Reid & Robie

You have good days, you have bad days. But you never have a boring day.

– John Kennedy

“Is it always so cold here?” I asked the Albanian taxi driver as he took us to our new apartment. 

“This? No, this is only for today. And tomorrow. Maybe the day after. But next week will be sun,” he smiled trying to reassure me as I shivered in the backseat.

When Robie and I left our hotel in Patras, Greece that morning rain clouds were beginning to sprinkle in King George I Square. But during the short ride to nearby Pio, it turned into a blustery downpour. And after exiting the cab, Robie and I huddled inside the meager bus stop watching the rain blow sideways.

I’d booked our transportation to the city of Sarandё in southern Albania weeks in advance. And while I got a receipt, we didn’t have tickets – only a link to a map with the pick-up location.

When I showed the map to the cabbie in Patras, the old man couldn’t read the small print on my phone. “Zoom, zoom,” he insisted even though enlarging the screen didn’t show him where it was. So when Robie explained we were taking a bus to Albania, the old man dropped us at the bus stop, 300 yards from the point indicated on my map. But in the raging storm, 300 yards might as well have been 300 miles.

Unsure where to catch our ride and unable to move about with our luggage in the rain, I emailed the bus company to let them know where we were. Then I left Robie alone at the bus stop as the metal frame shook under the force of the squall and the gales propelled me toward the designated pickup point.

At the convenience store marked on the map, I found no evidence of the company we’d paid to take us across the border and soon walked back to the bus stop, this time against the oncoming gusts. With each approaching bus, I stepped out into the torrent to ask if it was going to Albania only to be shooed away by a driver eager to close the door against the storm since behind us the headlands at the mouth of the Gulf of Corinth funneled the wind through the bay and whipped whitecaps that sprayed seawater across the road.

The only people left after watching other passengers come and go for an hour, it seemed Robie and I had missed our bus, so I sent a second message to the transportation company asking if they’d transfer our prepaid tickets to a different date. But would that matter if we still didn’t know where to catch the bus tomorrow?

Robie waved at the row of taxis determined to head back to Patras. But when no car came, I ventured out from the miserable shelter again. And once secure in the back seat, I pointed the driver to where Robie stood with our suitcases 100 yards down the road. After helping us load our luggage, I gave the cabbie directions to a hotel less than a quarter mile away. Because our only chance of catching the bus tomorrow depended on reconning the area once the storm let up.

Outside the Apollon Hotel, I left Robie and the cab driver to extricate our luggage and ran inside the deliciously warm lobby to ask the receptionist for a room. But when he inquired whether I wanted it for the day or night, I stopped to consider the options and checked my phone again. This time there was a note from the bus company saying the driver would be happy to pick us up at the bus stop.

Racing outside to catch the cab for a quick ride back, I watched it peel off. Though the man hadn’t complained about helping us with our bags in the rain, losing his place at the front of the queue for a ridiculously short fare hadn’t made him happy. And now with the bus expecting to find us at the place we recently vacated, Robie and I were certain to miss our ride.

After helping get our bags into the lobby, I responded to the bus company telling them we’d moved to the Hotel Apollon. But they merely replied to my previous note saying they were happy to change our reservation to another date and asked if we had a day in mind.

Before I could respond, my phone pinged with another new email. It said that if we still wanted to go to Albania today, the company’s black Mercedes minibus was nearing the stop.

Without a word to Robie, I ran down the street. And when a black minibus rounded the corner, I waved it down. Having been forewarned about us, the driver stopped to let me on as I pointed to the hotel 200 yards away. Then as Robie and I grabbed our bags and fled, the receptionist wished us a good trip, ignoring the puddles we left on his tile floor.

The bus reeked from the unfiltered cigarettes our driver chain-smoked as he drove the twisting, winding roads, but at least we were inside where it was warm and dry. Still, by the time we crossed the border into Albania and Robie pointed toward snow-capped peaks in the distance, I missed my sunny Greek isle and considered our plan to head north in winter a bad idea.

In Sarandё, the fifth-floor apartment with a view of Corfu off the balcony seemed like a quaint place to spend the summer. But this was January, and the weather app had just termed the local conditions a “frigid punch” while our Albanian taxi driver optimistically said that “next week will be sun.”

Inside the apartment that had been left empty for months, the air felt ice-cold, and despite our efforts with the controls, the heater blew only cool air. A quick call to our landlord ended with a promise to send someone right over, but I couldn’t wait.

Still wet and desperate for warmth, I dragged Robie down the street to a local taverna where the owner sat us next to a roaring fire and brought out two glasses of house wine. An hour later, Robie received a text saying the heater was fixed, but for once we weren’t in any hurry.

After being cold and wet for hours, our little fireside table was the perfect end to a miserable day.