I’ve had an unfulfilled desire for a long time: to choose a destination at the last minute at a bus station.
I’ve thought of multiple ways to do this —taking the next bus, numbering cities and drawing one at random, asking someone at the station to name a city, or simply picking one that catches my eye in the moment.
I’ve never actually done it, despite having been a nomad for a year and a half, and I deeply regret it. Forgetfulness or cowardice.
However, I’ve always had a second dream in the same field: getting in a car and letting the steering wheel guide me—and no, I don’t mean autopilot. I mean letting the road signs guide me. And that’s exactly what I did this Saturday.
Initially, I thought about having lunch near my old university, where I lived for five years. I missed the first turn and immediately saw a sign: Raposo Tavares highway. You know what? I’ll follow it. I stopped for lunch in a town neighbour of this highway but that never really sparks much curiosity: Vargem Grande Paulista. In fact, when I looked for things to do on TripAdvisor, the top suggestion was a dental office. Holy shit. People on the street looked at me as if to say “What is this guy doing here?”
Continuing my random journey, I had seen a sign for Ibiúna just before entering Vargem Grande Paulista. The town is known for hosting an important historical event: the 1968 UNE Congress (UNE being the National Union of Students), where about 700 students were arrested by the military dictatorship while gathered at a rural site. It was the kind of 1960s political event —sex, drugs, rock & roll, and bread. That’s right, an unusually large purchase of bread raised suspicion, and someone (the baker?) tipped off DOPS, the regime’s repressive force. One of the arrested students was José Dirceu, who would later become a key figure in Brazilian politics in the 2000s.
So, I headed to Ibiúna. Naturally, there was no trace of those times, and I doubt even the locals know where that site was. I didn’t find a single open restaurant by the reservoir. I had a coffee in the town center and left the city —I should’ve ordered a bread. Still, the visit was worth it: the next time I read about the 1968 UNE Congress, I’ll know what Ibiúna looks like, and I’ll be able to imagine those turbulent days in Brazilian politics more vividly.
This whole story might seem insignificant. And it is. Nothing spectacular happened. Just a random bit of nothingness. But there’s beauty —and words— in insignificance.
I plan to do this again. We rarely know how our day will end. But also not knowing how it will begin is an amazing experience. The memories of this day, however unremarkable, exist only by chance —because I followed that sign and not another.
And sure, fortuity exists in any displacement, at any moment in life. But embarking on a random journey magnifies it exponentially. I didn’t wake up this Saturday expecting to be in Ibiúna, or to be writing about Ibiúna, or that some readers of this newsletter would learn about Ibiúna’s bread story.
P.S.: Since my twenties, I’ve wanted to visit every city in my home state, São Paulo. This random trip to Vargem Grande Paulista and Ibiúna reignited that dream. One serendipity leads to another.
P.S.²: In my first years living in São Paulo, I used to take random bus rides. I’d hop on the first one that passed and ride it to the last stop. It was a way to know the city beyond the usual neighborhoods. Highly recommended.
P.S.³: When I tell people about my bus station dream, they always ask about accommodations. It has to be a destination with at least some infrastructure. It also can’t be a super popular spot in high season, where hotels might be fully booked or overpriced. Once you’re on the bus, start checking Airbnb and Booking. If nothing works out, there’s still time to head to another place. But, believe me, a hotel room will be waiting for you.
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