The bus lumbered across a bumpy stretch of gravel, tires hitting in and out of large ruts. To the left stood a set of gas pumps. Long lanes marked for bus parking filled the right side of the graveled lot. Several men were milling about, noting as the vehicles pull in and out. “Oh my,” I thought, my eyes snapping open. “We must have had bus trouble. We must be pulling in to get repairs!””

How could this be, though? Just minutes ago, we were cruising along a cinematic ribbon of asphalt winding up and down the limestone cliffs of the Adriatic—a stretch overflowing with palm trees, flowering bushes, and posh villas. How could such a bus-repair lot sprout up in that kind of neighborhood?

Furthermore, no one seemed to be expressing audible concerns: no “ooh’s,“ “ah’s,” or spicier expressions were emanating from the seats in front of me, as you might expect in a group concerned with a mechanical bus problem.

Of course, no one made sounds because no one was on the bus. It was only I who remained on the bus. With an internal jerk, I realized I’d slept through the drop-off point at our luxury hotel. Now the bus was arriving to the remote parking lot where tour busses spend the night. That meant I’d slept through not only the stop, but the final instructions for tomorrow’s’ departure and the inevitable noise of people disembarking. Admittedly, today’s group was smaller than normal, viscerally contented after a spectacular lunch, so their movements might have been relatively quiet.

Still, they were all gone. I was a stowaway, unbeknownst to Zdravko, our gentle driver who thought his workday was done.

For a moment I panicked. What if I hadn’t woken up? What if Zdravko had locked the bus with his serious security key? Would I have had to spend the night on the bus? Would someone in our group have noticed I was missing? And most seriously, who would pack up my suitcase for our 7:45 a.m. departure tomorrow? Once these silly thoughts passed, I faced the real problem: how was I going to announce myself to Zdravko? I gathered my stuff and crept forward.

Zdrako doesn’t speak English, so Russian was our fallback language, although few words were needed. The conundrum was clear. Brushing aside my deep apologies and insistence that I would call a taxi or try to walk, he gestured for me to sit down and said (in English) “okay-ee, okay-ee, don’t worry, don’t worry.” He slid his side window down, informed a colleague standing there that he would return soon, and snapped the bus back into gear. As it rocked back across the rutted lot, Zdrako asked me if I had had a good sleep. “Very good,” I admitted, which seemed to please him.

The worst part, other than my embarrassment, was trying to reckon how far we had traveled from the point of our hotel to this bus-storage lot: was it one mile Zdravko would have to backtrack, or ten?

Fortunately it took only about 12 minutes to get to our hotel. He pulled in front, more or less tipped his hat, waited for me to disembark, and drove off again. Of course, I’ll thank him with a card and a gratuity. Whatever he really thought (probably something like, “Oh no, another of those ridiculous tourist-ladies who keels over on the way back from an excursion”), he was notably gracious.

Then, I had a second quandary. Should I confess my story to our tour director who describes herself charmingly as a control freak (although that’s exactly what you want in a tour director)? There she stood in the lobby, her back to me as she confirmed tomorrow’s lunch arrangements. I nearly raced over to tell her (“You’ll never believe what happened!”) but decided against it.

Next, came this question: do I confess it to my roommate? Keeping my little escapade from her might be harder, because, well, it’s kind of a good story, albeit embarrassing. Yet, in a rare moment of restraint, I decided it was best not to tell anyone.

Instead, I’ll tell you. And in doing so, let me encourage you to read Stowaway. This is one of hundreds of poems penned by the British-Canadian poet Robert William Service (1874-1958) whose The Cremation of Sam McGee is popular still with today’s readers.

Here is the first verse:

We’d left the sea-gulls long behind,
And we were almost in mid-ocean;
The sky was soft and blue and kind,
The boat had scarcely any motion;
Except that songfully it sped,
And sheared the foam swift as an arrow . . .
There fluttered down a city sparrow.

[The rest you will find at this link.]

I’ve never been a stowaway before, albeit unwitting. It was a completely new and vivid feeling, realizing I was in the wrong reality, a city sparrow, if you will, in the middle of a sea (or bus lot). It sent me looking for “stowaway art” and “stowaway poems.” It reminded me of how many stories, especially children’s stories, involve stowaways. Maybe you’ll share some of your favorites with me.

Meanwhile, tomorrow, I will not sit at the back. I’ll park myself next where Zdravko can see me clearly in his mirror. I suspect he’ll be giving me an extra look-out from this point until the end of our tour. And I’ll add the completely new feeling of being left behind on the bus to my gallery of experiences—a more vivid emotion than you might guess, one that made me feel, for just an instant, like a lost little child.