It’s the Destination, not the Journey
As we waited in a small huddle to board the bus from Sarajevo to Belgrade, a man limped over to the platform. I didn’t take much notice except to move out of the way to let him step on first. That was when I noticed his bruised and bloody face, which made more sense when I saw him attempt to climb the first step and slide backwards, splitting his already swollen lip and landing flat on his back, and if I hadn’t gotten the message right away, his cursing and gesticulating said drunk in any language. I waited for him to be escorted away, and was astonished to see several of the men standing around help the muttering man stand up and maneuver the stairs of the coach.
I didn’t have a long to time to contemplate the idea of a sloshed man as fellow passenger because the driver then came to collect a small luggage fee from each of us. Watching the other passengers hand him coins, I dug out a handful, ready to let him take what he wanted, and didn’t worry about getting ripped off since I wouldn’t be able to exchange the coins anyway.
There was a small commotion before he came to me. I couldn’t understand the driver’s frustration, but an American accent rang out clear to me.
“I don’t care, just take it. I can’t use this. You can just have it,” a young man was trying to get the driver to accept a large coin, worth about a euro, and the driver would have none of it. He held up the smaller coin he wanted, worth closer to ten cents.
“Tip, you know tip? It’s a tip, keep it.” The American tried again in vain to press the coin into the driver’s hand. The driver clearly did not know tip and continued to grumble at him. He finally accepted the coin and stalked back into the station for change.
“No, is OK, OK. OK?” the American man tried the international word for no problem with a referee’s ‘safe’ gesture, but without success. When the driver returned with a handful of small coins, the American gave it one last try, attempting to hand the coins back to the driver. “I can’t use these. You keep them.” But, the driver shook his head.
I quickly went through my pockets again looking for the coin he wanted, and presented it without delay. Now that the excitement of the baggage fee was over, however, my mind returned to the drunk on the bus.
“What’s that American accent doing way out here in the Balkans?” I asked the young man, deciding to win him over in case I needed to appear to be with a man, not to mention that I was a little starved for conversation after several days on the road alone. As we chatted, I followed him onto the bus and sat near him. However, I was soon usurped by a man pointing out the seat number on his ticket. Excusing myself, I found my number, and prayed to the travel gods not to be seated next to the drunk. I was relieved to find my companion seat empty, and was soon joined by a respectable looking gentleman in a suit. He immediately reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a flask, and took a long pull from it before placing it in the seat back in front of him. I felt a sudden longing to return home to Istanbul and its puritanical attitudes about alcohol.
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Wonderful story! Public transit is for safe travel, regardless of alcohol intake. Thoughts to ponder.