We Thought the Bus Would Be Easier
I’m not the most sure-footed person. When I vacation, I love to explore and discover new things but not at the risk of injury or embarrassment. I am on vacation, after all. I know the most exquisite views are sometimes only accessible from a path fraught with peril and I’m at peace with the unfortunate truth that those views will elude me. The unfortunate reality, though, is that sometimes the more averse you are to something, the more likely it is to slap you in the face.
A few years ago, we vacationed in Italy with our good friends, Greg and Cheryl. Our itinerary included multiple stops in my parents’ beautiful homeland including Cinque Terre and Portofino. We booked a gorgeous flat in Rapallo, a coastal gem about eight kilometres north of Portofino, and did day trips from there.
We planned our visit to Portofino around the ferry schedule so we could approach it from the water and take in the stunning view. The day was already hot when we walked to the ferry dock in Rapallo, only to be informed there were no ferries running from there. There were a few departures left from Santa Margherita, a town about halfway between Rapallo and Portofino. And for some reason known only to the Italians, there were no return ferries.
Since we wanted to experience Portofino from the water, we hailed a cab for the short drive to Santa Margherita and planned to get the ferry the rest of the way. I asked the driver’s advice about getting back to Rapallo. Buses and cabs were options but Greg was keen on walking back and my husband was up for joining him. The driver told me the walk was certainly doable in under two hours but he suggested sticking to the main road. As if he read my mind about the danger of walking on those narrow death traps that overlooked sharp cliff drops, he told me the cars would slow down for pedestrians. Based on my experience of Italian drivers, I thought this was a generous assessment on his part. In Santa Margherita, we took a few minutes to enjoy the scenery before boarding one of the last ferries to Portofino. It was worth the ride. The town looked like a postcard with its layers of multi-coloured buildings hugging the bay and looking down on us in welcome.
We enjoyed lunch on a patio overlooking the scenic harbour and discussed options for returning to Rapallo. The guys chose the two hour trek along the coast and Cheryl and I passed on the prospect of navigating uneven mountainous surfaces in 30° C heat. I spoke the language. We’d figure out another way.
Our husbands, trusting a hiking app, chose to ignore the advice of the cab driver and instead found a trail above the road which promised better views. We laughed at their sweat-inducing folly and saw them off with their promise to stay in touch and stay hydrated. Cheryl and I strolled the picture-perfect town, purchased souvenirs, and enjoyed a refreshing gelato.
As proof our husbands were alive and well, we started getting pictures of them with gorgeous vistas of the Ligurian Sea and its rocky coastline in the background.
Cheryl and I spotted a cab stand where there were about ten driverless cabs except for one where a surly looking soul sat half in and half out of the driver’s seat. I asked how much the fare would be to Rapallo and without making eye contact, he quoted us 100 euros, as he sat under a sign that said 50. The small print disclaimer indicated that any excuse of their choosing could nullify the stated fare. We weren’t in a hurry and were not about to be swindled so we purchased bus tickets at a nearby shop, where the clerk told us we’d have to change buses in Santa Margherita.
The next picture of our smiling sweaty husbands was set against a backdrop of mountainside villages and gentle white-capped waves.
We headed for the bus stop looking forward to a relaxing inexpensive ride. Until we saw the mob of all the other ferry-thwarted people. And we were at the back of the haphazard line. We gave up on the first bus as people continued to squish their way on. A woman with a large bag stood on the second last step at the driver’s entrance and her bag kept catching in the door as it tried to close. The door opened and attempted to close again. The next time it opened, a guy ran onto the last step, pressing himself and her handbag in. This time, the doors closed and brushed the back of his heels. His head rose up a few inches, while his toes likely did the same.
When the next bus arrived, Cheryl and I left our Canadian politeness behind and pushed our way on to join the standing room only crowd. We ended up packed in the middle of the steamy bus, there was no scrolling display to tell us what the next destination was, and the driver didn’t announce the stops. I started wondering how we’d know when we were in Santa Margherita. We’d only been in the town for a few minutes in the morning and all I remembered were palm trees, a roundabout, and a fountain. This didn’t narrow it down and I couldn’t reach my phone to check the maps app without touching someone in an inappropriate way. After many stops, we saw a familiar palm tree, checked with some German tourists, and confirmed we were at our stop.
Our next challenge was figuring out which bus at the busy traffic circle went to Rapallo. I used my best Italian and asked two women who had credible deportment and looked like locals. One of the women physically steered us to the bus stop, raised her voice, and pointed out with great authority that we were to watch for the next bus as it circled the roundabout. In an admonishing tone, she told us we’d have to wait another hour if we missed it. She gesticulated as she repeated her instructions. I thanked her and we did as we were told. When the bus approached, she ran back over and repeated her instructions with a gentle push. Nobody was missing their bus on her watch.
Cheryl and I got seats a few rows apart and maintained eye contact. This bus had a scrolling display but the only Rapallo stop said “Ospedale” and I didn’t remember seeing a hospital in the few days we’d spent wandering the town. Even asking the Italian woman beside me didn’t yield a straight answer. Until she pushed me out of my seat and told me we were in Rapallo. I motioned to Cheryl and exited by the middle doors with her behind me.
Except, she was a second too late and the doors started closing. And unlike the doors that stopped closing on the big-bagged lady in Portofino, these ones didn’t stop just because a human was wedged in between them. The bus driver, alerted by screaming women, finally released poor Cheryl. Despite being frazzled, sweaty, and embarrassed, we were quite proud of ourselves and agreed it could have been worse. We would’ve still been walking in the sweltering heat if we’d followed the lead of our foolhardy husbands. My maps app showed we were just around the corner from our flat, where we looked forward to putting our feet up and enjoying a pitcher of cold water in air-conditioned comfort.
As we turned the key to the door of our flat, we received texts from our husbands inviting us to join them in the piazza where they’d settled in and were enjoying a cold beer.
Sometimes the easiest route isn’t all that easy.
