Two buses aren’t better than one
Confusion reigns on the road from Zadar to Split
The first thing you must understand is that there are two Flix buses from Zadar to Split each day, one leaving at 12:00 and another leaving at 12:15. The first takes a longer route, stopping at almost ten places between the two the cities; the second goes direct, and is consequently much faster.
You will, however, likely be ignorant of these simple facts — all you know is that you have booked a seat on a 12:15 Flix Bus.
The second thing to understand is that if you arrive at the Zadar bus station on the early side and ask which platform the “Flix Bus to Split” will depart from, your informant may (logically) conclude you mean “the next bus to Split” and direct you to Platform 1.
However, this is where the 12:00 bus will depart. The 12:15 bus will be found on the other side of the station entirely, at Platform 13.
The final thing to understand is that the 12:00 bus is always late, so it arrives in Zadar at about 12:00—when one might reasonably expect the 12:15 bus to show up.
Still following me? You already have significantly more information than I did this afternoon. When a bus bearing a SPLIT destination card arrived at Platform 1 (where I’d been waiting since about 11:30), I dutifully got in line. Just as I was about to show the driver my ticket, a large party of young Italian women, smelling of entitlement as much as pungent perfume, simply pushed in front of me, perhaps trusting that their generously endowed breasts would protect them from protest. The driver seemed on board with this, so I had to wait still longer while he scanned their passes. It was a somewhat involved process, as several of the women were unsure where the passes were located on their phones. Fortunately, this left the others plenty of time to take numerous selfies, fix their hair, and then retake the pictures.
I try not to be a dick about line-jumpers, probably overcompensating for what I fear is an unlikeable Germanic fetish for rules and things happening in a prescribed order. “What does it matter,” I told myself, “if I get on the bus after these women? It’s not like it’s going to leave without me.”
Alas, this was one instance when I should have been an asshole. When the driver finally got around to looking at my ticket, he sighed with overly dramatic weariness and said, “Wrong bus.” Still ignorant of the two-bus-a-day situation, I pointed at the destination card and argued that this was self-evidently the bus to Split. “Different bus to Split,” he corrected with some irritation, “that’s the right bus.” He indicated another Flix Bus that was departing the station at that very moment. It was 12:15, and that one was on time.
How shall I sing of my rage, confusion, and embarrassment in that moment? What hymns could I compose to my despair as I watched the right bus, the Platform 13 bus, the 12:15 bus, my bus accelerate out of the parking lot? Homer or Virgil, I am not, so I fell back on my trusted friend, elaborate profanity. I hadn’t managed to pick up any Croatian curses, but I find that American film has taught most folks abroad how to interpret “fuck” and its derivatives.
Yet before I could get a good head of steam going, someone tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Split? You’re going to Split?” I turned to find two men with yellow taxi license cards hanging around their necks. “Was that your bus?”
I said was, and one of them asked if I wanted to catch it. I wasn’t sure if they intended to flag it down or chase it on foot, but I assured them that, yes, I would very much prefer to be on that bus than to admire it from a distance.
“Then let’s go!” One of them grabbed my suitcase and hoisted it on his shoulder, and we ran towards a row of parked cabs. My volunteer porter opened the trunk of one taxi and tossed my bag in while the other got in the driver’s seat, shouting, “Quick! Quick!” I hopped in beside him, and we were off, weaving through traffic to get on the bus’s tail.
As we drove, Simé (as my savior was called) explained the doppelganger issue and told me that “this happens every day.” I wasn’t the first traveler stranded under these circumstances, so he knew what must be done. We’d catch up to the bus, and I could get on board when it made its first stop. Nothing to it. By this point, my embarrassment over requiring such a vigorous intervention was getting to me. “Well, at least none of my friends will know about this,” I mused aloud, which earned me a chuckle from my companion.
Soon, we were right behind the vehicle, and all seemed well. Then, the bus failed to turn off the main road for its expected first stop. Simé said something in Croatian that I think was a curse (I really need to learn the local profanity if I’m going to spend more time in this country) and pulled out his phone. “They’re getting on the highway,” he told me, plainly disgusted by this deviation from the plan.
He made a series of calls over the next few minutes, each more brusquely emphatic than the last. We pulled alongside the bus, and he motioned to the driver, who feigned not to see us. One final call, conducted in a bark, yielded a result. “If we can get to the toll gate before him, he’ll stop for you if you’re ready to go. He’ll have to stop for you.” This promise was offered with a certain satisfaction on his part, colored by an aggrieved animosity. I started to think that I’d managed to step into the middle of a rivalry or outright feud between the House of the Bus Drivers and the Clan of the Cabs.
We sped up and quickly left the offending bus and its uncaring driver behind us. “He wanted to know why you didn’t just ask the driver back at the station.” He snorted in derision. “Ask the driver. The driver?” The notion seemed to fill Simé with contemptuous amusement. I grew even more confident that I’d stumbled on the Montagues and Capulets of mid-Dalmatian transport, with either Benvolio or Tybalt sitting beside me.
Finally, I could see the toll plaza looming ahead. We pulled to the shoulder beside the BUS ONLY lane and extracted my bags. As I paid my savior, I corrected my earlier assertion: “You know, I think I will tell my friends about this. It’s been the closest thing I’ve had to a real adventure on this trip.” That got a genuine laugh from Simé, who seemed happy to have bested his nemesis on the accursed Flix Bus. (Had one of their fathers killed the other? Or was it something more prosaic, like supporting competing football teams?)
Together, we defiantly watched the green bus as it heaved into view. When it stopped, and its driver descended to meet us, Simé tipped him ten euros, and they exchanged some good-hearted banter (perhaps undermining my blood feud theory). My knight in shining armor wished me safe travels and headed back toward Zadar while I clambered aboard the bus to face a mixture of curious and hostile looks from the delayed passengers.
I paid €18 for the original bus ticket, and my trip with Simé cost me an additional €90, but it was money well spent. I got to Split on time while enjoying the closest thing to a car chase I’ve ever experienced.