Dear Night Bus from Oslo to Forde,
Those nights we spent together! Gritty, exhausting, boring, nauseating (the turns in the mountains). I don’t ever want to see you again. Those stops in the middle of the night at those weird mountain truck stops. Raisin buns and chocolate and coffee. Uneasy looks from the other passengers. Wondering if I was going to oversleep and miss my stop and end up in Sweden somewhere.
But I want to tell you something. It was on one of our rides, in the middle of the night, when I had a realization. I was lying down across the seats, my head underneath the window, when I opened my eyes and saw the massive face of a mountain entirely filling the view, towering above your tiny, feeble, trundling form, inside of which I was but an even tinier, feebler body. On the other side of the bus, I knew, the mountain continued to drop down, unfazed by our progress. I had the distinct feeling that the mountain was letting the road exist either because of benevolence (best case scenario) or indifference (worst case scenario) and that at any moment the mountain could become irritated and shake us off its apron. I felt dizzy. And disoriented. And I also felt that I suddenly understood how a landscape shapes a people. Trolls, giants, the uneasy looks of the other passengers – it all made sense. Whether by grace or by luck, we were being allowed to pass. I felt like holding my breath until I was sure our bug-like progress wouldn’t make the mountain itch.
But as you know – you dusty, rattly old thing – we made it.
-e.