Non-Fiction Short Stories. Travel, oldsters, love, moments worthy of pause. Monday, Wednesday, Friday.
“Groove is in the Heart” is on the radio and the Italian tourists are certain that we’re all going to die. For me, the pace and aggressive passing of Croatian bus drivers is no longer alarming. I’ve been on this route many times. I hope I’m not losing my gratitude as we fly down the coastal road, but I’ve lost that panicky thought that these will be my final moments.
Back at Makarska, the driver sat for a coffee with a remarkable sense of self. He winked at me and smoothed his hair. He flirted with the sixty-year-old waitress. So I don’t clutch at the handles of the seats when we pass the lumber truck, when we pass the wagon and trailer. I don’t look nervously at the guardrail and consider how insufficient it would be to stop a fast-moving bus. I trust him to preserve himself first, and the rest of us because we are sitting behind him. He drives this all day, nearly every day, so it is best to rely on his broad self-protection and his well-worn habits.