Next stop: The Day Roger and I Melted

A hulking, sun-baked man from the far-south of Winocratia—where sheep outnumber people and traffic rules are just polite suggestions—standing beside my bus, trembling. This is Roger. A professional driver, broad as a barn door, voice thick with the accent of his mountains. He’s the kind of man who’s “seen things” … except today, he’s looking at me like I’m a grenade with a bad attitude. And all I can think is: this isn't right.

We were a small tour, Patriomagna guests — entitled, enthusiastic, expecting the best (or at least the best for themselves). It was summer, the kind of summer that makes you melt in 10 seconds flat (global warming? Nah, just your imagination, you punk head). Destination: the land of D’Artagnan, and then further on, the country of men with black berets, red scarves, and dried ham.

All was fine. Roger started to loosen up, cracking a joke or two, driving like a man at home. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned: when everything goes too well, something’s about to explode.

Sure enough, a voice from the back:

“Claire, it feels like the heater’s on at our feet.”

Not ideal when it’s already a million degrees outside.

Roger swore, pale as chalk: “It’s not me, I swear, the heater isn’t on.” His voice cracked like a boy about to confess he broke the family vase. We were on the highway. Panic behind the wheel isn’t exactly part of the brochure. I still couldn't understand why he was reacting this way.

Now, Patriomagnans are known to invent drama when the road gets too quiet, so my instinct said: check before panicking.

I smiled my calmest tour-leader smile. “It’s okay. You focus on the road. I’ll check whether it's real.”

I sat down with the passengers. Tested it myself. Cold air from above… and yes — full blast heater at the feet. Mystery confirmed: real problem. Not imagined.

Little did I know that this tiny step — fact-checking before reacting — changed the whole dynamic. Because now Roger knew: I was on his side, not against him.

I walked back calmly, told him it was real but not deadly, and that we’d handle it together. I spoke softly, evenly, and I watched his hands stop trembling. I asked him to keep driving and hand me his phone, and I dialed his mechanic. No accusation, just focus on solutions.

And so we carried on. Passengers melting from the knees down, dreadfully cold air from above, hoping that somewhere in between they had a part of their body balancing both temperatures, mechanic on the line, driving to our lunch stop with parts. At our lunch stop, the fix was made: not perfect, but workable. Guests crammed into the back with air-con top and bottom, Roger and I left at the front like chickens on a rotisserie with no air whatsoever. Three hours of driving, traffic, sweat dripping from everywhere.

At one point, with everyone blissfully asleep, we pulled the blinds down to block the sun. Heaven. Until a Patriomagnan stirred and demanded: “We’d like to see the view. Please lift the blinds.”

Roger looked at me like the world was ending. And honestly, it almost was for us at the front. But I wasn’t going to let him cook alive so someone could watch asphalt.

I turned, smiled with all my teeth, and said: “No. Today, safety trumps scenery. If you’d like, you can take my front seat, enjoy the scenery and keep company to our driver. Otherwise, enjoy your cosy air-con view from the back.”

For the first time that day, Roger smiled.

We arrived, Patriomagnan fully rested, Roger and I half melted but alive. I stumbled toward a shower, lobster-red, hair plastered. Roger had no such luck: he had an engine to worry about. Yet he thanked me.

And then it came out: “You’re so much nicer than Felicity. Last week, something small went wrong. She blamed me in front of the passengers, screamed, made it worse, left without leaving me a tip, and then didn’t even say goodbye. I thought today would be the same. But you… you kept it calm. Focused on solutions. We worked as a team. It was a pleasure.”

That’s when I understood the shakes, the guilt, the ghost-pale face. Not the heater. Not the Patriomagnans. Not even the southern sun. This was a man traumatised… by another tour leader. One whose name is still whispered in back-office corridors of multiple tour operators like a campfire ghost story: Ferocious Felicity.

Let’s just say, if Ferociou Felicity had been in charge, we might not have survived the day—or Roger’s blood pressure. And that, dear colleagues, is why I am about to give you the most valuable industry tip of your career: be nice to your suppliers. One day, they might just save your sweaty, dehydrated, traffic-stuck, Patriomagnan-surrounded arse.

Don’t be a Ferocious Felicity. The world has enough monsters already.