Shadows playing.
Bus full.

Someone brought a toddler who is crying every 15 minutes.

I am settling in.

My neighbour just stopped watching anime on his phone and has now burrowed deep into his puffy jacket.

I take my shoes off and draw my legs up on the seat. Try to work out a leg-lock so that they won’t fall down or hit my neighbour when I fall asleep.

These will be a long set of 12 hours.

But that’s ok.

I’ve done worse, I muse to myself, prop my scarf into a ball under my head, close my eyes and go looking for sleep.

…

And I wake up in a different world.

Somehow, the bus is almost empty now; I think most people got off in Bordeaux. I missed that.

It is around 08 when I look at the time. Two hours to go.

According to Google, we haven’t yet crossed the French-Spanish border. But gone are the flat landscapes of Northern Europe.

The flora is completely different, and the light is soft.
As if the sun is not over the horizon yet, but is only touching the sky with the tip of its tongue. Tasting it.

You know?

And I can’t go back to sleep now.

I see bamboo groves passing by.

Hills with little white houses on them.

Foreign trees.

Frost on the ground.

Mist.

And then, suddenly, when I least expect it. The bus crosses a bridge clad in mist, and behind the mist: a huge, heavy, burning-red globe.

Rising.

…

(This story told in pictures, here and here.)