But like a mom in front of a Dukes of Hazzard sweatpants display, Georgia was blinded by the bargain. It turns out busses' aisles are so narrow that riders must spend endless time negotiating ways to squeeze past each other.
I suspect that at this moment the Dutch are sitting in spacious, new busses, which give plenty of room to smoke hash and fondle prostitutes, while meanwhile Georgia's hand-me-down busses move around like giant sideways telephone booths stuffed with impossible numbers of people, many of whom have long ago given up on getting out near their destination and instead have given themselves over to the whim of fate. "I wonder what unexpected adventure awaits me," a lucky Geogian might say as the hospital where he was scheduled for a kidney transfer recedes in the distance.
When the busses were launched last summer, officials were mortified to realize that their windows didn't open. When riders complained about the sauna-like conditions, the minister of transportation held a press conference and triumphantly announced that he would have every third window on the busses simply removed. "But what if it rains?" Asked a journalist. He froze, stunned, and responded sternly, "It won't rain."