At the awful hour of 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning, I managed to get myself, my backpack and my pillow onto a bus full of strangers. An assortment of theatre majors, people from the CAS department of Calvin, and English students surrounded me, with the quiet buzz of slow and sleepy chatter. As we pulled out of the CFAC parking lot, I knew our destination—Stratford, Ontario—but I was entirely ignorant of what lay in store between me and the three plays I had signed up to see.

The first few hours were uneventful, most people reading or sleeping—in the parting words of Professor Schmidt, "I bet that you all can't wait to be unconscious when we get going." I made some small talk with the student beside me, but otherwise kept to myself and watched the sun rise slowly. From the beginning, I didn't have much more than a half-hearted notion to really get to know anyone on the bus. I wasn't sure which of the two women accompanying us was professor Felch and which was Professor Freeberg, and other than a handful of vague acquaintances, I didn't know a soul. This all started to change when we reached the Michigan-Canada border.

At the Michigan-Canada border, our bus was ordered to turn around. Two of the students, both from Ghana, could not pass into Canada with their current student visas. As professors Felch and Freeberg began making calls every which way to get things sorted out, our bus driver got us into queue for crossing back into Michigan. We waited for 15 minutes. Then half an hour. Then another half hour.

We waited on that increasingly-odious bridge in that increasingly-odious queue for over two hours during the lunch hour. Now, normally 38 college students would not be your ideal demographic for waiting in a small, cramped space. However, I swear that I'm telling the truth when I say that there was only half-hearted irritation directed at the inefficacy of the federal government. Professor Freeberg (I think) even called us gracious. There was nothing to be done except pass the time, so people chatted and started making themselves comfy. Real comfy.

Awkward and sneaky photos of love birds aside (to the very best of my knowledge, I'm 98% sure that these two were strangers at the beginning of the trip), I started talking to the girl seated in front of me, Jamie. Keep a mental tab open, because Jamie will come up later. People chatted, stretched, wrote sonnets about the purgatory of the US customs line, and overall managed well enough. It was with wild cheering that we finally pulled back into the US.

Once we dropped the two students and one of the professors off to be picked up by someone back at the college, we went back through Canadian customs. While the first time they had merely walked through the bus and glanced at our passports, the second time was different. I think I'll let the lead border control officer speak for himself: "Does anyone have firearms, any weapons, tobacco, illegal drugs, or pepper spray? No? H'm... Bullshit, you're all a bunch of girls, of course you have pepper spray."

The last two hours of our drive in the beautiful but terribly flat country of Canada passed by without incident, though we missed the first part of Shakespeare in Love, and had to be seated at the interval. Despite having missed the first half, Shakespeare in Love was uproariously funny, and everyone thoroughly enjoyed it.

After the play, we had a brief respite and repast of Subway sandwiches at our hotel. Jamie and I decided to go exploring together. We wandered through the park along the Avon river, scaring ducks and taking pictures. It was cold, but lovely—Jamie is a refreshingly friendly and joyful soul. We watched the sunset from a bridge, and it was absolutely stunning.

We stopped into Balzac's Coffee to warm ourselves with a hot drink before heading to the Festival Theatre to see the centre-piece of the Stratford Shakespeare Festival, Macbeth.

Professor Schmidt had already set our expectations high, but I was unprepared for how incredible Macbeth was. The production was phenomenal—the acting, the artistic elements, the set, the use of light and sound, all of it. We were all exhausted from a long day, but the incredible, world-class skill and mastery of the play could not possibly be lost upon anyone in the audience. If you ever see just one performance of Shakespeare, it should be a Stratford production. I fell into bed that night, dreaming of the three witches and Banquo.

The next morning, Jamie and I walked to Balzac's around 9:00 a.m. We did our best to be responsible students (ha, ha, ha, all you college readers say), and studied for several hours in the coffee shop. Whether you are a fan of coffee, tea, or pastries—or all three—Balzac's is a charming spot, with some pretty neat vintage posters, and plenty of unique memorabilia, like this card that I bought.

Jamie and I explored the shops in Stratford, spending most of our time in Fanfare Books and Book Stage. Book Stage was a fascinating place, an old house turned book store with a mildly cranky and book-obsessed old gentleman as its proprietor. The shelves were stuffed with old books, including some beautiful (and very expensive) Shakespeare folios. I was afraid to even breathe on some of the books.

After a nice lunch at Downie Street Burgers, Jamie and I met up with our group to see our last play, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. If you ever see a Stratford production, do not see The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Do not. If you're over the age of eight, spare yourself, I beg of you. If you loved the books, and even the movie, this production will make you cringe. In the words of Professor Freeberg (or maybe it was Felch), "They completely disembowelled the thing." You will want to watch the movie and the read the book ten times over, just to blot the ghastly experience out of your mind. The production was trite and appalling, and not many of us could even pay serious attention after about half an hour. Some of us found more interesting things to watch.

It was with glad hearts when we finally left the theatre. We ate dinner at Downie Street Burgers (much to Jamie and I's chagrin), and pulled out of Stratford around 6:00 p.m. I spent most of the return journey trying not to throw up, but was saved the last couple of hours by Jamie and her peppermint chewing gum (for you life hackers: mint gum helps combat nausea). US customs went splendidly—though, honestly, probably anything that took less than an hour would've been seen as a wild success by us—but we may or may not live down in infamy at that border check as "the bus that got turned around and came back." (Professor Schmidt drove up to Stratford a couple hours after us, and when he told the officer that he was meeting a group of students, the officer asked, "Oh, are you with that bus that got turned around and came back?")

The Stratford trip taught me a little more about grace when I did not expect it. I did not expect to make any relationships on the trip, nor did I expect to carry anything but play bills and souvenirs with me from the town of Stratford. But I did. I learned from the graciousness of the two students who were not allowed to continue the journey with us. I learned from the graciousness of everyone on the bus as we waited in customs. I found a good friend in Jamie, even if our friendship was only one born out of necessity on the trip (Jamie: if you're reading this, I hope you know that I think you're stellar and I'd like to continue our friendship). Like an ice cube down my shirt, the trip straightened my back and opened my eyes to the graces of every individual, however strange or friendly. "Life is precious but also freely given."

I'm learning a lot of things in college that can't be taught in a class room. And while I never quite know when or where, I must remind myself again and again that seeming discomfort can be a valuable lesson. Sometimes small graces come in strange places. (Or miracles like a Slytherin [me] and a Hufflepuff [Jamie] being friends.)