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I can't believe I've made it. The bus ride last night (9:30pm - 7am) was crazy. It all started with a less than inviting atmosphere in S** H**** Bus's office and waiting room in NYC. If you think that a coach station should at least offer a friendly service, and maybe a snack bar or diner, I'm with you. But SHB is not. The receptionist preferred talking privately on the phone instead of answering a question I had. And why smile? Also, instead of offering meals or snacks, SHB chooses to offer rainbow-colorful-pink-candycotton-absolutely-useless phone covers and tablet cases. Yes. That's what I need on a 9 hour bus ride! After I had booked that trip, some people thought it was not my best idea to travel by coach because they would be used almost exclusively by working class non-white people, something like that. Steal my things as soon as I'm asleep, and such stories. I always like a chance to refute prejudice. Last night, I was one of only two or three "white" people among maybe 50-60 passengers, a great variety of different ethnic backgrounds. And I doubt there were any lawyers or professors onboard. So the premise is correct, but I still own any single object I owned before! Who woulda thought! Everyone hears of a car accident every now and then, but we don't refuse to drive. So why is such a racist and classist idea still so prevalent? I don’t want to deny that people steal on coaches, just like they steal in other places. But it’s not like every third passenger is a criminal.

            Anyway, I met this nice Pakistani American guy, medical student, and we talked quite a bit during the ride. Lucky him, he succeeded in sleeping half of it. I didn’t. I was really tired after my last New York day, but the wobbling and rattling vehicular sounds and movements denied me any chance of sleep; and here comes the reason why I will never book at SHB ever again. The driver was either a saint or a madman. Maybe you’ve heard that last night, there was a huge cold front over the Midwestern states. I’ve heard it’s the coldest since 1994, at least for Columbus. Anyway, it’s not only completely dark around you, but also foggy. Only the beam of the headlights allows you to see the mushy snow on the highway, and a saggy-soggy snowatery sleet sloshing on the asphalt and against the windshield. Now, how does a responsible coach driver react? No, not this one. We were sitting in the second row on the right, so I could see on the speedometer that we were moving at a breakneck speed of 70mph, later the needle even approached the dial’s limit at 80mph. Miles per hour mind you. That’s between 112 and 130 km/h. Uphill as well as downhill, bends to the left and bends to the right. I think under no conditions are coaches in Germany allowed to drive that fast. I was really scared. (In retrospect, scenes from the movie "Speed" come to mind, haha) But I didn’t dare say a word. Earlier, the coach’s second driver (he was a bit more relaxed than the saint/madman) harshly spoke to a lady with two kids to get out and complain in the office if she doesn’t like what she gets. Her only inquiry was to be seated next to her children of maybe 4 and 5 years of age. She was absolutely right in saying, “You’re only taking the money.” Finally, another passenger changed seats with her, which settled the matter.

            I cannot recall having ever been so thankful for arriving somewhere safe and sound. We got off the bus at about 7am, and it was still quite dark. Due to the weather conditions, my ride (the gracious Sam Miner) would arrive late. Okay, so I wait. 10mins. 20, 30, 40, 50. Gloved hands starting to feel numb in the fingertips. Nose begins to feel stiff. Feet are wet and cold. Have you read some of Jack London’s incredibly beautiful yet terrifying Alaska short stories? “To Build a Fire,” or “Love of Life”? (Steffen, read them!)  I have just recently, and I recalled how he tells of the frost getting into the lonesome hero’s body. Of course, I was in no kind of physical danger. Yet it was one of the coldest mornings I can remember. So I called Sam, and it dawned upon me that it was all a medium sized misunderstanding. He thought I’d wait somewhere inside, I thought “late” meant a couple of minutes. We were both wrong. So I went looking for a café, the chilly wind pounding at my face. And this is not New York anymore, it’s Columbus, Ohio. However, I found one and ordered a medium sized coffee (which is quite large actually – American measurements!) and got warm. Then Sam picked me up and we had a good one hour drive to Athens.