Hidden inside the darkest, most urine-stained recesses of the bus shelter, I found a timetable; an optimistic fantasia of experimental numerology and obscure street intersections that required a magnifying glass to read. Apparently, the next inbound bus was arriving at 07:22; but that might be the crosstown express, or the Sunday only. There was no way of knowing, since the section of timetable that once revealed this information had been erased in favor of a graffito proclaiming the superiority of someone called Derrique.
And so my fellow commuters and I stared fixedly down the road, facing east like a tribe of ancient sun-worshippers waiting anxiously for our God to appear. In such circumstances, it was easy to imagine Derrique as an angry apostate; a former acolyte who had desecrated the temple in a fit of heretical rage after losing his faith. It was now 7:34. Perhaps we should all follow Derrique out of the public transport wilderness?
Finally, at 7:43, a bus rounded the corner and began wheezing its way towards us, stopping and starting at regular intervals, as if the driver were only just learning the principals of acceleration. When it reached us, many interminable minutes later, I glanced nervously down the length of the vehicle. It was crammed full of squashed, gloomy passengers whose desolate expressions brought to mind miserable prisoners languishing in some godforsaken mobile gulag.
It was either squeeze aboard this Stalinist charabanc, turn around and trudge the Long March of Chairman Mao, or try to flag down one of Enver Hoxha's rusting mincabs. They tell me Albania is very beautiful this time of year, if you can afford a private tour.
Enver Hoxha reference for the win.
Posted by: Carter | September 21, 2010 at 19:04