Subjective units of discomfort

Yes, we’re floating in space. We’ve been off our pills for a while now. We’re on drugs though. We’ve got vitamin sunshine. Thanks, Tom Cruise. Let me know how assassinating the president of Venezuela goes. See, I half pay attention. That’s all you get, current events. Fifty percent of my attention span, dispensed in spotty intervals.

So last weekend? We took a bus to hell? Yes, we did. I am still angry with that bus. To get to our destination, one can either take a ferry from Portland, or park in a satellite parking lot and get shuttled to a dock on Cousins Island, where one is then hauled on a smaller boat. This smaller boat ride only lasts fifteen minutes, versus ninety minutes from Portland. Thinking we were being efficient, we opted to leave from the satellite parking. We do enjoy parking. Turns out the shuttle is actually an old school bus with cloth seats infused with wet dog. People who go on vacation to Maine are all about bringing their large smelly purebred dogs. Oh, this is my Portuguese Water Dog. OK, it is. You got me.

The bus rocketed along narrow pocked roads, and Mr. H and I kept looking at each other, in total disbelief that no one else seemed to be bothered by staring death in the face. When we finally got to the dock, the bus had to turn around and back down a hill on a narrow strip of road for some reason. This strip of road is right next to water, with no guard rail. I contemplated throwing up in a panic, and then the bus lurched forward again because some asshole in a Volvo wagon had gotten off the car ferry and was trying to come up the hill. So we got to back down the hill twice. That’s a lot for your money.

That bus haunted us for the entire weekend, because we knew the only way back would also involve it. We tooled around the island in the fog, and every now and then that bus would loom out of the mist like the clown in It. In this photo, the bus is lurking right below the surface of the water, just waiting.

EDIT: This just in: a new view of the hell bus, courtesy of this man.

I hate you, bus! We did have a nice time, when we weren’t thinking about the bus. “Oh, look at the view. These goat cheese mashed potatoes are divine!” “But the bus!” Incoherent babbling and fist-shaking, like an America’s Funniest Home Videos clip of a toddler who has been tricked by a Slip n’ Slide. It took several scotches to forget about the bus, but I can’t drink scotch all day now, can I?

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