hull’s weird charm when you’re trying to survive a 2am bus ride

i was just trying to get home from the market when the bus decided to play hide-and-seek. 2656284 isn’t a number, it’s a vibe. i mean, who programs a bus to choose that exact sequence? maybe it’s a secret code for something. i don’t know. maybe it’s a cooing pigeon. 1826597621 feels like a phone number, but i’ve never gotten a response. maybe it’s a dead number. or a ghost number. or a number that exists only in the minds of people who’ve never left hull.

last night, i checked the weather. i just checked and it’s…there right now, hope you like that kind of thing. not cold, not hot, just a weird, damp scratch on your skin. like the city is holding its breath. 83% humidity doesn’t help. it’s like being inside a sweaty sock. i spilled coffee on my jacket and it’s now a map of hull’s secrets. or maybe it’s just mold. who knows.

the neighbors? they’re not really neighbors. they’re more like…background characters in a movie you didn’t get invited to. i heard that once, at a bar. someone told me that the guy who lives three doors down collects vintage tupperware. i asked him once. he just stared at me and said, ‘you wouldn’t understand.’ maybe he’s right. i don’t. i just bought a bag of chalk and tried to draw on his fence. he moved. fast. like a spider.

i’m a digital nomad, which means i’m always moving. but hull? it’s like a trap. or a secret club. you can’t leave. well, you can, but you’ll forget why you came. i tried to book a train to leicester. the system crashed. i had to hail a cab. the driver asked if i was a tourist. i said no. he said, ‘okay, then why are you here?’ i don’t know. maybe i’m a tourist. maybe i’m a very confused tourist.

someone told me that the local market is haunted. i heard that from a guy who was definitely drunk. or maybe he was just tired. either way, he insisted i shouldn’t buy the sausages. they looked fine. they didn’t smell like anything. but i’m not taking chances. i’ll take the risk. i’ll buy the sausages. i’ll get food poisoning. i’ll dance in the rain. it’s all part of the hull experience.

i read a review on tripadvisor about a café that serves the best black pudding. it was written by someone who called themselves ‘the guy who cried during the second act.’ i don’t know if that’s true, but i’m going to check it out. i hope they have enough. i don’t want to be the person who leaves empty-handed. i also saw a yelp review about a pub that plays jazz at 3am. i didn’t believe it until i heard it. the music was like a funeral for a bad decision. i stayed for an hour. i left with a headache and a new friend. or maybe it was just the alcohol. who knows.

i took some photos.

these aren’t professional shots. they’re just me trying to capture the chaos. the roses are probably fake. the purple flowers are definitely real. they’re on a wall. someone painted them. or maybe they’re real. i don’t care. they’re pretty.

i’m not sure if hull is a place or a feeling. maybe it’s both. it’s the kind of place where you can lose track of time and still know exactly where you are. or maybe you don’t. maybe you forget. i told a local that i was from london. he looked at me like i’d grown an extra limb. ‘london? you’re from london? but you’re here.’ i said, ‘yes.’ he said, ‘okay, then why are you here?’ i didn’t have an answer. maybe that’s why hull is so magnetic. it doesn’t ask questions. it just exists. and sometimes, that’s enough.

if you get bored, cities are just a short drive away. i mean, hull isn’t a city. it’s more of a…material. like clay. you can shape it, but it always wants to crumble. i tried to build a sandcastle on the beach. the tide ate it within minutes. i’m not even sure if the beach is real. maybe it’s a dream. maybe it’s a metaphor. i don’t know. but i’m here. and the numbers 2656284 and 1826597621 are still haunting me. maybe they’re coordinates. maybe they’re a password. maybe they’re just two numbers that belong together in this weird, muddy world.

i should stop writing. or maybe i should keep going. i don’t know. i’m running low on coffee. i need a refill. i heard that the coffee shop on main street has the best espresso in the city. or maybe it’s a lie. i’m not sure. i’ll find out. i’ll go there. i’ll order a coffee. i’ll drink it. i’ll pretend i’m not a digital nomad. i’ll pretend i’m just passing through. or maybe i’m not. who knows? maybe i’m here because of those numbers. maybe they’re a clue. or maybe they’re just noise. like the sound of the bus. or the sound of my own thoughts.

i’m tired. the weather is still there. the neighbors are still being weird. the numbers are still in my head. i think i’ll end here. or maybe i won’t. i’m not sure. i just know that hull is not what it seems. and that’s okay. maybe that’s the point.

p.s. if you’re reading this, don’t trust the numbers. don’t trust the weather. don’t trust the neighbors. just trust your gut. and maybe, just maybe, trust the bus. it might take you somewhere. or nowhere. either way, it’s part of the story.