The rain slicked the streets, the windshield wipers rhythmically slapping the glass. We had signed up for a tour—nothing fancy, just a simple way to see the city, or so we thought. But what started as a tour morphed into something straight out of a Jim Jarmusch fever dream. A never-ending bus ride that seemed to have no destination. Or maybe it did, but we sure weren’t in on the secret.

It began innocently enough. A couple of famous landmarks, a guide pointing out the sights. But when we thought the tour had ended, it didn’t. Instead, we found ourselves at an odd stop, suddenly shuffled into a private fashion show. Models paraded down a makeshift runway in designer clothes, looking as confused as we were. No one explained why we were there. Were we supposed to buy something? Applaud? All I knew was that I wasn’t dressed for this.

Then came the bus ride. Two hours of picking up strangers from random corners of the city. They’d get on, sit for a while, then disappear into the fog when their stop came. There were no announcements, no indication of where we were headed. Just the hum of the engine and the murmurs of other bewildered passengers. Were we in a time loop? A dream? The whole scene was drenched in mystery, and not a single soul seemed willing to explain the plot.

As the city outside blurred past us, I started to wonder—was this a metaphor? The bus, endlessly circling, like life itself. Maybe there’s no end, just pit stops along the way. People getting on, people getting off. Some we understand, some we don’t. But the bus keeps going.

The night stretched out, and I had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. I half-expected a noir detective to appear at the next stop, trench coat soaked from the rain, cigarette dangling from his lips, giving me the answers I wasn’t even sure I wanted.

In the end, there was no grand revelation, no satisfying conclusion. The bus just kept rolling. And maybe that’s the point—sometimes the ride itself is the story.