I am in the bus again. And I have a return ticket in my pocket already. I will be going back to Zagreb in about three weeks, I think. In the meanwhile, my beloved will visit me in Motovun for an extended weekend. Although I got wet on my way to the central bus station, everything is going according to plan, and I will be sitting with old friends at Marko’s on the lower square this evening. There will be much laughter, too. Still, I feel kind of funny to be in the bus again. There are four hours between the origin and destination, not counting the walking. I am shaking and swaying with so many strangers I will meet never again. And I am looking at things I have seen many times over, but only fleetingly. Being in the bus is like being nowhere. Everything is almost familiar, and yet utterly foreign. Actually, alien. Which is why I do not look forward to the next trip by bus. Nowhere is not exactly the place to be, anyway. In spite of the prospect of seeing my beloved or my friends, trundling back and forth in the bus strikes me as an unpleasant prospect. The same old nowhere over and over again. Nowhere forever.