We are looking for the bus station in Charlotte. It should be somewhere around here, says the Uber driver. I don't know anyone who takes the bus, he says and shrugs his shoulders. Then we get out. My suitcase is ridiculously heavy by now. In the distance, we see a green bus pulling away. I thought we were taking Greyhound, says Sonali. Flixbus bought Greyhound, I say. I had also dreamed of an old bus. Yesterday, before falling asleep, I read On the Road in my hotel bed.
The bus station is almost deserted. There is a ticket counter, but the window is taped shut with old Amazon packaging. Two people are sleeping on the benches, carrying bags that are bigger than mine. In the corner, the light of a snack vending machine flickers. Next to it stands a man staring at a microwave chained to the wall, in which a cheeseburger from the vending machine is spinning.
I look out the window and think. Then I fall asleep. When I wake up, we are turning into a parking lot, where people are also camping. A campfire is burning next to the gas station. We have 15 minutes to get snacks, says the bus driver. I get a cold beer and a warm Diet Coke; the only ones that are cold are the ones with sugar. I don't want any of the snacks because they all have a color they shouldn't have.
A fight breaks out on the bus. I don't know what it's about, but there's physical violence. A bottle of vodka rolls down the aisle.
The bus station in Atlanta is fenced in. Outside the gates, a black police officer is handcuffing a black woman. Somewhere behind us, there is shouting. We walk toward the revolving door, then get into the Uber. Loud trap music blares from the built-in speakers; the driver has put my suitcase next to the baseball bat in the trunk.
We have a date at the theater tonight. We wait. The door to the stage remains closed longer than announced, and I read the program in the hallway. Only now do I realize that our contact in Atlanta, who just greeted us in front of the theater and accompanied us inside, is about to go on stage. He is also listed as the director in the program. His wife, with whom he runs the theater, is in charge of admissions. Because the technician is in the hospital, the author is running the show tonight. He sits behind the lighting console and switches between the lighting moods. Again and again, he dims the lights too early or turns off a spotlight in whose light one of the actresses was supposed to deliver her monologue. Now she stands in the shadows. Her face is barely visible. As she speaks, she cautiously searches for the light.
Funny, I think, yes, in the USA the author has even more influence on what happens on stage.
Later in the car, I talk to the actor/director/theater manager about theater in Berlin. He has seen evenings that I have also seen. We also know the same people. It's a small world, I say. In the back, his wife says: When the men are talking among themselves again, we can do the same here in the back: How are you, Sonali?
In the US, there is no director's theater. In the US, what happens on stage in Berlin is called Eurotrash. In the US, the author has more power than in Europe. And patriarchy is everywhere.