What was the longest bus ride you’ve been on? 

For backpackers, this question can become a subtle pissing contest. 

Eight hours between Berlin and Warsaw quickly becomes “nothing.”

Try 15 hours from Hoi An to Hanoi. 

Or 24 hours from El Chalten to Bariloche 

24 hours? That’s nothing, says the Brit sipping the Chang beer. He starts his story. (The true test of endurance begins.)

Long bus rides are truly a badge of honor for the Osprey-wearing soul. You haven’t really been backpacking and really been on a budget until you’ve crammed your frame into a single seat for the better part of a day.

Hungover.

Sitting alone with someone you just met the day before. 

One of you will be able to sleep, and the other won’t.

That’s just the rules. 

There will probably be a movie playing at full volume in a language that you have not bothered to learn.

That’s just the rules.

The length of each trip alone is usually enough to scare off any “non-travelers,” any comfort queens or sensible human beings whom backpackers show their nostrils. But there is real beauty (and discomfort) in these bus rides: they truly prepare you for anything.

At some point during your bus ride, you will have to say to yourself, “Oh this is what we’re doing now? Okay.” 

I chose to learn French in middle school because I thought I would use it the most. My other options were Spanish and German, but I had no interest in visiting South America at the time and I never expected to be on an overnight bus from Copenhagen to Berlin. 

Night buses made the most sense for my dwindling bank account, which had gotten a true pounding from a month in the United Kingdom. If I could combine my accommodation and travel costs into one, I was truly outsmarting the system. I was travel-girl-extraordinaire. Watch out world, I’m rolling in Euro. No need to stick to appetizers when I get to Germany – I can treat myself to a whole entree (only one, next week, following six dinners purchased at convenience stores.) 

Travel -girl-extraordinaire became travel-girl-very-scared at 3 in the morning when I woke up to a German announcement from the bus driver. It was followed by a Danish announcement from the bus driver. And then it was followed by everyone on the bus shuffling around and standing up. 

The bus wasn’t supposed to get into Berlin until 8am! It was not 8am! I was not ready to start my life as a lady of the night in either Germany nor Denmark, wherever I was. 

Did I get on the wrong bus? 

Am I stranded?

Why didn’t I choose to learn German for two semesters in middle school? 

Why is everyone leaving their newspapers and blankets at their seats?

Just in case, I took everything with me.

I stepped off the bus into what looked like a warehouse. Or, possibly, the place where you go when you get trafficked. Sleepy bus riders shuffled in a line to somewhere, and I had to follow. My mind rode the spectrum of dramatic and reassuring thoughts. As the winner of CB West High School’s Most Dramatic Award in 2011, I was vowing never to go backpacking alone again…

…if I made it out alive. 

Up the stairs and through the door was a pristine, white building. Maybe heaven, but with a food court. Where the hell was I? 

I looked around and saw pamphlets at the food court advertising an ocean view. 

It was then that I remembered I had a phone and decided to check my Google Maps. 

Water. 

There was a whole bunch of water between Denmark and Germany.

I clearly did not recognize the German word for ferry when I booked the trip or heard the announcement. 

This was the first of many “this is what we’re doing now” bus rides of my travels. But every time the bus stopped or something didn’t go as planned, I thought back to this trip. 

I thought about the relief of arriving in Berlin when, on the way from Mendoza to Cordoba, a rock shattered the back window of the bus and we needed to wait on the side of the road for an entirely new bus.  

I thought about Berlin when a bus stopped in the middle of the road in Valparaiso for 25 minutes. (The driver was waiting for a friend.)

Once, a bus stopped at a bathroom between Da Lat and Saigon. The stalls were a different kind of stall, containing only tile, a bucket, and a hole in the corner. 

Any time I found myself in a Greyhound station, I reminded myself that at least everyone around me spoke English.

I took a five-hour bus to Penang three times in three weeks just because I thought the city of George Town was cute and enjoyed Love Lane. (Love Lane is probably not what you’re picturing – simply a cute street of bars and restaurants that had a charming, up-and-coming air to it.) 

Once, the bus equivalent of a flight attendant tapped me on the shoulder and told me that we would now be playing Bingo. 

(It was a great way to practice my Spanish, even if it was at 6 o’clock in the morning.) 

—

Ten times out of ten, (okay, maybe 9.5,) what seemed like a grave mistake ended up being a game of patience.

The bad job at the hostel in Malaysia led to good jobs online.

The delay at the station led to a conversation with a stranger who had a similar taste in tattoos.

The panic of being led down the wrong roads by a taxi driver in Egypt became a satisfying dinner at his family home. (This did not happen to me, but it was quite a story.) 

As the amount of hours you’ve spent on buses adds up, the amount of time you’re willing to wait does too. Follow the rules, trust everyone getting off the bus around you, and you’ll be okay. You’ll get to your destination, learn a word or two in a different language, and walk away, shrugging your shoulders once again at the slight change in plans. 

So now I’m being told to stay at home for the foreseeable future? Oh, this is what we’re doing now. Okay.