So here’s the thing about having your dream come true: My travel dream has met and in many cases, exceeded my imagination – but it’s still real life with all its challenges. Two days ago we took the Blue Star Ferry from Paros back to Piraeus on the Greek mainland.
We had two missions for the day. First, the Italian government had issued a new mandate that Americans entering Italy must test negative prior to arrival. I had been leaving phone and email messages with a clinic in Piraeus near the docks. Nobody ever got back to me, and nobody in Piraeus knew anything about them.
Second, for several weeks we’d been looking on the internet and talking to people to figure out how to get from Piraeus four hours across the Peloponnese Peninsula to Patras, to spend the night and the next afternoon, board our overnight ferry to Rome. Nobody seemed to know.
Our friend, Gail, and several other people remembered taking the train, but not in years. The Greek train system is somewhat haphazard, and when we found what appeared to be current information, it said there would be a ten-hour layover somewhere along the way.
We could rent a car, of course, but the cost of a one-way rental was obscene. There is an interesting service called MyDayTrip.com, but we would have had to arranged it in advance.
The best option seemed to be the bus. We figured we’d get off the ferry in Piraeus and deal with it then. Have I mentioned we don’t speak Greek? And, Greek has its own alphabet? And every sign in Greece is written in said alphabet? So many people were eager to help us, and were happy to practice their English, but their answers were largely incomprehensible to us. And yes, of course it’s their country and there’s absolutely no reason for us to expect anyone to have any English at all. But political correctness aside, we were in way over our heads.
What seemed to be clear was there is no intercity bus company or bus station in Piraeus. Ultimately a man in a travel agency said “420! Go 420 there,” pointing across the street. So we hitched up our backpacks and went where he pointed. A regular city bus marked 420 appeared. “Get on!” shouted my husband. Recent vow renewal notwithstanding, my husband gets a little bossy under stress. I’m leaning in talking to the driver who speaks no English and is not interested in dealing with me. He gives me a big backhanded wave and yells “No!” My favorite thing is not having two men yelling at me simultaneously. I do not board the bus, to my husband’s displeasure.
Someone at the bus stop explains the 420 city bus will take us by the main national intercity bus terminal. My husband growls an I told you so growl. Half an hour later, the next 420 bus rolls up, and we board. Two men assure us we will eventually get to the terminal, and they tell us when we do.
At the ticket office, which is one of 20 offices in the terminal, all, may I say, labeled in the Greek alphabet, we eventually buy tickets for Patras. We climb on the bus and arrive in that port city after ten at night.
Fortunately, I’d booked a hotel which turned out to be lovely. The next morning they directed us to a COVID testing center, where we got swabbed and approved to enter Italy. We forked over an additional 20 Euros and the hotel clerk gave us a 3 p.m. late checkout time. We slept like babies, then got a taxi to the big ferry to Italy.
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