Bus Stories. Way To Work.

Eichmatt.
What I love about my work is that it is not my job to pick up the general phone and none of the Swiss who start living their lives at seven thirty in the morning have to get all upset about no one answering their calls. And this is my ticket for the ten-to-nine bus. Which, I sometimes miss. And everyone knows better than to call me before eleven.

Sandwürfi Friedhof.
Umbes nagu Liivaloopija kalmistu.
I take the number ten bus. Every morning we pass a window where a perfect Swiss house wife is hanging out blankets while the kids are drinking their Ovo. The seat I always get together with my Ray Bans make perfect conditions for comfortably switching off deep analysis of life. The yellow ones from last week have been changed for some flowery ones. The sheets, I mean.

Köniz Schloss.
A rather rough roundabout.

Köniz Zentrum.
After weeks of chewing nails I finally received The Letter to go fetch my Residence and Labour Permit Type B. I approached the counters for foreigners with it and greeted the guy with my most beautiful Bernese Grüässech announcing my wish to receive the blessed piece of paper. As requested in the letter, I had my passport ready, however, they did not care for it, simply wanted 90 Swiss franks. So this is how much the foreigners' identity costs in Switzerland. (Greetings to Stefanie and Christian). It was ten to five then, I remember, and I went to get a nutroll from Migros.

Brühlplatz.
An add proudly presents: We clean your blankets in only three hours! I wonder if the lady from the window ever uses their service. I mean, where else can you get them cleaned in three hours, right.

Station Liebefeld.
Field of Love. Field of Respect. Fair-Play Field. Newspaper-to-Bed Ave. Flowers-Just-Like-That Park. Partners-In-Laugh Alley. Cannot-Live-Without-You Milky Way. Wagen hält.

Hessstrasse.
Ssssssshit. Forgot to throw the old flowers to compost.

Dübystrasse. Weissensteinstrasse.
At the bus stop of one of them there is a small sad-looking Electroladen. Every morning the guy there has one of his TV-s switched on. The other day we were all staring at Beyonce through the window. She is not bad, actually.

Eigerplatz.
Last Saturday I had decided to take the Moonliner after leaving the utterly boring Dampfzentrale. Quoting the kings – if you do not know where to go out in Berne, go home. How very wrong I was not following the worthy advice! I kept myself busy deleting old smses for a half an hour until the night bus finally came. Brr.

Monbijou.
Press the button for stopping. (I wonder if the drivers get some kind of counselling because of the mental problems they have from the peeeeeeep every three seconds a day).
Another mental note still to the last Saturday’s stop: the Swiss cannot party. But I am very fond of the employment culture.

Hirschengraben.
I do not understand the people who use the escalator as stairs. They were made to serve you a piece of the very luxury you need for your morning ritual at the Stadtbachstrasse. Just like the Jura coffee machine at the office.

My PC tells me to Ctrl+Alt+Del. Let’s rock.
B