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.
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