The sun sets over the mountains in a straggling seaside suburb outside of Bastia, and I get off at the wrong stop. Actually, it is the only stop.

I sit watching the view, waiting to see the familiar contours of the streets around my hotel, but they never come. This bus is in a whole different place. The right direction, but the wrong everything else.

“Terminus,” says the bus driver, eyeing the open door and then me. I am the only person on the bus and I sense that he’s talking about his shift more than anything. Busses are busses everywhere. The words “Last stop, kid” comprise an almost-universal language unto themselves.

This is where I was told to go. But this is not where I’m supposed to go.

“C’est l’hopital?”

Continue reading on Le Blog Laura

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About this author

  • Laura Motta

    I'm a New York City-based writer and editor who loves to travel, whether abroad or just around the corner from my apartment. I …

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