Hours

“Excuse me, are you sure this the Breda International Bushalte”, I point to a corner of the street where the only functional thing is a trash bin. The red-cheeked woman looks at me, then at my Breda-London bus ticket and then points reassuringly in direction trash bin. Hoping that the bus will indeed arrive at the promised corner I head its way with the heaviest bag pack I have ever carried. Its 12:45, the time of my departure to the Island and no Eurolines are to be seen anywhere. Finally, after 30 minutes spent in useless consideration of alternative routes to London, the bus arrives, I throw my bag in the luggage compartment, nod to the driver “Hey, how are ya” and take a seat next to a cool-looking blond-haired South African hippie. The journey begins. The flatland that used to be my home for such a long time is stretching in front of my eyes. Heading south, the flattest and most boring part of the Benelux envelops the view. “I will definitely miss the cows”, is what I answer my new South African neighbor. There are many things I will miss about the Netherlands, but I can't be bothered missing them right now.
The bus travels south. We stop, have a snack, exhaust the last weed resources and head to the north of France where we will be about to leave Mainland Europe and cross that famous Euro Channel. I suddenly remember a CNN news report I saw in China last year about a snow storm than blocked the channel and everyone had to be evacuated. Bad thoughts aside, we are approaching the customs.
Crossing the Euro Channel is the most uneventful experience you could possibly have. The bus gets loaded onto a train. The train enters a tunnel. You are under water but there are no windows to watch the cool northern European fish. You switch on your ipod. May be take a nap. And in 3o minutes ... voila welcome to the United Kingdom. So much for the La Manche.
The driver, a decent British bloke. Makes a few jokes about the French police, tries to be social and considerate during the entire trip from the Netherlands to France. But as soon as we enter England, he starts racing the vehicle on max speed, joking about whatever comes to mind and apologized for the 1 minute delay at the Victoria Coach Station. As if trying to make a statement “I am home now mates I could do whatever I bloody want”. And so he does until we enter the endless suburbs of the BabyLon-Don. My Shuffler chooses oddly the Bombay Bicycle Club and I get lost in the faces of Londoners going out for an evening stroll. And in the tens of Little India's and Kebabs all the way from South East to Central.
I was about to say hello to my new bizarre and beautiful home Scotland tomorrow morning.