The goal was to find a beach. It didn’t matter which beach
or how far away it was. The white-sand-blue-surf beaches of Greece’s islands
called us out of our hangover and into the morning sun. My mate, Julius, and I
agreed: this should be easy. We’re on an island after all! Everywhere is a
beach.
We walked up to the bus stop and, without looking, hopped on
the nearest bus. The bus driver, to his credit, stopped us and shouted at us in
Greek. Julius and I gave the man several euros thinking this should mollify
him. Dressed in our swim trunks, flip flops, and loose tee shirts we stood out
like the tourists we so often mocked. It didn’t matter. Today was beach day.
More people filed on to the bus, but we ignored them. I eyed
the map trying to get a fix on where we might go. Julius slept. Pretty soon we
passed the blue-domed houses of the Old Town. The sun’s shine off the white
walls vanished once we reached the rolling wheat fields. Julius was fast asleep
and I did what all great travelers do: stare soulfully out the window at
passing scenery.
The bus stopped once and let a new passenger on. We
continued. The bus was passing through more and more fields. There was no water
in sight. I hurriedly checked the map. Our route did take us through the
island’s center. One could argue we were going in the right general direction.
The bus stopped again and admitted another passenger.
By this time I noticed a murmur all around us. I put the map
down and peeked up from our seat. All around us were children of varying ages.
The bus stopped again. I watched as another child, unaccompanied by an adult,
boarded our carriage. As I looked around
I noticed even more children were similarly unaccompanied. In fact, all of the
children were unaccompanied.
As I was avoiding playful smiles and direct stares I came to
the quick realization: we had just boarded a school bus. To the childrens’
credit the absurdity of having an American and German tourist on their school
bus proved amusing more than shocking. Lots of giggles accompanied me as I woke
Julius and pointed out we were on the wrong bus.
We thanked the bus driver as much as possible and left the
bus. According to my map we were in the dead center of the island; the furthest
point from any beach. I checked the map one long time, tightened my backpack’s
drawstring and stretched my legs. It was a five mile hike, in any direction, to
the nearest beach.
The ensuing hike stretched through long provincial roads bordered by wheat fields. Our flip flops took a beating navigating up and down long hills. To pass the time Julius and I sang songs, counted sheep, and speculated on the public transport system of a Grecian island. Over five miles we finally agreed: the buses should be labeled more appropriately. Just as we rounded the largest hill the soft breeze of the Mediterranean Sea greeted us. Ignoring all decorum we sprinted past the beach club's entrance, through the white wicker tables, and splashed right into the clear blue water we labored all day to find. We finally found the beach!
According to a local bus schedule the last bus back to the Old Town left in one hour. So much for beach day. Too exhausted and beaten to bother swimming Julius and I plopped down at a table. We ordered sparkling waters and waited for the long ride home. We didn't plan this "excursion" of ours, but it speaks to Julius (and myself) patience in understanding that we survived an adventure we were unlikely to forget. Even as we bussed home, tired, hungry, and sleepy we admitted: it was a good day. And yes. We took the right bus home. Just in time for dinner.
