Spud Hilton takes us on a journey with the Hippie Bus:

It’s 5 a.m. and my left leg is wedged irretrievably between a couple of Brits, who are spooning in somnolent bliss as our strangely loaded bus trundles through the Sierra foothills.
Everywhere are bodies on mattresses — a tangle of blurry-eyed Brits, shaggy-headed Germans, curled-up Kiwis — languorously sprawled as if acting out a page of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog, only with more clothes.