How you convinced me to take an 8 hour bus ride, I have no clue.
I am writing to you as you are sat beside me, zoning out while we’re thrashing Throwback Thursday on Spotify. (How we have a headphone splitter, I also have no clue.)
The teenagers at the back are doing my head in.
Thought this may be the perfect time to write you a letter. About what you ask?
The 5 stages of an 8 hour bus ride to Split:
Denial – I still couldn’t believe that the bus came two hours late. How we made our whole schedule around the leaving time and Flixbus messages us half an hour before it leaves saying they’ll be late. Nice.
Anger – I was angry at myself for listening to you that we were having a dinner stop and that I didn’t need to get snacks at that supermarket we passed going to the bus stop.
Bargaining – I guess the thought that this, no matter how painfully uncomfortable it is, will be one for the books. Another thing with you. One we’ll look back on and hopefully laugh at when we’re on business class seats on a flight to another holiday.
Depression – Depressed at the thought that we can’t carefully pick fellow passengers on bus. If I could, I’d pick nuns who have unlimited supply of snacks. Also the finalists of Love Island and pick their brains on what their real type on paper is. Really, these teenagers with raging hormones (who have just discovered alcohol) need to go.
Acceptance – I have accepted that we have three more hours. And we’ll probably have to watch another movie/have another go at gin rummy or bitch about the German rap songs them measly kids are playing.
I have also accepted the fact that the oily faced, blue eyed boy beside me is my favorite travel buddy. (That’s you, by the way.) (Yes, your face is oily.)
Thinking “Are we there yet?”,