In the early 2000s, I studied in Tampere. Back then, a slightly rough-edged city of red-brick factories, ice hockey and a very particular kind of rock music.
I usually travelled there by train after long weekends in Turku or Helsinki.
The trains were blue, inside and out, and had their peculiarities. During the winter months, the toilets sometimes produced something resembling a small indoor snowstorm.
Still, the ride was smoother.
And faster.
Two hours went quickly, sometimes spent attempting to finish several books for an exam the following morning.
Other times I simply looked out of the window, or did whatever people did before there was a feed to check.
Once, I decided to take the bus.
The timetable offered express connections and fast connections.
I chose a fast connection.
It turned out to be rather far from fast.
I expected a few detours off the main roads. I hadn't expected four hours, or so many stops between two Finnish cities.
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During the first hour, there were a few other passengers.
A young boy carrying skates and a hockey stick, going to play with friends.
Someone returning home from playing with friends.
Most travelled just a few stops.
Ten minutes. Fifteen. Occasionally even half an hour.
I began to wonder whether anyone else was actually going all the way.
Then, one by one, they were gone.
For the next several hours, I was the only passenger.
Just me and the driver.
And a considerable number of bus stops.
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The driver looked like a stereotypical bus driver.
A sweater vest and a company logo on his cap.
He sounded like one, too.
Whenever he announced a stop, he held the microphone so close to his mouth that each place name came with a peculiar breathy hiss.
Almost a little panting sound.
At first, I barely noticed.
I was sitting near the back, trying to read for an exam.
The sociology book had plenty to say about what holds society together.
By then, there wasn't much society left on the bus.
Outside, the winter afternoon light was disappearing over snowy fields.
We had left the main road behind once again and were passing through villages, small junctions and stretches of countryside I had never heard of.
Before we were halfway through the journey, it was dark.
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Somewhere along the way, I began to notice that the driver was announcing every single stop.
Every one.
He knew I was travelling all the way to the end of the line.
He had sold me the ticket himself.
There was nobody else on the bus.
The announcements continued.
Another village.
Another junction.
A bus stop beside a snowy field, with no house or person anywhere in sight.
And always that slightly breathless voice coming through the microphone.
Eventually, I put the book down.
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At first, the announcements had been perfectly ordinary.
Now I began to feel strangely flattered. And a little awkward.
For several hours, I was the entire audience.
He was sitting at the front, doing his job.
I was sitting at the back, listening.
We hadn't exchanged more than a few words when I bought the ticket.
I wondered whether he felt awkward too.
The hours passed.
Another stop was announced.
Then another.
Gradually, the whole experience began to feel like being inside a little secret I wasn't quite supposed to see.
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The dark road stretched through the Finnish countryside.
And every few minutes, another little burst of breathing into the microphone.
Another place receiving its name.
I couldn't help wondering whether he would have continued if I hadn't been there.
An entirely empty bus.
Just the driver and the road.
I couldn't quite decide which possibility was stranger.
That he was making all those announcements for me.
Or that he might have made them anyway.
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Eventually, we reached Tampere.
Four hours after leaving Turku.
The driver announced the final stop through the microphone.
The familiar hiss came with it.
No particular celebration.
Just another stop.
I stepped out through the back door.
It was snowing.
The driver was alone now.
For some reason, I felt relieved.
