Nutsmuggling

After seven months I am finally going to visit Michela in Clermont Ferrand, Auvergne, France, where she’s staying for a year postdoc. I am writing from a bumpy Eurolines bus. Actually, we’re stopping in Brescia this very moment, to pick up more folks. Which seems like a good policy, since the bus is almost empty. The one piece of advice I can give about Eurolines is: be sure to get things done before you jump up the bus, before you even appear in front of the driver. This bus was supposed to leave Verona at 18.15, I made the mistake of asking the conductor whether that was my bus, he forced me to embark, immediately, so good-bye to the water bottle I had been planning to buy to avoid dehydration. Hum. This very moment I was supposed to be peeing in the loo of the wonderful bus station of Brescia, but didn’t dare to get farther than one metre from the bus. The bus drivers have been skilfully sending blackmailing stares at those who dared jump off the bus for a stroll. “Look at me, if you are left here while we happily travel to France it’s none of our business.” Not the friendliest of policies, but it did the trick, and everyone’s happy now, except for my bladder. But that’s life.
So here I am.

The macbook battery indicator oscillates between 3:39 hs and 4hs, not too bad; considering we will be stopping in Milan for dinner in one hour or so, the battery life seems enough to cover the most potentially boring part of the trip. And when everything fails, there’s a Nick Hornby book, and McLiam’s Wilson’s Eureka Street on the pipeline. Everything is going smoothly so far. But don’t ask my bladder.