Chapter 2 — Bus
And thus begins Chapter Two.
Now, children.
There we stood.
Before the bus.
The great metal creature that would carry us toward Goa.
Toward Kosmo.
Toward the promised acid.
Toward absolutely no personal growth whatsoever.
The council nods.
A simpler age.
Paul entered.
I followed.
Naturally.
Then came the first great conflict of the journey.
The council leans forward.
The window seat.
Children.
There are certain battles between men that cannot be avoided.
Land.
Honor.
Legacy.
And who gets to stare dramatically out of the window during a road trip.
The council applauds.
A sacred contest.
I wanted it.
Desperately.
The window seat meant scenery.
Mountains.
Trees.
Roads.
Little towns.
Dogs on sidewalks.
Perhaps a cow doing something suspicious.
The world passing outside while I gazed upon it like the protagonist of a film nobody had asked to watch.
The council nods.
Important.
Paul looked at me.
I looked at Paul.
Silence.
Tension.
Children.
I was ready.
Negotiation if possible.
Violence if necessary.
The battle between men was about to commence.
Then Paul spoke.
“I don’t like the window seat.”
The council freezes.
Children.
Glorious victory.
Without bloodshed.
Without negotiation.
Without even asking.
The enemy had surrendered before realizing there was a war.
The council erupts.
NUO VICTORIOUS.
I took my rightful throne beside the glass.
Sat down.
Adjusted myself.
Prepared to witness the journey.
Goa awaited.
The road awaited.
The scenery awaited.
I looked outside.
And passed out instantly.
The council collapses.
Children.
Entire strategic campaign.
Completely wasted.
Apparently even before the great Wanderings,
one law was already absolute.
Moving vehicle equals sleep.
The council writes:
Ancient Protocol Confirmed.
Now.
How long did I sleep?
The entire journey.
The council pauses.
All of it?
All of it.
Children.
Goa is not two and a half days away.
This was not the great railway pilgrimage of later years.
This was simply a few hours.
How many?
The council waits.
I have absolutely no idea.
History has misplaced that information.
What I know is this.
One moment,
I was sitting in a bus back home.
Then darkness.
Then consciousness returned.
And I was in Goa.
The council erupts.
FAST TRAVEL.
Correct.
No roads.
No scenery.
No transition.
No journey.
Loading screen.
Destination unlocked.
Children.
Perhaps this was why I didn’t yet understand wandering.
I kept sleeping through the actual wandering part.
The council nods.
A strong theory.
Now.
We stepped out.
Goa.
At last.
The mission had officially entered operational territory.
Naturally,
we called Kosmo.
The council leans forward.
Our local guide.
Our man on the inside.
The one who had promised access to the mystical little square that had dragged us across state lines.
Kosmo answered.
And gave us an update.
Six hours.
The council pauses.
Six hours?
Yes.
We had to wait six hours.
Why?
The council turns toward me.
Children.
No idea.
To this day,
I do not know.
Perhaps he had work.
Perhaps family.
Perhaps logistics.
Perhaps he was securing the sacred merchandise.
Perhaps he simply wasn’t ready.
Paul probably knew.
The council nods.
Likely.
Kosmo probably explained.
Also likely.
Everyone involved in the situation probably possessed this information.
Except me.
The council applauds.
Tradition.
I had delegated understanding to Paul.
Children.
Once you appoint a human GPS,
you do not waste valuable processing power asking why.
Paul says wait.
We wait.
And so,
we needed somewhere to exist for six hours.
Paul solved this problem.
Naturally.
Hotel.
The council pauses.
Hotel?
Yes.
Not hostel.
Not dorm.
Not some suspicious room above a bar.
A hotel.
Why?
Children.
Ask Paul.
I followed.
The council nods.
The system remains elegant.
We checked in.
Paul handled whatever competent people handle.
I paid half the room fee.
And just like that,
we had shelter.
Now.
Six hours.
The council leans forward.
An entire afternoon.
Goa outside.
A new place.
A city neither of us had properly explored.
Children.
Imagine the possibilities.
We could walk.
See the streets.
Explore the architecture.
Find a beach.
Eat something local.
Meet people.
Pet dogs.
Begin collecting memories.
Perhaps even accidentally discover the first signs of the wanderer I would eventually become.
The council waits.
Nah.
We rolled joints.
The council erupts.
Of course.
Children.
Remember who this boy was.
Present Nuo sees six free hours and thinks:
Wander.
Old Nuo saw six free hours and thought:
How altered can consciousness become before dinner?
The council nods.
Different era.
And so,
we smoked.
One joint.
Then another.
Then perhaps another.
Time became wonderfully irrelevant.
The hotel room became the entirety of Goa.
Outside?
Unknown.
Beaches?
Hypothetical.
Culture?
Unobserved.
Infrastructure?
Children.
I couldn’t tell you if Goa had roads at this stage of the story.
I had seen only:
Bus stop.
Hotel.
Ceiling.
Paul.
Smoke.
The council applauds.
Travel journalism.
Now.
For six hours,
we existed.
High.
Talking.
Laughing.
Probably discussing incredibly profound things that would not survive sobriety.
Children.
Cannabis conversations possess an unfortunate archival defect.
At the time:
“This changes everything.”
The next morning:
“What were we talking about?”
The council nods.
Wisdom lost.
Still,
we were happy.
That much remains.
No urgency.
No weight.
No grand emotional crisis requiring escape.
Just two friends in a hotel room,
getting increasingly baked,
waiting for the third member of the expedition to arrive.
Simple.
Stupid.
Wonderful.
The council smiles.
And eventually,
the phone rang.
Kosmo.
The council leans forward.
He had arrived.
Children.
Immediately,
the atmosphere changed.
Six hours of waiting ended.
The mission returned.
We stood.
Collected ourselves.
Or whatever approximation of ourselves remained available.
Probably sprayed something in the room and convinced ourselves nobody could smell the obvious.
The council laughs.
A legendary illusion.
Then we headed downstairs.
And there he was.
Kosmo.
The local.
The final member of our three man expedition.
The man who had promised us access to a substance neither Paul nor I had experienced before.
The council grows quiet.
Children.
Until that moment,
Goa had technically begun.
But not really.
The bus?
Transportation.
The hotel?
Waiting room.
The joints?
Pre game.
This?
This was the beginning.
Because now the party was complete.
Paul.
Kosmo.
And the boy who had not yet become the Unbegun.
Three friends.
One city.
One objective.
Acquire LSD.
The council nods solemnly.
A quest of tremendous intellectual significance.
I had no idea what the next few days would become.
No idea what I would see.
No idea what I would remember.
No idea that years later,
I would look backward at this ridiculous little trip and recognize it as one of the roads that existed before I even knew roads mattered.
Children.
Back then,
there was no philosophy.
No mythology.
No understanding that a journey could leave pieces of itself inside you.
There was only Kosmo waiting downstairs.
And the promise of acid.
Thus concludes Chapter Two.
The Window Seat War That Never Happened.
The First Recorded Use Of Fast Travel.
Six Hours Of Absolutely No Tourism.
And The Arrival Of Kosmo.
Children.
I had reached Goa without seeing the road there.
Spent my first six hours without seeing Goa.
And somehow believed I was doing travel correctly.
The council nods.
Magnificent.
But the waiting was over.
Kosmo had arrived.
The three idiots were assembled.
And finally,
Goa was about to begin.
