When I left San Jorge, I hurled myself onto a chicken bus. A chicken bus with an overstuffed mochilla and a broken heart is a bad combination. I cried the entire time.
I took a ferry, and cried. Still, it is always worse on the chicken buses. I loathe them with a passion. They are old school buses, where people sit three or four on each bench instead of two, where standing in the aisle (or even, for small children, resting in the overhead bins is normal!) is crowded…
Sometimes, I feel like a princess but I really do hate the chicken buses. I had to explain to the guy next to me, “Estoy muy triste porque mi novio y yo rompimos hace una semana. Se amo mi novio mucho.”
Yes, I know how to talk about a broken heart in Spanish.