The Doorstep Wanderers Saga

Chapter 1: The Pacific Coast

The old bus stood on a cliff above the Pacific Ocean. Its paint had long ago surrendered to the sun. Dust covered the windows. One mirror was held together with tape. On its side, faded but still visible, were the words: Doorstep Wanderers

Below, waves rolled endlessly towards a rocky shoreline. The band had arrived the day before and decided to stay another day. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry. That was one of the unwritten rules. If a place felt right, they stayed. If the road called, they left. Simple.

Mirabelle was the first to wake up. It was early morning, dawn. She walked barefoot through the sand towards the sea, a surfboard tucked under her arm. The sea breeze played gently with her dark hair while pelicans glided low above the water. The sun had barely risen.

That same sea breeze wandered through the bus. When Gloria woke up, she realized that Mirabelle was gone. And so was the surfboard, she noticed when she looked outside the roof tent where the girls slept. Ay, esa chica… she nodded. A few minutes later she spotted her in the distance below. A tiny figure paddling through the water. Her body catching the first rays of sunlight. “My beautiful sister,” Gloria whispered.

Mirabelle climbed onto the board and disappeared behind a forming wave, only to reappear moments later, surfing back towards the shore. “Roll, baby, roll,” Gloria sang softly.

She always admired how different Mirabelle was from her. While Gloria looked for silence, Mirabelle chased movement. While Gloria searched for roots, Mirabelle followed horizons.

Inside the bus, the Troubadour was still asleep. Gloria had given him that name because of the old hat he nearly always wore and because he had a habit of turning ordinary conversations into stories. The name stuck. He seemed secretly flattered by it.

What his real name was, nobody knew anymore. At least nobody asked.

Mirabelle occasionally called him “mister” instead, knowing he wasn’t particularly fond of it. She meant it affectionately, though. It was her way of adding a little sweetness to their friendship.

His notebook lay open on the table. A few unfinished lines. Crossed-out words. Half-forgotten ideas waiting patiently for their moment. Beside them rested several completed songs, some old, some new, and a few they had been working on lately.

Gloria opened the Atlantic Dialogue Atlas, an atlas of mindful journeys. Every now and then she stopped reading to watch the sea again… and to check whether Mirabelle was still ruling the waves.

About half an hour later, the bus door opened. Mirabelle stepped inside carrying the surfboard. Wet footprints immediately appeared on the floor. The Troubadour woke up. He looked at the floor. Looked at Mirabelle. Looked at the floor again.

“Some of the best waves today,” Mirabelle announced. “You said that yesterday,” the Troubadour replied.
“They improved,” Gloria laughed. The Troubadour surrendered immediately. There was no point arguing.

Mirabelle parked the board against the wall and grabbed an empanada from a paper bag. Only then did she notice the Atlas. “You’re reading again.” Gloria smiled without looking up. “The Atlantic Dialogue Atlas.” Mirabelle laughed. “Of course.”

She sat down opposite her and stole a look at the page. Argentina. Italian immigration. Buenos Aires. Tango. Neighborhoods she had never heard about. “Did you know half of Argentina seems to have Italian roots?” Gloria asked. “No.” “Neither did I.”

Mirabelle leaned over the table. “So what are you planning now?” “I’m not planning anything.” “That’s impossible.”
“It says here there are old neighborhoods where people still speak dialects brought from Italy.”
Mirabelle raised an eyebrow. “You’re already dreaming about Buenos Aires.” “Maybe.”

“Hey, Mister,” Mirabelle said “Gloria is planning our future.”
“I am not.” “She is.”

The Troubadour dropped onto the seat beside the window. The notebook landed on the table. Next to the Atlas. Next to Gloria’s reading glasses. Next to a candle stub left over from the previous evening.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Outside, waves struck the rocks below. The bus was quiet. Comfortably quiet. The kind of silence that exists only between people who have spent many days together. The kind that feels like family. The Troubadour looked out of the window.

“Do you ever realize how strange this is?” Mirabelle bit into her empanada. “What?”
“Three people. The Bus. The whole thing.” Gloria finally looked up. “The whole thing works.” The Troubadour nodded. “Yes. Somehow it does.”

He looked out of the window for a moment.
“Do you remember how it all started?”
Mirabelle laughed.
“Siiii…”
“A year ago, I was wandering alone with a guitar, a notebook, and no particular plan. Then one evening I walked into a bar in Medellín and met this girl who talked to strangers as if she’d known them all her life.”

Mirabelle smiled. Gloria raised an eyebrow.

“When I told her I was looking for musicians, she looked at me for two seconds and said, ‘Then my sister and I are exactly what you’re looking for.’ Two hours later we were on a stage together, playing our first jam session. And just like that, Doorstep Wanderers was born.”
Gloria closed the Atlas.
“You forgot one detail.”
“Which one?”
“Mirabelle was right.”
“About what?”
“We are exactly what you were looking for.”
Mirabelle burst out laughing. “Sí, hermana.”

She turned her head toward the ocean beyond the window.
“Wow. What a view.”
“Great view indeed,” the Troubadour said. “What about reading a story while drinking coffee outside the bus?”
Mirabelle’s eyes lit up. “Yeah. The Secret Bible.”

The Troubadour reached for a worn volume lying on a shelf above the table. From the faded cover and pages stained with traces of old coffee, one could tell the book had been opened many times. The Wanderer Tales. Their Secret Bible. The book always travelled with them.

“Which one?” he asked. Gloria already knew. “The Paris one.”
“The cemetery?” “The one with Wilde and Piaf.”
Mirabelle nodded. “Yes. I like that one.”

Outside, the Pacific kept rolling against the shore. The road ahead remained unknown. It didn’t matter. For now, there was coffee. An Atlas on the table. A mysterious book waiting to be opened. And an old bus filled with stories.

The journey had begun.