It had been a long week, but it was time to go home.
Being in the north of Istria, getting back to home meant crossing two international boundaries to go from Croatia, to Slovenia, and onwards to Italy where the cool confines of Vueling’s budget seating awaited at Marco Polo Airport.
The rump of Slovenia that reaches the Adriatic Sea forms what is only a 47km coast. If that seems sad, look on the bright side, at least they’re not Bosnia Herzegovina with a scant 20km.
While one could drive that entire length, there are various points along the Italy/Croatia sandwich where one can pass with a good deal less Slovenia if so desired. The leader of the group I was with, was headed straight for one.
Despite the fact that the Schengen Zone did away with borders, there are still borders, especially when going from east to west. The reason being the great concern about “imigants” who, as we all know, use standard border crossings to enter countries without adequate paperwork. Thus, these old border points are now active, but the reality is that it’s just for show. Whatever the reason, it’s irrevelant however as the checkpoints back up, especially in the summertime as it only takes one car that requires further questions (aka, it’s not full of white people) to gum everything up. This is exactly what the leader of the group wanted to avoid so that people would make their flights.
The plan was to exit Croatia near the village of Jelovice and enter Italy just before Crociata which sees the Slovenia bit reduced to but a mere 21km of woodsy backroads. More important than the scenery and less Slovenia is that these are less frequented roads with far less traffic.
We bumped and jostled our way along the curvy road north out of the Istrian hinterlands to arrive at the crossing into Slovenia. At the Croatian checkpoint there was no one as they don’t give a damn that you’re leaving. At the Slovenian checkpoint there were guards however and the driver of the bus slowed down.
He greated them in Slovenian and as it was a Slovenian plated bus, he just nodded to us in the back and said one word, “Italians”.
That was all it took and we were waved through without a second glimpse.
We continued along these backroads of Slovenia, looking longingly at the vast highway bridges that stretched above us, skipping past these meandering valleys, with a speed that taunted those of us in a small bus attempting to avoid border mayhem.
Nearing Crociata, all seemed good until we rounded a bend. There, behind a bush was a patrol car with two carabinieri standing at the ready, uniforms gleaming in Italian style, but with a defintive “Surprise, Motherfucker!” air to their presence.
As we slowed down, the driver looked over at the leader of this group with a seriousness to him that was chilling, “Look, speak Italian. You’re Italian. Everyone on the bus is Italian.”
This was important to emphasize as the leader was sitting next to the door, would be the one speaking to the police, and was fluent in Italian despite not being born there. Naturally, in moment like this, you would expect most people to bow to the wisdom of a driver who crosses international borders 10 times a day. The leader however, was not most people.
“I always speak in English. There will be no problems if I speak in English.”
“Italian. Speak. Italian.”
And then we pulled up to the police and opened the doors. They poked in their heads and gave a courtesy “buongiorno”.
Then of course the leader told them without their questioning and in English, “We are a group of journalists, here at the invitation of the Slovenian and Italian governments to promote the culture and…”
The police were nonplussed, cut him off and said that word no one likes to hear from police, “Identification”.
We “passed the hat” and scooped up all of our ID cards. Thankfully all but two on the bus were EU citizens and the two that weren’t had residence permits.
As is always the case when the police “go ID” on you, they looked through the stack of cards as slowly as they could, pawing at each card, mumbling something to one another which was probably along the lines of, “You’re going too quickly. Slower, slower. Make them think that we’re really doing something here other than being annoying.”
After what seemed like a half hour and the leader protesting again about our being journalists and their ignoring him again, they handed back the cards and sent us on our way.
Once around the next bend, the driver exploded at the leader.
“What were you thinking?!! You never tell the police anything more than they ask! And always, fucking always, when someone tells you that you’re Italian, you’re Italian!”
There would be no more incidents and we continued on our way after with little more conversation except the driver mumbling to himself in Slovenian, “Why couldn’t they just be Italians…?”