Do you know the story of Stone Soup? It’s a story of deception and manipulation, cleverly disguised as “sharing.” I had a little taste of it a few weeks ago on my return trip from Slovenia, and it’s a bitter brew indeed.
I didn’t miss the bus. The bus missed me. And now I am missing hundreds of Euros. It stings. Oh, it stings.
It started the previous week in Casablanca, when I decided to play it safe and reserve a 20-Euro bus from the airport in Venice to take me to my final destination in Ljubljana, Slovenia. All through the convenience of online booking. Only I never got a receipt. Or a confirmation of payment. Or a ticket. Nothing. Of course my credit card was still charged. Of course I immediately emailed the bus company. Of course I got no response.
When I landed in Venice the next day I immediately hooked myself up intravenously to the airport wifi, only to check my email and receive a message saying “Please send us your phone number. The bus driver does not have your name on his list.” Of course I responded immediately. Of course I received no further response. None. I lost a Euro to an Italian pay phone trying to dial a number that turned out to be out of service. I asked every possible person at the airport who might be able to direct me to the bus in question. No one had heard of it. No one.
I should have read the reviews… 
The phantom bus stop
I stood in the rain for an hour waiting for the phantom bus that never came. Without an umbrella. And then I went inside and booked a second bus with another company. Waited in the airport for another three hours. Boarded the bus without incident, and arrived four hours later in Ljubljana, soaking wet but otherwise intact.
“It’s only 20 Euros,” I told myself. “It’s just money. Sometimes it goes away like that. You’re safe. You’re here. Get over it.”
I got over it. I economized in other unfortunate ways. I walked around in the rain all week instead of paying for taxis or transit passes. I ate oatmeal in my mini-airbnb instead of staying in hotels and dining in Slovenian restaurants. I did not buy jewelry or pretty porcelain mugs at the market. Only a flimsy orange umbrella and a rainhat. To enhance my daily walks in the rain. Without rainboots.
“Just take a taxi,” my mom said. “Just buy some rainboots,” my mom said. “You can do that, you know.” No I can’t. I can’t.
One week later, I thanked myself for having booked my 5am bus ticket back to Venice with a reliable, reputable bus company that I’d used many times before.
I did not exactly arrive 15 minutes early, as the ticket suggested, but I was five minutes early. I ran. In the rain. Through the puddles. My shoes were flooded. The bus was waiting.
4:55am: “Is this the bus to Venice?”
“No.”
Oh no… did it take the liberty of leaving 15 minutes early?
Another bus pulled up.
4:58am: “Is this the bus to Venice?”
“No.”
A third bus pulled up. One of the many cities flashing on its banner was “Venezia.” Oh, thank heavens.
5:02am: “Is this the bus to Venice?”
“?????” (unintelligible muttering)
“Venice? Marco Polo Airport?”
“No. Next bus.”
“Really? This bus isn’t going to Venice?”
“No. Next bus.”
But the “next bus” never came.
Now this is different than being stuck in Venice and arriving in Ljubljana a few hours later than expected. All that was waiting for me on the other end was a little more rain. But the return trip: well, timing matters a great deal when one needs to go to the airport at 5am, to arrive at 8am, for an 11am flight. One cannot mess around with phantom busses and second bookings.
With my emergency international SIM card I did all manner of googling. Buses, trains, shuttles, rideshares. But I knew already that it was hopeless. I had done all the same research two weeks earlier when I booked the 5am bus. It was the only option.
Could I book a later plane ticket, so I could take a later bus? How do I do that, sitting at a Slovenian bus stop at 5:15 am? Even if I can find a bus/flight combination that will work, when will I actually get home? Tomorrow? Tuesday? I have to go to work tomorrow. I have a super-important thing to do at work tomorrow. I can’t miss that super-important thing. I have to get to the airport. Now.
“Just take a taxi.”
Oh, my stomach, and the stone that dropped into it when I considered the cost of a 240-km taxi ride. But what else could I do?
5:30am: “Can you take me to Venice?”
“Yes. Get in.”
“How much?”
“Just get in. I’ll see what I can do.”
Oh, my stomach, and the second stone that dropped into it, when I realized that this would not be a straight-forward, European-style conversation.
“Can you take a guess?”
“I need to get fuel. Is that okay?”
“Yes, but can you give me a price?”
“We will have to use the meter.”
“So, it’s a fixed rate, per kilometer, right?”
“Yes. I will give you the lowest rate.” He shone the flashlight on the window visor. The lowest tariff indicated was 1.50 Euros/km.
“But on the internet it says 0.89 Euros/km,” I protested. I showed him, on my phone. “You see?”
“But we are leaving the country. I am not allowed to use that rate.”
Oh, the third rock that dropped into my stomach as I mentally calculated this 69% increase from what was already an exorbitant fee, compared to my 20-Euro bus ticket on the Phantom Express.
“Let me call my company. I’ll see what I can do.”
He called. They spoke in what I assume was Slovenian, with the English word “please” punctuating the conversation here and there. Oh, that’s nice. He’s pleading on my behalf. Maybe there is some compassion in this world.
“Okay. I can give you a 30% discount. You just need to sign your name on the invoice.”
The rocks in my stomach lifted the tiniest bit. I will speak proudly of this ruthless haggling when I return to Morocco.
I sat in the back of the taxi repeating my mantra, “It’s just money. It’s just money. It’s just money. Sometimes it goes away like that.” But my economy-sized brain responded with arguments like, “You need that money! You’re going back to Canada! You’ll need to buy a car! You’ll need to get a mortgage! Do you have any idea what the cost of living is in [insert city here]? This is not okay!”
Logical-Me countered with, “You spent a great deal of money this week on skydiving and rafting. You don’t have rocks in your stomach over that.”
“Yes, but I did that in order to have experiences.”
“This is an experience,” said my logical self.
I gave up, and went to sleep.
I woke up just outside the Venice Airport. The meter read a glaring 457 Euros for what the driver claimed was a 300-km trip.
“How can that be?” I gasped. “The distance is only 240 km.”
“The road was closed. We had to go around.”
“Prove it,” I wanted to say. But I didn’t.
“So what is the cost?”
“Remember, I give you the discount. So your final price is 315 Euros.”
“315 Euros???” I shouted. It was my timid version of a shout, but it was a shout.
“There were road fees,” he said.
Six rocks. Thunk. Right into my belly. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
I gave him my credit card.
“I only take cash,” he said.
That seems fishy, I thought. But what could I do?
We went in to find a bank machine. It charged me 3 Euros for the transaction, in addition to the $5 my Canadian bank would charge. So, 321 Euros for a 20-Euro trip to the airport. Plus the 40 wasted Euros on the two phantom buses. Plus the Air Arabia rip-off of several weeks ago.
Yes. An “experience” indeed.
I am an economizer. It’s my Menno-brain. I bring empty water-bottles through security so I can fill them in the bathroom instead of buying drinks at the airport. I pack four hard-boiled eggs and a brick of cheese for my lunch, so I won’t waste the leftovers in my fridge. The nine stones in my belly are weighing rather heavily.
Altruistic-Me appeals to Menno-Me with generous thoughts: “Maybe that man really needed the money today. Maybe he’s on the verge of bankruptcy. Maybe his only child needs costly, life-saving surgery, or his mother is in desperate need of medication. Maybe he is sending half his money to his poverty-stricken relatives.”
Jaded-Me replies: Maybe he’s an unscrupulous, meter-tampering crook who sees a vulnerable tourist in a desperate situation and exploits her for all she’s worth. Maybe he is already high-fiving his equally unscrupulous buddies over his cleverness. Maybe I have fallen victim, once again, to an International Taxi Conspiracy.
Positive-Me cons Negative-Me into a state of compromise. “You didn’t lose your passport. Or your computer. Or your phone. You still have your empty water bottle, and your four boiled eggs. You will not miss your flight. You will get home, as planned, and prepare, as planned, for your very important day at work tomorrow. Everything is okay. It’s okay. It’s part of traveling.”
True. In four years of globetrotting, this is my first transportation fiasco of this magnitude. Look at all the things I’ve done. Look at all the places I’ve been. Spread those wasted euros over four years, four continents, fourteen countries, twenty-four cities, dozens of unforgettable experiences.
Sure, today’s taxi money could have gone to much more pleasant or worthwhile things. But it’s part of traveling. It’s part of having The Big Life. It’s part of moving through the world as a free and self-determined human being.
Sometimes, you just have to do what your momma says, and take a taxi.
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