About midnight, the old bus pulled to a stop. Out the window, I could see signs that indicated we were on the Italian mainland at the place people would exit for Venice. The Greek driver ordered, “Everyone get off the bus and take all your stuff!” The unruly passengers started shouting, “What’s going on?” “You are going to go on the the other bus, the driver informed us. “It is coming from Greece”.
The young passengers from England along with some of the Greek passengers, continued to shout at the Greek driver demanding to know when the other bus would arrive. In a short time, the driver’s patience ran out and he shouted back, “I don’t know when it will get here!” “Maybe it will never come!!” he screamed as he slammed the bus door and tore away in the night.
Fortunately it wasn’t too cold because we past several hours standing in a dark parking lot with our luggage. I turned to Gael at one point and said, “If only it weren’t the middle of the night and we had some Italian money, we could just forget the small amount we paid for these bus tickets and go to Venice instead. But this was before the internet or cell phones. I think I was carrying my first credit card, but it wasn’t universally usable. We were so near Venice, but we felt very far away. We were stranded.
We’d started out getting on the Greek-run bus somewhere in North London after seeing an ad for it in our guide book. Everything had been okay when we boarded the bus and found seats among the English youth and a number of Greeks who were returning home. The bus drove to the ferry, we went upstairs for a few hours and then sleepily descended to get back on the bus when it was time to disembark in Belgium.
As soon as we sat down on the bus, we could hear the trouble coming. Drunken shouting got louder and louder as the young English passengers stumbled onto our bus. They might have been described at the time as soccer hooligans. Through the dark countryside in Belgium, the party at the back of the bus raged on. Finally, the Greek driver, pulled to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes. “Get off!” he screamed at the English passengers. “All of you get off right now!” Passengers were in the aisles, both English and Greek. For a few tense minutes, it looked a brawl would break out. But, the driver pulled away again and gradually the noise subsided for what was left of the night.
At the crack of dawn, the driver cranked the music, Greek music, up to full volume taking some glee in waking up the hungover English. By this time, Gail and I, embarrassed by the other English speakers, had found two spare seats in the middle of the bus, between the Greeks and the English, in a kind of a no-man’s land.
We drove through the corner of Germany and then on to Italy, where pulling up to get gas, the bus crashed into something and it took 20 minutes to pry the door open. Then through the Bremmer Pass into Italy as night started to fall again. We arrived at the Venice exit. That’s how we ended up standing in the parking lot in the middle of the night with our luggage.
About 3 a.m. we saw some headlights appearing and a strange site materialized out of the darkness. An old bus, maybe from the 1930’s, lumbered and groaned into view. The bus from Greece had arrived. Everyone boarded silently and we fell asleep as best we could.
The next morning, we arrived at the border of then Yugoslavia. Stern customs men boarded the bus. There were heated conversations between the customs officers and some of the Greeks. Gail and I were holding out our Canadian passports when the officer came to us, but he didn’t even open them. He just glanced at them and said, “Canada. Good.” The bus inspection took about an hour and a half. One old Greek man was kicked off the bus and last seen was walking back to Italy.
Then it was time for a break. The driver pulled over and we went to get some lunch. Unfortunately, the English found that there was a wine store nearby, so the party threatened to start up again. Gail and I watched the driver trying to fix one of the tires on the bus. “All the tires are bald”, she observed apprehensively. Back on the bus, the English kept yelling for the driver to stop for a bathroom break, but he said they were already late. Finally one of the young English women wearing a mini skirt was sent up to beg the driver to stop. A group of them got off at the side of the road, but when they didn’t reboard the first time the driver honked the horn, he started to drive away while some people still had their pants down. Some of the Greek passengers found it very amusing to see them running down the road to get back on the bus.
Through Yugoslavia the bus careened around increasingly curving and mountainous roads. The driver was having problems with the bad tire, and at one point, he stopped on a mountain curve to tighten it. As he was about to get out, the bus started to roll, but he was able to get back to his seat in time to correct it. Later, we stopped at a palatial restaurant that was empty except for us. I was getting so stoned on Gravol and little food or sleep that the surroundings felt very surreal.
The next morning when the bus crossed the line over into Greece, the music suddenly blared again and the Greeks sang enthusiastically, joyful to be coming home. The back section of the bus, where the English passengers were, became increasingly quiet. We were half a day behind schedule at that point and the driver was passing other vehicles more aggressively. The English started screaming, “NO DRIVER! DON’T DO IT” , but when he did pull out and successfully pass two or three vehicles, sometimes even on a curve, loud cheering and clapping would erupt.
In that nerve wracking manner, we eventually arrived in Athens in the evening. Never so happy to get off a bus, Gail and I headed for the tourist district around Syntagma Square. We went to the check in desk at our cheap hotel only to find some of the English passengers checking in at the same time. We did not greet them warmly.
Coming back, I insisted on taking the train since I’ve generally liked flying even less than bus travel. That didn’t work out so well either, but before the crazy train trip back, the three weeks I spent in Athens and the Cyclades Islands were great!
It’s good to be reminded from time to time exactly what living in Greece was like. Your story took me back. Yelling aggressive bus drivers were part of the soundtrack of life there. ~ Radiance