The bus from Agadir to Dakhla took twenty-one hours. I sat near the front, watching the landscape through the windshield and talking with the driver when I could. We were crossing Western Sahara, and after enough hours on the road, the desert started to feel less like scenery and more like the only thing the bus had ever known.
At one point the driver pointed ahead. In the distance, it looked as if there was water ahead. I’d heard of mirages, but I had never watched one from that close. The water was convincing until we got nearer and it wasn’t there. The bus kept going.
I had a lot of time to think on that ride. That’s part of why I take buses when I travel: I can see the distance between places, and there’s not much to do but sit with whatever is on my mind. Watching that patch of nonexistent water, I thought about how confidently I can guess what other people think of me. Usually I have no better evidence for it than I had for the lake in front of the bus.
I wish I could say that recognizing this cured me of worrying about other people’s opinions. It didn’t. I still catch myself making up a whole story from a look, a silence or a decision I don’t understand. The story feels real because I made it detailed. Sometimes a conversation clears it up; sometimes I have to admit that I don’t know.
Eventually Dakhla appeared and the bus ride ended. I remember the road, the driver pointing forward and the moment the water disappeared. I also remember that for a few seconds I’d been certain I was looking at something that wasn’t there. It was a decent use of twenty-one hours.