The morning that we were to return to Italy began with the free continental breakfast at the hostel Aphrodite. Toast, jam, tea with condensed milk and orange juice was the standard breakfast at the hostel although you could pay several euros for upgrades to eggs and bacon or other breakfast items. After showering and getting our gear together, we said our goodbyes to Dee and Dave and walked out the door into the already hot Athens morning.
We boarded the metro at the Larissa station and got off at the Omonia station. From there we walked down a couple of blocks from the metro and found the bus number 051 which took us to the main bus station. At the main station we purchased our tickets to take the 3-hour trip to the port city of Patras. During the drive we met three guys from England traveling around Europe. Nick, Max and Felix had all grown up together and were taking a trip before they had to return to England and begin school. Carolyn mentioned that Nick reminded her of Frodo, which Nick did not consider a compliment. But he had a good sense of humor and he and his friends both laughed.
Like the small fish that swarm around the sharks, feeding off extra bits of food and fighting for the remains, the gypsies swarmed the tourists when we got off the bus. After swimming out of the school of gypsies, we walked several blocks to a small market and grabbed 10 euros worth of groceries for the ferry trip. This equated to two full meals for us and some drinks. On the ferry this would have cost at least 80 euros. The grocery bag was about as heavy as my backpack and carrying that in addition to my two other bags was quite the workout. As usual, the sun beat down on us and as we walked the final blocks to catch our last bus the sweat had already soaked through our shirts and shorts.
The bus station where we had been dropped off a couple of days before was deserted. Small signs were on the windows in Greek writing but there was nobody inside. Carolyn and I looked at each other and a small amount of panic began to set in. After we asked a cab driver about how far the port was from where we were he told us about 4 kilometers. It was about 4 o’clock and we were supposed to arrive a couple of hours early so that the ferry could depart on schedule. We walked up the unfamiliar street looking in windows of travel agencies trying to determine if anyone was working and if we thought they looked like they would be willing to tell us where the elusive bus might be.
After several blocks, Carolyn went into an office with the name of our ferry on the front door. The employees at the SuperFast outlet told Carolyn that we needed to take the bus number five and that it passed in front of the station. To add to our stress, we met a nice French girl named Maud who looked at our reservation paper and informed us that we needed an agent to issue an actual ticket. Not sure if there would actually be an agent at the port itself, Carolyn returned up the same street to see if she could get a ticket and for all her efforts received the exact same information that we needed to get bus number five and go to the port.
She walked back down to the bus stop where two Iranians had joined our wait. Maud continued to insist that we didn’t actually have a ticket and that we needed to get something like she had. The repercussions of us missing the boat were not terrible at this point: we would lose 54 euros (non refundable ferry) and have to stay the night in Patras to try and take the ferry the next day. We really wanted to be done with Greece at this point though and were really looking forward to relaxing in Croatia.
Bus number five arrived after another 20 minutes and we all hustled on after Maud showed her ticket to the driver and he nodded and said something in Greek. After about five minutes the driver stopped abruptly in front of a small store and opened the door and motioned for me and an Iranian to get out. I wasn’t sure what he was meaning until he made the motion of putting a ticket in the validation machine onboard the bus. The ride he wanted us to pay for should have been complimentary from SuperFast. It turned out that it was a municipal bus and not one from the ferry. The Iranian and I purchased our tickets, validated them and the Greek shut the doors and continued the ride.
After another 10 minutes, and nowhere near the port, the Greek opened the door and told us that this was the stop by motioning with his hand. We all got out and looked around. All that lie in front of us was a long sidewalk with an asphalt road. Apparently, this was the road we were meant to take. We all started walking down the road, the two Iranians in front, followed by Maud and me, and Carolyn brought up the rear. The Iranians didn’t seem nearly as bothered by the heat as the French girl and the Americans. Our path could be traced by other lost travelers if they followed our dried drops of salt. All along the walk I constantly thought of how hard it would be for the elderly to make this trip from the street to the port or how unaccommodating it was for people in wheelchairs.
Our multicultural group arrived at a small building at the port and walked into the air-conditioned foyer. We walked up to the scowling Greek receptionist and got our tickets for the ferry. I actually mentioned to her that she should try smiling. While the Greeks are great at gyros and Greek salads they aren’t so good at preserving their national wonders (i.e. the Parthenon) nor are they too skilled at customer service. In stark contrast to the Italian side of the trip, the Greeks were constantly scowling, not helpful with directions, had few amenities, were guilty of bait and switch tactics and were generally not very pleasant. The two diamonds in a rough experience were Nicolas and Semina. They made our trip to Greece unforgettable and were the reason that we’ll have fond memories of our trip there.
We boarded the ferry and saw the English guys we had met on the bus. After putting our luggage away and getting our seats we went back to the reception area and sat with Maud and ate our evening meal of sandwiches, peanuts, and a Greek orange soda. After our meal we sat down to play Rummy and Jungle Speed with the English guys and Maud. We chatted about French snobbery and English football. Ashley, a guy from Denmark, joined the game as well and we played for a couple of hours. After we were all exhausted, Carolyn and I returned to the room reserved for the first class “airline-like” seats that came with our Eurorail pass. We both decided to claim a couple of rows so that we could stretch out and sleep more easily. I used my earplugs and my eye patch and we both fell asleep quickly. I awoke to the loudest snoring I had ever heard. It easily reached my eardrums despite the gummy plugs I had jammed into my ears. I pulled my patch off my eyes and sat up. The light from the room hurt my eyes and I wondered (like I did on the way over) why they didn’t dim the lights so people could sleep more easily. Not a single person in the room was stirring. It was 3 a.m. and the source of the snoring was a large African man. His stomach heaved up and down and his mouth was partly open. His snores had awakened sleepers within a four row radius around him on each side. I knocked on the wall by his head to see if I could wake him but he was out cold. After about 15 minutes and another couple of futile knocks I knew he wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon. It was probably better that I find another spot to sleep anyway, the air conditioning was so cold that my feet were freezing and I had to get a long sleeve shirt out of my bag to wrap around my feet. I went out to the reception area and slept under a table for about an hour before my pockets of my cargo shorts began to dig into my leg. I awoke and wandered back into the room where Carolyn slept. A large man of unknown origin stole my row of chairs and was fast asleep. I walked to the back of the room, eyes burning and lay down next to a girl in the corner. After about five minutes she started snoring. I figured I could bear it because nothing could compare to the African’s snore and I was resigned to stay there – until the sound of a soccer game started playing loudly through the wall behind me. I gave up and headed up to the deck and propped myself against a chair and fell asleep to the sound of the waves and the orange glow of the upcoming sun.
Carolyn woke me up and I went down to the reception area to shower and prepare for our return to Bari. The shower felt amazing and I dried myself with a clean shirt because I didn’t have a towel. Carolyn and I left the ferry and the scowling Greeks and walked down into the port of Bari. We helped the English guys and Maud with their bus directions, said goodbye and looked for our place to store our luggage and buy our new ferry tickets to Croatia. It wasn’t twenty minutes of carrying our backpacks and hauling our bags that we were once again dripping wet. There was no place to put our luggage and after asking several people that worked at the port, the ticket office didn’t open until six p.m. with the ferry departing at 10 p.m. It was 11 a.m. Looking out away from the port we tried to decide how to best spend our time. We noticed a sign that said Lavanderia (laundromat) but it, like most things in Bari in July and on Sunday, was closed. We’d hoped to do our laundry while we waited. Instead we’d have to wait until we arrived in Croatia where we weren’t even sure if laundromats existed.
We opted instead to take a trip into citta’ vechhia (old city) or old Bari, in hopes that it was similar to the old part of Genova. After boarding the 20 barred bus we asked the driver where citta’ vecchia was and he told us where to get off. We walked several blocks after getting off the bus and found ourselves in the citta’ vecchia of Bari. Nothing was open. Not a bar, a store, or even a pizzeria showed any signs of life. Carolyn and I hadn’t really eaten and it was nearing 1 p.m. We had walked all over the port and downtown citta’ vecchia and there wasn’t a market or store in sight. We sat down in the shade to rest for a couple minutes and I noticed a small photography studio. I had Carolyn watch our bags while I went over to it and spoke to the owner and his son. He was a really nice man and decent photographer. I told him of our food situation and he told me he had just the place if I’d just follow him. We walked down several small streets and finally arrived at a hole in the wall where a man stood with flour on his shirt and dough in his hands. Behind him a pair of men worked on pizzas and foccaccia. He noted my interest and let me come in and photograph his oven that was made in 1940. More than just an over, this was a vast stone “lazy susan” that was inside a furnace. From a small opening in the outside, the cook could insert as many items as he/she wanted into the oven by simply turning it with a small wheel on the ground. It used to be a wood oven but he had had it converted to gas so that it would be more controlled. It was one of the only turning ovens in the country. After the small tour of his kitchen, the man sold me two large focaccia rolls and four small pizzas. He ended up giving me two more free of charge.
I thanked the photographer for showing me this gem of a place and let him know that without his hospitality we would have been stuck at the port all day with nothing to eat except expensive tourist food. The photographer returned to work and Carolyn and I ate our pizzas and foccaccia. Apparently we had attracted some attention while talking with the baker because just as we finished eating a couple of guys came up to us and asked us who we were and what we were doing there. One of the guys, Nicola, worked at a butcher shop and invited us down to his shop a couple of streets over. We followed Nicola through the twisted maze of citta vecchia and arrived at his shop. His dad and some friends were inside talking when we arrived. Nicola had his dad cut up raw horse meat and Nicola sprinkled it with salt, pepper and some parmesan and held it out for us to eat. I saw the look on Carolyn’s face and told Nicola that she was vegetarian. I grabbed the meat, shoved it in my mouth and chewed it up. It actually tasted really good. The men in the shop were happy with my approval and Nicola’s dad cut some more for me. I ate that as well. Before he could offer me another bite though, I grabbed my camera out of my bag and asked to take their picture. They loved this idea and got all together behind the counter and grinned.
We walked back to the bus stop and caught the bus back to the port. Once there we settled in for the long wait before Jadralinja ferry offices opened. After a couple of hours the office opened and we purchased a deck seat. A deck seat means you have to try to find space on the deck somewhere to sleep. This is the lowest accommodation choice. Just above it is the airline-type seat and then an actual cabin. We figured that it would be similar to our last ferry ride and we’d be able to sleep on the couches in the reception area. We let out a sigh of relief. We hadn’t even been sure that the office for the ferry was the correct one because of a sign they had posted on the window that said they’d moved.
It was six p.m. and we hadn’t eaten yet. I decided that I would try to find an open supermarket in Bari on a Sunday in July. We might as well have been looking for ice cubes in the desert. I spoke to a lady who worked at the port and she told me that a store called Penny Market was open on Sundays. She gave me directions and I ran to catch the 20 barred bus and rode it to the station. At the station, I caught the 53 bus and asked the driver to tell me where the Penny Market was. After about 30 minutes of travel, I arrived at the closed gates of the Penny Market. There was an enormous chain around the gate obviously to ensure that no starving American pulled it apart out of frustration. Time was running out. We were to board the ferry at eight and it was already seven. I walked around looking for a bus stop where the 53 passed and couldn’t find one. I walked up the street for about 30 minutes until I came across a bus stop where the 53 passed and right behind it was a pizzeria. I dashed inside and ordered two margheritas and some Fanta. The owner of the restaurant also happened to be a bus driver and he drove the 53 route. He informed me that bus 19 and 53 both went to the station. When the pizzas were ready and I’d thanked my guide, I walked outside and waited for the bus to arrive. After the change at the station I arrived at the port to a starving Carolyn. It was eight o’clock on the dot and it was eight o five by the time we finished our pizzas. We had arrived in Bari from Greece at nine a.m. and we were boarding our ferry at eight p.m.
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