. Before I could reach the zipper, my laptop (fortunately in its padded case) made a successful break for freedom and fell to the pavement.
And that’s when I remembered: Che cazzo vero? Madre di un figlio di puttana!