This was several years ago, but a recent reddit thread brought back the memories... I finished reading Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness in a sweltering, Soviet-era bus traveling between Mangalia and the port city of Constanta , or Tomis, as the ancient Greeks had called it. It was at the height of summer, early in August, and the temperature inside the rickety old bus had to beat the 38°C reported outdoors. Sweating profusely, along with every member of Marlow's jungle expedition, but wholly immersed in their journey, I couldn't keep from running a palm across my damp brow and upper lip every few minutes, leaving dark marks of perspiration in the corners when turning the pages. There was a period of respite, somewhere around the part where the crew boarded the river boat (but not sure if the first or the second time), as the driver had taken pity on us and opened the rear doors, allowing for the odd, lazy breeze to soothe our flushed and frazzled countenanc